Day 153

Dear Diary,

Well, as I said I was gonna do last thing yesterday, I went over to talk to the Howiepupples first thing this mornin’ to see wot they was plannin’ to do with the world once they inherits it from the last of the normal folks. ‘Course, when I say I went over, wot I really mean is I hooked up a sorta speakin’ tube from a length of garden hose wot I’d found in my boot, and I throwed one end over to the shack Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ her babbies’re livin’ in. The other end I stuck into my front grille, which is, as we all know, where us buses keeps our mouthpieces. I hafta say here and now I don’t rightly know who the fuck left this garden hose back in my boot, and knowin’ the dumbfucks wot’ve lived on the island it’d be safe to wager it were some drunk as a turnip pillock wot only parked his hose so’s to save a place for his head later on down the line. However, I gotta say for once he done me ‘n’ the world in general a great service and I want to thank him from the bottom of my heart. Without any petrol or a driver to get me movin’ from one place to another, I’d be stuck up the creek without a paddle in the communicatin’ department if’n I didn’t have my speakin’ tube. Anyways, like I said, I hooked up the tube to the Howiepupples’ shed ‘n’ after politely clearin’ my throat “Ahem,” wot was somethin’ I’d learned by way of good manners from their pappy, the rabidical mangy dog, I axed if’n there was anybody awake wot could answer me a nosy question or two? Well, to my surprise, the first thing wot echoed back through my speakin’ tube, which becomes a hearin’ tube when someone on the other end of the line is speakin’ into it, was “Ahem, yourself,” spoke in a plumy sorta voice I thought I’d never hear again. Needless to day, I got all excited and said, “Is that you, Mr. Rabidical Mangy Dog?” To which the voice sort’a hissed back ‘n’ replied that it weren’t none of my business, but since I was on the line, I should know it were Everard speakin’ ‘n’ he weren’t no fuckin’ mangy rabid dog ‘n’ he didn’t rightly appreciate my innuendo.

Well, needless to say, I apologised faster’n you can say “Fuck me with a farm implement ‘n’ call me Sheila,” ‘n’ he chuckled ‘n’ said it were a common mistake as well as bein’ the bane of his existence. I waited a minute or so for him to extend the conversation ‘n’ maybe elucidate, on account of I’d never heard him talk before ‘n’ wanted to know wot he had to say for hisself, when somethin’ really dumb ‘n’ obvious occurred to me. “Mister Everard,” I said, “If’n I may be so bold as to address you by name, can I axe you a personal question?” Whereupon, the can o’worms ahemmed his throat again, “Ahem,” ‘n’ said I could, but not if’n I expected a straight or intelligent answer. But I continued anyway ‘n’ axed as blunt as blunt could be, “Mister Everard, does the dog ever speak for hisself or does you always do the speakin’ for him. In other words, is you his mouthpiece ‘n’ is he muter’n a slab o’mutton?” Well, you could’a heard a bomb drop it fell so quiet, ‘n’ then the can o’worms whispered real low that he couldn’t say no more at the moment on account of he was bein’ overheard, but if’n I’d give him a coupl’a minutes, he’d come outside the shack ‘n’ speak to me in person mano a mano. Well, naturally, I said, “Sure, anything you wants,” and no sooner were those words outta my mouth than the door to the shack opened ‘n’ the can o’worms was wheeled out in front of me on a little bite-sized red-painted wagon, pulled by none other’n Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, which in case you don’t remember was the eldest of the Howiepupples ‘n’ possibly the only ones with possibilities for a bright future as sycophanticals. After the wagon was parked about a inch from me so’s Everard ‘n’ me could converse in secret, Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One snuffled each other’s butts to make sure they was who they said they was, ‘n’ disappeared back into the shack. “I don’t know wot I’d do without ‘em,” said the can o’worms in a normal voice like the one wot I speaks in and wot isn’t in the least bit plummy. “They built this here wagon for me ‘n’ pushes me here and back ‘n’ to the supermarket ‘n’ anywheres else I wants to go.” Well, at the mention of a supermarket I thought of cans o’petrol and so, quite naturally, I forgot the series of questions I’d wanted to axe him. “Supermarket, you said?” I shrieked. “Did you say supermarket?” Well, one of the worms flew outta the can faster’n you could say “If’n I had a screwdriver I’d stab you in the sphincter ‘n’ serve you up with cabbage.” He clamped my lips together with a pair of them industrial strength medical forceps wot they’d probably stole from the hospital, ‘n’ he ordered me to shut the fuck up or he’d fill me full of ice ‘n’ turn me into a refrigerator so’s they could have someplace to put all them dead people wot’d got drowned off in the flood ‘n’ was stinkin’ up the other end of the beach. Well, right away I tried to say I was sorry ‘n’ I wouldn’t do it again, but, of course, I couldn’t on account of them forceps was hurtin’ my lips somethin’ fierce. But I must say I thought to myself how lucky us buses is not to have no noses so’s we couldn’t hafta go smellin’ all them dead human beings after they’s died ‘n’ stops washin’ in their bad places. Which reminded me even further that us buses don’t have no bad places neither, ‘n’ I felt luckier’n ever. And it were sort’a funny me thinkin’ about manky shit just then, on account of the can o’worms picked up on it and said, “and another thing I’ll say about Ol’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One is between ‘em they changes all the nappies of their brothers ‘n’ sisters. And since their pappy’s a man ‘n’ don’t get his paws dirty on poo ‘n’ I doesn’t have no hands at all, I don’t rightly know wot we’d do in the babby shit factory production department if’n it wasn’t for them.”

I thought about that for a moment ‘n’ was almost tempted to change the subject to one of them other topics I was wantin’ to axe about, but then I thunked, “Shit, in for a penny, in for a pound,” ‘n’ I said straight out, “Misther Everard, sir, wot about the mummy? Don’t she do nappies neither ‘n’ if’n she doesn’t, is it on account of she’s also a man named Howard Donald Da Fardle?” Well, the Ol’ can o’worms, wot has a temper wot’s snippier’n a pair o’scissors made of razor blades, shot me a glance wot could’a froze my blood if’n I’d been a human bein’ ‘n’ not a bus, ‘n’ he said, “for your information, Crispy Crinkles may be a man ‘n’ proud of his appendages ‘n’ too proud to touch a babby’s bottom, which, as you know, is women’s work, but he’ also a woman on the other side of him.” He stared at me for a second, a’waitin’ for me not to understand ‘n’ axe a even dumber question than the one before. And cuz I didn’t want to let him down in the low expectation department, I made his day. “Does that mean Crispy Crinkles only does half the dishes?” Well, the can o’worms’s mouth fell open on account of he’d expected me to axe another question about who does or doesn’t shovel the babby shit in that there shack, but then he surprised me in turn by pullin’ hisself up to his full height ‘n’ sayin’ proudly like a pompous arse wot’s been sat by the toilet door in a poncy restaurant, “we do not do dishes in the Howiepupple household. We are eco-friendly and recycle the nappies into ergonomically correct bone china.”

I’m afeared I didn’t have no answer to that one, and before I says another word to the can o’worms, I’m good hafta think things through. And by the way, during this here entire conversation with you, Dear Diary, I’ve been feelin’ something’s about to blow sky high. Sort’a like I’ve been sittin’ next to a pressure cooker wot nobody’s been payin’ attention to. So you see, I’ve got more’n one thing to think about. Plus all the other questions ‘n’ follow-ups I ain’t got round to yet. I was plannin’ on stayin’ up late with you tonight ‘n’ getting everything ironed out satisfactorily, but I’m afeared it’s not gonna be possible. Anyways, goodnight, Dear Diary ‘n’ don’t let the sand fleas bite. So endeth another afternoon ‘n’ I’ll see you tomorrow. That is unless whatever’s boilin’ up blows up ‘n’ wipes us off’n the map like another one o’them atom bombs, in which case we’ll see each other in kingdom come.