Day 152

Dear Diary,

I’m tryin’ to figure out wot my thoughts was yesterday ‘n’ wot was happenin’ in the world ‘n’ all the rest of it. Fortunately for you, if’n I can’t remember you won’t be any the poorer, on account of hearin’ more about the Howiepupples ‘n’ their mama Crispy Crinkles – better known as Howard Donald Da Fardle – ‘n’ their mangy mutt of a daddy ‘n’ them explodin’ nuclear bustles don’t exactly make number one on the list of intelligent topics of conversation.

One thing I have been thinkin’ about now, although, once again, I don’t know wot good it’ll do to talk about it, is wot kind of world the Howiepupples’ll make when they grows up ‘n’ takes over. And will they grow up like wot a human bein’ does, that is to say never growin’ up outta the Never Never Land of his delusions, or more like a dog, which mean’s they’ll be up ‘n’ rarin’ to go in a coupl’a years at most ‘n’ barkin’ all night long just to annoy the neighbours ‘n’ humpin’ each others legs? Personally, I’m hopin’ for the dog scenario, on account of human beings’ve had plenty of chances over the millenia and’ve done nothin’ but fuck everything up. But I guess we all knows that, so it’s best I doesn’t get my knickers in a twist like I usually does.

One big thing about the Howiepupple scenario which I think I mentioned in passin’ yesterday or the day before is how big they’re not gonna grow. Two or three inches is gonna be mighty midgety for Masters of the Universe. Not only will it be a problem for them reachin’ the instant precooked ready-meals on the top shelf of the supermarket ‘n’ in the back of their freezers, but I doesn’t see how they’s gonna get to the supermarket in the first place, on account of they won’t be able to reach the pedals. And if’n they does reach the pedals, they’ll never in a million billion years be able to see over the steerin’ wheel. Unless, of course, they start buyin’ up all them Dinky ‘n’ Corgi Toys over the Internet plus all the batteries to keep ‘em goin’. Or does them little toy cars use batteries? In my opinion it’d sure help things along health ‘n’ fitness-wise if’n they doesn’t, on account of if’n they ain’t required, the New Masters of the Universe’ll hafta move the cars by shufflin’ their feet – just like children used to do back when pedal cars didn’t have pedals, only holes in the floor. ‘Course, if’n this is how they’re gonna do business, they might get to the supermarket eventually, but it sure as fuck won’t be good for their shoes, plus they’ll probably die of exhaustion ‘n’ starvation before they get half way there. On the other hand, we sure as fuck won’t be seein’ so many lardy ‘n’ fat people, will we? But anyways, those is just a couple of the situations wot might crop up if’n the Howiepupples take over the runnin’ of the world. In fact, I’m not even a quarter of the way done yet with my list, so stay tuned.

You know, it just occurred to me that eventually, those of us wot have wot they calls normal life size vertical dimensions’ll finally kick the bucket (all of us exceptin’ for me, The Bus). ‘Course, there’s nothin’ wrong or frightenin’ in that, and let’s face it, it’s sorta to be expected that just about everybody’s gonna shit the bed at one time or another. And given enough time, even Misther Old Wanger Nose’ll be as they says “moulderin’ in his grave” and that’ll be that as far as human beings in concerned. And when all of us is got rid of, the Howiepupples won’t hafta build any more o’them full-sized supermarkets wot they’ll hafta maintain as long as us normals is around, in order to avoid a shitload o’anti-discrimination lawsuits. Wot I means to say is, when only the Howiepupples is left, they can say “fuck it” to them clumsy big Ol’ buildings with big Ol’ full-sized pieces o’furniture, and they can erect a whole shitload o’tiny little three-inch houses ‘n’ stores ‘n’ bingo parlours. And because they won’t gotta cater to big ‘n’ fat folks no more, they’ll be able to construct as much as they please without raisin’ taxes more’n a coupl’a pennies all around. Buildings for Howiepupples wot’re smaller’n jellybeans can’t cost practically nothin’ at all for materials. Hell, a old shoe box’ll be big enough for a fifty-unit apartment block, and that’s includin’ room for a swimming pool ‘n’ room for a Jacuzzi ‘n’ one o’them sauna baths. And wot’s occurrin’ to me as I write this down, and wot I’m sure’s been thought of by them new Masters of the Universe, is Ol’ Misther Yeshua Da Honiker’s shoe shop on the other side o’the island, where everyone ‘n’ all his relations used to bought ugly cheap shoes at a attractive mark-up, must’a had about ten thousand shoes boxes just ‘waitin’ to be turned into prefabricated slums for the poor tiny people. And in case you’re wonderin’ why my mind is headed in this direction, let’s just say it’s all in the genetical DNA of them Howiepupples. Ol’ Crispy Crinkle might be as dumbfuck as a hunk o’shite in the middle of the road, but when you goes back another generation, you lands straight on to Missus Milly Da Fardle’s front porch. And between you ‘n’ me ‘n’ the gatepost, there ain’t nobody on the face of this here planet or for that matter on any other planet wot is more organised than Ol’ Missus Milly. Anything she wants, she gets done. And even if’n you doesn’t like her on account of she’s a evil, mean, acidy spleen-faced ogre, well, we can’t all like everybody, can we?

And, by the way, Dear Diary, whilst we’re on the subject of Misther Yeshua Da Honiker’s bulk-bought shoeboxes, don’t you even go thinkin’ about tellin’ me they must’a got washed away in the flood along with everything else. And you can also keep your trap shut about how’re the Howiepupples gonna get on over to the other side of the island when they needs two hours ‘n’ ten minutes to walk the three feet seven ‘n’ a half inches between the shack ‘n’ my place in the sand? Stupid questions don’t deserve answers, even if’n I had me some.

Where was I? All this carping about them Howiepupples bein’ helpless as a fleas in treacle’s made me forget I was gonna talk about them nuclear explodin’ bustles. Unfortunately, now that I’ve started in about the fuckin’ Howiepupples I gotta finish. Or at least progress a coupl’a yards into the subject, which means those wot tuned in special for the bustle story’ll hafta be patient. Sorry about that ‘n’ please don’t give up on me. It’s near to impossible to keep my mind on any one subject at a time when there’s no many people shoutin’ in my ears to talk about this or talk about that or talk about the other. It’s enough to make a bus barf a pint of axle grease through his nose.

In case you didn’t notice, my mind is spinnin’ and my mood’s gone sourer’n a crab apple wot’s not even ripe yet. I simply gotta put my pencil away try to talk to the Howiepupples and find out wot they wants to do about the world they’re inheritin’. Could be none o’the garbage I’ve been blabberin’ about applies. I sure as fuck wish there was someone around here to give me a wash ‘n’ polish. Where is Finian Da Fabricator when I needs him? Nevermind. I’m gonna say so endeth this diary entry ‘n’ I promise I’ll be more focussed tomorrow!