Day 149

Dear Diary,

Oops. I think yesterday I must’a got hold of another batch of that hallucinogenic petrol wot’d got mixed up for me by mistake. Otherwise, I can’t imagine how the fuck I camed over all megalomaniacle like I done. Shit, after readin’ it back you’d almost thought I was a human bein’ wot’d took one too many Pump Yourself Up With The Good News seminars! I’d like to apologise here and now and say it’ll never happen again, at least not if I have anything to say about it. It may be natural for human beings to act like zealots wot runs the world, but it’s not the way of us buses. Again, my apologies.

Needless to say, the rabidical drooly dog got his nose all bent outta shape when I said I was gonna liquidate him and spread his guts over Missus Milly Da Fardle’s slurry field as a new-fangled special fertiliser. In fact, he turned all red ‘n’ puffy and tore his clothes, and he even went ‘n’ consulted Everard, wot’s not only his can o’worms but also his attorney-at-law, and has a diploma pasted on his backside to prove it. And by the way, I’m not bein’ sarcastic here, on account of the dog turned Everard around to show me his decorated tushy in person. It’s not every can wot’s got a law degree ‘n’ he was very proud of it. Not that I saw the name of the university, but wot the fuck. A law degree’s a law degree and a can o’worms is a can o’worms. Anyways, the dog consulted his can o’worms about wot I’d said about me bein’ wot’s the equivalent of The Master of the Universe. And he also told him how I’d threatened to perform certain delicate surgeries to his mangy rabidical extremities wot’s never been done before and is unique in the world. As I said, he wasn’t exactly amused by my cute little rant, which is a shame and also too bad for me, on account of he’s got legs ‘n’ can move around and I’m a bus without petrol and can’t do fuck all. Therefore, it seemed like a shitload o’grovellin’ might be in order, ‘n’ so I bowed my head as low as I could, which ain’t very far on account of I wasn’t really built for that kind of exercise, and I was just about to base myself in a humiliatin’ way when he spoked.

“Accursed Bus,” he said, as he ahemmed ‘n’ put a match to the ugliest meerschaum I ever did see since the beginning of the world. “Accursed Bus, you have been brought before the court charged with crimes against humanity and of seeking to commit felonious manipulations against our august personage.”

I sorta looked at him with a foolish grin plastered all over my face, which was all I could think of doing, but he didn’t seem to care one way or t’other and carried on with wot he’d already thought of to say. “How does the defendant plead?”

“You got me there, little doggy,” sorta popped outta my mouth before I could stop it, and he banged is gavel down as hard as he could, missin’ the arm of his big old rattan chair as he did so ‘n’ cloutin’ his foot. ‘Course, you all know how a dog hates for his toes to be stepped on and how it always makes ‘em yell and yip so loud all you really wants to do is whack ‘em with a big old newspaper ‘til they piddle on the floor and then hurl ‘em out the back door with swift kicks to the behind.

And funnily enough, that’s exactly wot I did. And I dunno how I done it neither, on account of we all knows I ain’t got a ounce of petrol in me or, for that matter, a driver to start up my engine. I guess it’s wot you’d call a miracle. But whatever it was, it sure as shit shut up the fuckin’ dog and made him remember he’s nothin’ but a mangy, rabid ‘n’ shitfuck cur wot hangs out with a can o’worms. And judgin’ by the fact that Everard – if’n that’s really his name – didn’t bounce to his hind d legs and cry out “I h’object your honour,” I’m led to believe he ain’t no attorney-at-law neither. As I said before, a can o’worms is a can o’worms.

Anyways, the dog took his Ol’ Everard and is lickin his wounds and is curled up under a overhangin’ rock chewin’ on a bone of some dead person wot was kilt by the flood. He seems to have forgot he was ever not a regular mangy rabid dog, so perhaps my unseemly behaviour in court accomplished somethin’ after all.

So, Dear Diary, as it stands now - and I’m not sayin’ things won’t change before this sentence is writ, on account of good things ‘n’ peace of mind never last more’n a second around here - I’m alone on the beach. It’s nice ‘n’ quiet ‘n’ the sun is shining away to beat the band. I ain’t got the foggiest idea where the others, namely Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Misther Old Wanger Nose, is. Last thing I knowed, Howard Donald Da Fardle (otherwise knowed as Melba Toast by the dog back when he’d got too big for his boots) was inside the hut on the other side of the beach, and his billion Howiepupples was nursin’ away at his mandugs happy as piggies in shit. You notice I said a billion babbies ‘n’ not a billion plus two, ‘n’ that is on account of I’ve no idea of what happened to the two babbies wot were favourites of the dog. Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One they was called, Claude bein’ the one with the anal fixation ‘n’ Minus One havin’ the anus wot his brother liked to be fixated on. But of course you remember that. Or I hope you do, since I only told you a coupl’a days ago. I’m awful curious about wot may have happened to these two Howiepupples. I doubt the dog knows much of anything anymore, not after he’s returned to normal doghood, but perhaps Ol’ Howard Donald can tell me. He is the mother, after all.

Since I can’t quite reach the door of the shack to open it up by myself, I’m gonna start yellin’ at Howard Donald Da Fardle in hopes he’ll hear me and come to the window. I know I’m takin’ the chance I’ll be wakin’ the Howiepupples up from their nap just after their mama’s got ‘em to sleep, but if’n I do I promise I’ll sing ‘em a nursery rhyme, and I’ll also give Ol’ Howard Donald an old tin of bag balm I found underneath my back seat. I can’t guarantee how full it is, but after a billion babbies’ve been gnawin’ on your tits, I suppose every little bit helps.

Right. So I’ve made up my mind and I’m gonna disturb Howard Donald Da Fardle about the two missin’ babbies. But first I’m gonna take me a nap in case I wake up the other babbies ‘n’ hafta spend all night singin’ to them. It’d be a good idea for me to be prepared and well rested up, if’n you know wot I mean. I know I always say so endeth something or other, but since I can’t think of any reason to say it today, I won’t. See you later.