Day 151

Dear Diary,

Crispy Crinkles, or Howard Donald Da Fardle as I still think of him, has cleared away the tea things and is back in his little shack nursin’ the Howiepupples. I think motherhood suits him just fine ‘n’ dandy, and he’s sure as fuck kept at it longer’n he’s held down any other job. But before I gets carried away, I gotta remember he’s only been at it for a coupl’a days or so, which means there’s plenty of time for him to fuck it up. And by the way, I did think to axe him how he comes and goes outta the shack so easy, given that the door’d been locked up lighter’n a drum to prevent his escapin’, but at that moment the Howiebpupples started in a squawlin’ and a’squawkin’ for lunch so I didn’t hear his answer. Mind you, he would’a lied in any case, so I guess it don’t really matter. Also, I still haven’t sawed hide nor hair of Claude ‘n’ Ol’ Claude Minus One, and am beginnin’ to feel bad about it. As you know, the last time they was snufflin’ around my tyres ‘n’ peein’ on my custom-designed paintwork, was when they was hangin’ round their daddy, and given that he was nothin’ but a rabidical cur dog with a wore out wanker from sirin’ all them billion Howiepupples wot he had with Howard Da Fardle, I can only guess both the Claudes is out there somewheres earnin’ themselves a bucket full of ASBOs ‘n’ makin’ the world a better place to live in. I’m sure I’ll find out right when I’m doin’ somethin’ pleasurable and they pokes their noses in and ruins my fun. I’ll let you know.

By the way, I have a sneaky feelin’ I know somethin’ about the man in the black suit wot took down the Howiepupples’ vital statistics. He sounds a awful lot like Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, wot not only used to own the funeral parlour in the old days before the flood, but also the cat food company wot bought all the corpi deliciosi from the funeral parlour and then sold the cans back to the folks wot’d just buried their nearest ‘n’ dearest dead relatives. It’d be just like him not to drown like decent folks ‘n’ to be back in business. I’ll hafta axe around. Mind you, the man wot Ol’ Crispy Crinkles was talkin’ about had a beard ‘n’ Doctor Bernie didn’t. And before you tells me Howard Donald didn’t mention nothin’ about a beard, let me just say I could hear it in his voice. I am a vintage classic bus, after all, and I’ve got special trainin’ when it comes to identifyin’ human beings. Anyways, if’n it really is Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu, it spells bad news for those of us wot survived the natural way by swimmin’ into shore. And it could also explain why I hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Finian Da Fabricator or Fergal Da Fecker or Misther Old Wanger Nose for a month of Sundays. Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s probably made them up into slaves or workers wot is earnin’ minimum wage ‘n’ can’t afford to take a vacation for the next three hundert years. It also begs the question if Ol’ Doctor Bernie survived, then who else might’ve ended up a whole lot less dead than we’d hoped for?

I just had a really bad thought. It’s about somethin’ I thunkled was a dream ‘n’ so I’d put it outta my mind and didn’t write it down in you, Dear Diary. Early this mornin’, right before Crispy Crinkles brunged over the tea things ‘n’ we had our little chat, I was baskin’ in the sun ‘n’ I turned my head in the direction of the sea ‘n’ for a split second I swear I’d saw the two hundert portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversion a’bobbin’ in the surf. Jeezus Married a Elephant, supposin’ the the vision weren’t a dream after all but the real portable toilet holiday home houseboat conversions with all the tourons on board, comin’ back to haunt us? I was sure they was blowed to smithereens by them atom bombs sent over from Texas! And if not by the bombs, then surely that special made Neutron Explodin’ Bustle finished up the job.

Speakin’ of which, I never did get ‘round to tellin’ you about the bustle, did I? Personally, I was hopin’ I wouldn’t hafta, but considerin’ there’s now a chance it fizzled out ‘n’ fucked up the job like everythin’ else fucks up their jobs around here, I might as well go ahead. But first, I gotta tell you somethin’ wot Crispy Crinkles told me in confidence ‘n’ made me promise I wouldn’t pass it around any further, and it has to do with how them Howiepupples comed to be and how did their mama ‘n’ papa get together. ‘Course, you remember how Ol’ Howard Da Fardle was causin’ all that trouble ‘n’ how Misther Old Wanger Nose went ‘n’ shot him in the big toe a coupl’a times ‘n’ how he was shut up in the shack just to keep him quiet so’s the rest of us could think. This were just after Misther Old Wanger Nose’d figured out on his abacus that for us to re-populate the world – which was the task God’d told us we had to do and to do it fast before anyone else got the contract ‘n’ made Him look bad – we had to meet a target of one billions babbies every year for four years. Or, in His own words, “Go Forth ‘n’ Multiplicate Times Pi!” As I said at the time, I was confused on how we was gonna carry this out, on account of as far as I knowed, none of us men had the carryin’ cases in our anatomy to churn out one a year, much less a billion. Well, from wot I understand – and I’ll try to get his side of the story if’n I ever tracks him down ‘n’ forces him to talk again – the rabidical cur dog’d been shittin’ in the bushes, as dogs does when they wants to spread a little joy in the world, when he saw Ol’ Howard Donald bein’ hustled into the shed. Well, it just so happened that the dog in question was the very same dog wot a bunch of years before’d been throwed over Howard Donald Da Fardle’s garden wall with a rock tied round his neck ‘n’ it’d landed smack dap in the middle of Ol’ Howard Donald’s lap. By another coincidence, on that very day, Howard Donald’s balls dropped ‘n’ he entered into a arrangement with the puberty department. Need to say, one thing led to another, and before you knowed wot was wot, there was a shitload of wot we calls shaggin’ goin’ on around the garden ‘n’ over the wall ‘n’ into the pig barn ‘n’ into Howard Donald’s mammy’s vegetable patch. You can well imagine that the dog were delighted as fuck when he seen Ol’ Howard Donald’d survived the great flood ‘n’ also that he was bein’ gaved a private room with a bed just wide enough for two. ‘Course it also solved the problem of wot he could do with his balls wot was turnin’ blue from want of them bein’ used enough. And so, when nobody was looking, he unlocked the door with a spare key he always kept for emergency opportunities such as this, ‘n’ he entered the shed with a box o’chocolates ‘n’ a dozen roses, ‘n’ the he ‘n’ Howard Donald Da Fardle spent the night makin’ up for lost time.

It were just another coincidence in a world full o’coincidences that Ol’ Howard Donald, in his other life, was (and is) Miss Melba Toast of 12a Fenugreek Close, Lower Marshy Murton Windle Halt, and he already had a couple billion babbies over in China from the time he was over there on one of them white slave package holidays. And while nobody ever talks about it, that’s the reason they have such a population problem and had to end up banning any more babbies from anybody for the next twenty-eight years. So, you see, he/she were more’n a little experienced ‘n’ qualificated in the babby-makin’ department. Mind you, even with Howard Donald’s track record, I don’t think neither of ‘em was prepared for the Howiepupples to be spewed out so quick, on account of it were like watchin’ a gusher. Only with puppies instead of water. I guess the two of ‘em overlooked the fact that the rabid cur dog was a very little dog – no more’n three inches high – and so the Howiepupples was very very small. And as we all knows, you can fits a whole bunch more petit peas in a pie than you can a full-sized rutabega.

I guess it means the world’s gonna be re-populated with folks the size of ants, which’ll make life difficult for high street retailers of slave-made garminks, but hell, life goes on any way it wants and if’n we doesn’t like it, well, fuck us up the Patootie.

I got loads of other shit I want to tell you about, Dear Diary. Some of it I started on, only as usual I got distracted. Never mind. Bein’ stuck here on the beach like I is with no petrol to get me anywhere else, I guess there’s plenty of time. So wot I’m gonna do now is put my pencil away for a while to give the lead a rest, and I’ll see you for seaweed coffee ‘n’ sand sandwiches first thing in the morning. So endeth today’s news instalment ‘n’ be ready for the early morning edition at my earliest convenience.