Day 154

Dear Diary,

Well, as they says, the minute you takes your eye off’n the ball it rains pennies from heaven. No sooner’d I put my pencil away yesterday, Dear Diary, and you’d went to sleep, than there were a God Almighty explosion, ‘n’ the shack with Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ the Mangy Rabidical Dog ‘n’ all one billion minus two Howiepupples blowed sky high ‘n’ even further. Not that it sent the shack up vertical into the sky ‘n’ gave its occupants a bird’s eye view of the ozone layer, on account of it didn’t exactly work that way. It were more like a gigantic Christmas Puddin’ explodin’ up ‘n’ splattin’ all over the neighbourhood. Let me tell you wot happened, that is if’n I can stop shakin’ from all the laughin’ I’ve been doin’ since eight o’clock last night.

I know I told you about the pressure buildin’ up durin’ the last part of my conversation with you yesterday. Wot I didn’t say was that the Ol’ can o’worms ‘n’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One chose to ignore it and put it outta their minds. Well, I guess that weren’t really their fault, on account of they didn’t rightly know where it were comin’ from, not havin’ any scientific trainin’ to speak of – which is the sort’a thing wot happens when kids stop studying science in school in favour of a coupl’a classes on TV presentin’ ‘n’ reality pop singer singin’. Anyways, me - bein’ a machine ‘n’ havin’ a technologically advanced mind – instantly thought of all of that methane gas from all of them billion Howiepupples, ‘n’ how it was bein’ stored up in that there puny beach shack ‘n’ without a open window to relieve the pressure. And in view of the fact I’m parked closer to it than I’d like to be (wot means I can see a shitload o’excess Howiepupple poo oozin’ through the cracks in the walls when I’d prefer to be lookin’ at somethin’ more invitin’, like maybe a Ferrari or a Bugatti), I geared up the engineerin’ side of my brain and runned a coupl’a calculations through my inbuilt computerizor to estimate wot the worst case scenario could be if’n the worst happens ‘n’ I’m in the firin’ line. Not that knowin’ wot’d happen’ would do me any good in the long run, on account of I still don’t have a fuckin’ drop o’petrol in my tank, which means I couldn’t run away to save myself even if’n I wanted to. ‘Course, on the other side o’the fence, however big the explosion grows to I’m still a bus ‘n’ can always be hammered back into shape. Providin’, of course, someone else survives wot can wield a hammer.

It’s probably occurred to you by now, Dear Diary, that these days we seems to be in greater ‘n’ greater danger of bein’ wiped out totally, ‘n’ I seem to be the only one left wot’s not wot they calls killable. I guess it’s inevitable the way things is goin’ in the world, but at least until this most recent incidental, I held a coupl’a high hope aces in my deck o’cards for how things was gonna change under the new regime of the Howiepupples. Fat chance of that now, methinks. It sort’a feels inevitable they might not survive until they gets a chance to fuck things up for themselves, which is a shame and fuckin’ sad to boot.

Anyways, I can hear you screamin’ for me to stop all this gibberin’ and tell you wot the fuck happened. And so I will. But first back to my scientifically proven calculations, the components of which include the number of Howiepupples (one billion minus two) plus one mama (Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ occasionally Howard Donald Da Fardle when he/she wants to escape a certain time o’the month) plus one papa (the mangy rabidical dog) plus one can o’worms (a unknown quantity of worms thought to be more’n a hundert ‘n’ fifty ‘n’ fewer’n a thousand ‘n’ twenty-two). Add to that the high-protein diet fed to the Howiepupples, on account of their mama eats nothin’ but fake Guiness beer ‘n’ boiled cabbage ‘n’ beans) plus the methane capabilities of the dog as well as a can o’worms wot’d apparently come outta a cow’s intestines ‘n’ knows how to get things done gas-wise. Put this all-together ‘n’ you come up with wot they calls a potential cocktail of the deadly persuasion. Now I already mentioned how Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One worked round the clock changin’ nappies ‘n’ re-cyclin’ the stinko manky ones into fine Dresden china. And even without the help of their papa, wot was nothin’ but a misogynistic macho good-for-nothin’ wot thinks mens can’t do no work inside the house or they’ll grow tits ‘n’ turn into homogroinergropers or somethin’ along them lines, the two eldest Howiepupples was getting’ the job done like champions. In fact, they’d even found the time to build a fine-lookin’ china shoppe in back of the shack, and havin’ a eye for marketin’ potential, they stuck it on the south-facin’ slope o’the beach wot had a perfect prospect of the ocean ‘n’ plenty o’space for parkin’. And they was even linin’ up prospective customers over the Internet. Unfortunately, wot they couldn’t take into account was that their mangy rabid dog of a papa was nothin’ but a rampant goat in the makin’ new babbies department. In fact, the longer he lived the more he resembled a fuckin’ hedgehog, only the spines wasn’t exactly spines, if’n you get my innuendo. I ain’t never seen so many millions o’workin’ wangers in the same room since I accidentally downloaded that Porker Engines of the World website ‘n’ nearly went to jail for it. But, as we all knows, wangers is only the half the story ‘n’ they can’t do nothin’ by themselves as far as makin’ babbies is concerned. In fact, in the humble opinion of this here bus, a wanger all by itself can’t do nothin’ without a little help from its friends. In other words, if’n you wants to tango with your wanger ‘n’ get more ounce to the bounce, you gotta have yourself a real live wanger welcome wagon buckin’ bronco all fired up ‘n’ rearin’ to go. Or in words of one syllable, a wanger needs a female parkin’ place to get the job done proper like it was meant to do, at least if’n you’re wantin’ to go home with a batch of kids ‘n’ not just with a happy smile on your face. And in the case of the mangy rabidical dog ‘n’ Crispy Crinkles, Ol’ Crispy Crinkles was not only a ready ‘n’ willin’ receptacle ‘n’ rearin’ to go, but she could match the horny fucker two for one in the conception ‘n’ incubatin’ ‘n’ spewin’ out of Howiepupples department. In fact, it’d be safe to say the world’s never seen more babbies bein’ born every hour on the hour since the first time God was experimentin’ in wholesale production ‘n’ distribution ‘n’ invented the mosquito.

To cut to the chase, not only was another billion Howiepupples born on the second day, but a further billion as well. Now, way back when the plans was laid down for the re-population of the planet, Misther Old Wanger Nose figured out that a billion a day for four days’d just about do it. No more ‘n’ no less. Unfortunately, while on the first day Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ the dog managed a billion just fine ‘n’ dandy, on the second day (in other words, last night), they got so carried away they made twice as many as they was supposed to’ve made. And with only Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One workin’ round the clock on the shit shovellin’ brigade, there wasn’t no way in the world they was gonna keep up. Hence, we had a methane buildup wot’s never happened since Ol’ MacDonald’s Dairy Farm malfunctioned way back in nineteen hundert ‘n’ twenty-nine ‘n’ spread it’s gas from here to Timbuktu ‘n’ caused a worldwide depression ‘n’ made a shitload of old gents in top hats jump outta their windows to get away from the smell.

So, anyways, since there weren’t no windows to open ‘n’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One couldn’t work any faster, the fuckin’ shack blowed up, and let me tell you there was explodin’ nappies ‘n’ strangely brown acid rain comin’ down on all of us like magna from a volcano.

All I can say right now is it’s darker’n the inside of a cow ‘n’ I’ve just learned wot it felt like to be livin’ in Pompeii after the main event. And all I hope is somebody comes along with a shovel real soon, or else I’ll be preserved in shit for the next two thousand years before some archaeologist or other comes along ‘n’ discovers me.

I sure the fuck’d like to know wot happened to all the others. Even havin’ only a can o’worms named Everard to talk to’s a whole lot better’n nothin’ but a pile o’stinky brown with a coupl’a nappy fragments mixed in to make it look more attractive. Wot I’m thinkin’ is, I’m gonna put away my pencil for a coupl’a hours ‘n’ beep my hooter non-stop, ‘n’ also set off my burglar alarm. If’n anyone’s still alive ‘n’ breathin’ and’s got ears to hear, the noise I can make is bound to annoy ‘em enough to dig down ‘n’ tell me to shut the fuck up. I sure as fuck hopes my plan works, on account of if’n it don’t I’ll hafta say so endeth my life as a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 33-seater bus, and so beginneth my new life as the classiest dung beetle you ever did saw. Wish me luck.