Dear Diary,
Well, all I can say is it sure were a dark ‘n’ stormystinky night last night, ‘n’ either there’s no one left wot can rescue me outside of my dungeon o‘fecal depositories or those wot are there’re glad to get rid of me ‘n’ are breathin’ a sigh of relief, ‘n’ sayin’ to themselves, “Whoooeee, he’s in the shit ‘n’ it’s welcome to him!” I ain’t heard so much as a spade or shovel or a diggin’ stick between the time of the great nappy explosion and now, and to me that don’t spell nothin’ but bad news. ‘Course I try to tell myself that if’n the Howiepupples is all wot’s left, seein’ as how they’s about a centimetre huge in all dimensions, it might take ‘em at least a coupl’a centuries to reach me. This makes me think I should’a bought me a better radio to keep me company, on account of the one I got here on my dashboard can’t seem to pick up nothin’ but a coupl’a dyin’ cats. And fuck me if’n the thought of spendin’ eternity with furballs ‘n’ their yowlin’ isn’t makin’ me want to hump a turnip just see how flat I can squash it.
Remind me in the future, Dear Diary, if’n I’m ever in the market for insulation or sound-proofin’, I should run on over to my nearest slurry dump ‘n’ start makin’ bricks o’shite to stack up round me. Between us, my friend, I’ve never felt so cut off from the sound ‘n’ fury of the elements as I is now, and as for warmth, it’s so fuckin’ hot in here I’ve been sweatin’ off a gallon of liquid every half hour. And because I’m a bus and I’m not supposed to lose fluids like wot I is, I’m sort’a worried. I’m also thinkin’ that if’n all this liquid don’t drain away outta my tomb o’Howiepupple poople, the acid in it’ll dissolve my tyres ‘n’ after that my bodywork’ll be corroded away to a hulk o’rusticles. Somethin’ like wot’s happenin’ to Ol’ RMS Titanic down at the bottom of the ocean, only Titanic’s bein’ ate up by seawater ‘n’ cute photogenic little enzymes, and all o’them things is a fuckin’ sight more romantic that wot I’ve gotta contend with. Not to mention they tastes a whole lot better. I’m also sceptical about ‘em filmin’ one o’them Oscar-winnin’ blockbuster movies about a bus livin’ out its last days dissolvin’ in five hundert tonnes o’doggy turds, but if’n they does film my endgame, it sure as shit won’t be as expensive as the one they did about Ol’ Titanic in her underwater ocean wonderland, not even if’n the bus in question is a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 33-seater custom built masterpiece with hand-sewn upholstery. Anyfuckinways, forget all this shit about Hollywood callin’ to immortalise my fuckin’ last moments. Suffocatin’ to death in the poop o’Howard Donald Da Fardle’s half mangy rabid dog pupples is not my idea of a good ‘n’ auspicious way to go.
I keep listenin’ for signs from outside, such as someone diggin’ down to rescue me, or callin’ out to me “are you down there? Should we send down somethin’ for you to eat?” In fact, everythin’ outside my doors is quieter’n the inside of a black hole when there’s no one there to hear the screams of the dead wot’s bein’ sucked inside its inner tube. That bein’ said, somethin’ inside o’me, back there in my back seat, is makin’ so much noise I can’t hear nothin’ from outside even if’n it was louder’n a fire alarm ringin’ off’n the wall just beside my head. In fact, the racket’s so fuckin’ loud ‘n’ irritatin’ I can’t hardly hear myself tinkle outta my tailpipe. It’s sort’a like a caterwauling with fingernails bein’ scratched down a blackboard just for the hell of it. And in all by born days (and you hafta rememberate I’ve been around since the fifties ‘n’ before that), I ain’t never heard such a screechin’ and a’yellin’ and a’carryin’ on and it’s makin’ my skin scrape itself off’n my bones in a way wot’s all too familiar. And I really really wants to hurl up my Chinese takeaway, ‘n’ I would if’n only I were a human bein’ ‘n’ not a bus ‘n’ could do it any time I ended up with poisonous bile ‘n’ green vegetables in my throat. Which, believe me, is wot I’ve got now ‘n’ that’s not a exaggeration. And the thing is, the reason the screechin’ ‘n’ squeelin’s so familiar, is that I used to have to grin ‘n’ bear it every day back when the island was like it was before the flood. Plus, the thing is, one o’the reason’s I’s been feelin’ strangely contented recently is that I’d thought the cause of all these current aural shenanigans was good ‘n’ dead ‘n’ drowned ‘n’ had been for a month of Sundays. Along with all o’her friends ‘n’ enemies ‘n’ everybody else who ever messed around with the inside o’my head.
Oh fuck shit ‘n’ begorra! Remember my sayin’ a coupl’a minutes ago that all I could hear from my radio was a bag full o’cats in heat? Well, I takes that back, on account of no cats I know of have ever throwed sticks ‘n’ stones ‘n’ bits of rubbish at my stearin’ wheel to get my attention. In fact (drum roll drum roll), only one person on the face on the planet’s ever fuckin’ throwed fuckin’ razorblades ‘n’ rocks at my fuckin’ gourd - outside of a coupl’a kids wot’d been borned ‘n’ bred natural born dumbfucks, ‘n’ I dealt with ‘em right away by rollin’ over on top of their balls ‘til they stopped yellin’. Anyways, if’n the person wot I’m thinkin’ about’s down here with me and there’s no way I can escape, I’m gonna hold my breath until I’m dead, even if’n it takes me from now ‘til the secondary cumin. And after I’m dead I’m gonna fart in her face.
I hear you screamin’ at me to say her name out loud ‘n’ proud, but I feels sick to my fueltank ‘n’ I wants to barf up a giraffe just thinkin’ about if’n I says who it is ‘n’ it turns out to be true.
OK, all right, here goes nothin’, on account I’d recognise that smell wot’s comin’ from the back seat anywhere ‘n’ also the bad vibrations I can feel down to the roots o’my brake soles. Oh, Dear Diary, no one else on the planet can make me feel so blue.
Here we goes. Finally ‘n’ against my better judgment I eventually have to give in to my curiosity impulse ‘n’ look back at the inside o’my rear end. And, fuck, I was right to be worried half to death! I simply can’t fuckin’ understand it! I axe you, please tell me how in the fuck did Missus Milly Da Fardle - wot was supposedly somewheres on a private yacht owned by Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu in tandem with the Las Vegas-Style West Texas Glitzy Touron Entertainment And Holiday Resort Syndicate, ‘n’ wot was (‘n’ perhaps still is if’n it’s my lucky day gone into the toilet) headed by (in case you’ve forgot) the evil-eyed pre-pubescent groin o’grinder, Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack ‘n’ runned by his brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack - find her way into my fuckin’ back seat? And not only her, but old leaky nappy herself, Miss Cabbage, wot’s gotta be the most scrawniest ‘n’ miserablest bag o’chicken bones since creation was first taught in school as a science, is sittin’ next to her ‘n’ wagglin’ her finger at me and sayin’ “tut tut, Misther Bus, you is five minutes late ‘n’ I is gonna tell on you when we gets back home.” And if that’s not enough to make your left arm go numb, our old friend the fake preacher, Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, wot used to disguise hisself for thrills as the late Miss Louella Da Bunkle by puttin’ her old dead skin over the top of his shiny suit, is here and is playin’ on his ukulele. And then as the final straw wot’s poked the camel through the eye of the needle, Dear Diary, next to him is Ol’ Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Womens. As I said, I feel sick, ‘n’ to see Miss Beryl - wot we all thought was another alter-ego of The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser - sittin’ beside him instead of inside o’him, made my world go white. I’m about to faint. Please let this be a dream ‘n’ please don’t ever let me wake up to find out its wot’s actually goin’ on in my real life. As they says in the movies, fuck me with a broom handle ‘n’ sing hallelujah up my nose. I think I’m gonna say so endeth this fuckin’ dark night o’my soul right here ‘n’ now. Life was so simple when all I had to worry about was bein’ buried forever ‘n’ ever in a mountain o’Howiepupple shite, ‘n’ never getting’ rescued. Why the fuck couldn’t we quit life, Dear Diary, while we was ahead?
Well, all I can say is it sure were a dark ‘n’ stormystinky night last night, ‘n’ either there’s no one left wot can rescue me outside of my dungeon o‘fecal depositories or those wot are there’re glad to get rid of me ‘n’ are breathin’ a sigh of relief, ‘n’ sayin’ to themselves, “Whoooeee, he’s in the shit ‘n’ it’s welcome to him!” I ain’t heard so much as a spade or shovel or a diggin’ stick between the time of the great nappy explosion and now, and to me that don’t spell nothin’ but bad news. ‘Course I try to tell myself that if’n the Howiepupples is all wot’s left, seein’ as how they’s about a centimetre huge in all dimensions, it might take ‘em at least a coupl’a centuries to reach me. This makes me think I should’a bought me a better radio to keep me company, on account of the one I got here on my dashboard can’t seem to pick up nothin’ but a coupl’a dyin’ cats. And fuck me if’n the thought of spendin’ eternity with furballs ‘n’ their yowlin’ isn’t makin’ me want to hump a turnip just see how flat I can squash it.
Remind me in the future, Dear Diary, if’n I’m ever in the market for insulation or sound-proofin’, I should run on over to my nearest slurry dump ‘n’ start makin’ bricks o’shite to stack up round me. Between us, my friend, I’ve never felt so cut off from the sound ‘n’ fury of the elements as I is now, and as for warmth, it’s so fuckin’ hot in here I’ve been sweatin’ off a gallon of liquid every half hour. And because I’m a bus and I’m not supposed to lose fluids like wot I is, I’m sort’a worried. I’m also thinkin’ that if’n all this liquid don’t drain away outta my tomb o’Howiepupple poople, the acid in it’ll dissolve my tyres ‘n’ after that my bodywork’ll be corroded away to a hulk o’rusticles. Somethin’ like wot’s happenin’ to Ol’ RMS Titanic down at the bottom of the ocean, only Titanic’s bein’ ate up by seawater ‘n’ cute photogenic little enzymes, and all o’them things is a fuckin’ sight more romantic that wot I’ve gotta contend with. Not to mention they tastes a whole lot better. I’m also sceptical about ‘em filmin’ one o’them Oscar-winnin’ blockbuster movies about a bus livin’ out its last days dissolvin’ in five hundert tonnes o’doggy turds, but if’n they does film my endgame, it sure as shit won’t be as expensive as the one they did about Ol’ Titanic in her underwater ocean wonderland, not even if’n the bus in question is a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 33-seater custom built masterpiece with hand-sewn upholstery. Anyfuckinways, forget all this shit about Hollywood callin’ to immortalise my fuckin’ last moments. Suffocatin’ to death in the poop o’Howard Donald Da Fardle’s half mangy rabid dog pupples is not my idea of a good ‘n’ auspicious way to go.
I keep listenin’ for signs from outside, such as someone diggin’ down to rescue me, or callin’ out to me “are you down there? Should we send down somethin’ for you to eat?” In fact, everythin’ outside my doors is quieter’n the inside of a black hole when there’s no one there to hear the screams of the dead wot’s bein’ sucked inside its inner tube. That bein’ said, somethin’ inside o’me, back there in my back seat, is makin’ so much noise I can’t hear nothin’ from outside even if’n it was louder’n a fire alarm ringin’ off’n the wall just beside my head. In fact, the racket’s so fuckin’ loud ‘n’ irritatin’ I can’t hardly hear myself tinkle outta my tailpipe. It’s sort’a like a caterwauling with fingernails bein’ scratched down a blackboard just for the hell of it. And in all by born days (and you hafta rememberate I’ve been around since the fifties ‘n’ before that), I ain’t never heard such a screechin’ and a’yellin’ and a’carryin’ on and it’s makin’ my skin scrape itself off’n my bones in a way wot’s all too familiar. And I really really wants to hurl up my Chinese takeaway, ‘n’ I would if’n only I were a human bein’ ‘n’ not a bus ‘n’ could do it any time I ended up with poisonous bile ‘n’ green vegetables in my throat. Which, believe me, is wot I’ve got now ‘n’ that’s not a exaggeration. And the thing is, the reason the screechin’ ‘n’ squeelin’s so familiar, is that I used to have to grin ‘n’ bear it every day back when the island was like it was before the flood. Plus, the thing is, one o’the reason’s I’s been feelin’ strangely contented recently is that I’d thought the cause of all these current aural shenanigans was good ‘n’ dead ‘n’ drowned ‘n’ had been for a month of Sundays. Along with all o’her friends ‘n’ enemies ‘n’ everybody else who ever messed around with the inside o’my head.
Oh fuck shit ‘n’ begorra! Remember my sayin’ a coupl’a minutes ago that all I could hear from my radio was a bag full o’cats in heat? Well, I takes that back, on account of no cats I know of have ever throwed sticks ‘n’ stones ‘n’ bits of rubbish at my stearin’ wheel to get my attention. In fact (drum roll drum roll), only one person on the face on the planet’s ever fuckin’ throwed fuckin’ razorblades ‘n’ rocks at my fuckin’ gourd - outside of a coupl’a kids wot’d been borned ‘n’ bred natural born dumbfucks, ‘n’ I dealt with ‘em right away by rollin’ over on top of their balls ‘til they stopped yellin’. Anyways, if’n the person wot I’m thinkin’ about’s down here with me and there’s no way I can escape, I’m gonna hold my breath until I’m dead, even if’n it takes me from now ‘til the secondary cumin. And after I’m dead I’m gonna fart in her face.
I hear you screamin’ at me to say her name out loud ‘n’ proud, but I feels sick to my fueltank ‘n’ I wants to barf up a giraffe just thinkin’ about if’n I says who it is ‘n’ it turns out to be true.
OK, all right, here goes nothin’, on account I’d recognise that smell wot’s comin’ from the back seat anywhere ‘n’ also the bad vibrations I can feel down to the roots o’my brake soles. Oh, Dear Diary, no one else on the planet can make me feel so blue.
Here we goes. Finally ‘n’ against my better judgment I eventually have to give in to my curiosity impulse ‘n’ look back at the inside o’my rear end. And, fuck, I was right to be worried half to death! I simply can’t fuckin’ understand it! I axe you, please tell me how in the fuck did Missus Milly Da Fardle - wot was supposedly somewheres on a private yacht owned by Mister Doctor Bernie Da Gnu in tandem with the Las Vegas-Style West Texas Glitzy Touron Entertainment And Holiday Resort Syndicate, ‘n’ wot was (‘n’ perhaps still is if’n it’s my lucky day gone into the toilet) headed by (in case you’ve forgot) the evil-eyed pre-pubescent groin o’grinder, Masther James Dean Leroy Pubis Elvis Athuritis Huckleberry Hackensack ‘n’ runned by his brother Your Host Misther Bubba Lee Billy Bob Huckleberry Hackensack - find her way into my fuckin’ back seat? And not only her, but old leaky nappy herself, Miss Cabbage, wot’s gotta be the most scrawniest ‘n’ miserablest bag o’chicken bones since creation was first taught in school as a science, is sittin’ next to her ‘n’ wagglin’ her finger at me and sayin’ “tut tut, Misther Bus, you is five minutes late ‘n’ I is gonna tell on you when we gets back home.” And if that’s not enough to make your left arm go numb, our old friend the fake preacher, Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, wot used to disguise hisself for thrills as the late Miss Louella Da Bunkle by puttin’ her old dead skin over the top of his shiny suit, is here and is playin’ on his ukulele. And then as the final straw wot’s poked the camel through the eye of the needle, Dear Diary, next to him is Ol’ Beryl from Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Womens. As I said, I feel sick, ‘n’ to see Miss Beryl - wot we all thought was another alter-ego of The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser - sittin’ beside him instead of inside o’him, made my world go white. I’m about to faint. Please let this be a dream ‘n’ please don’t ever let me wake up to find out its wot’s actually goin’ on in my real life. As they says in the movies, fuck me with a broom handle ‘n’ sing hallelujah up my nose. I think I’m gonna say so endeth this fuckin’ dark night o’my soul right here ‘n’ now. Life was so simple when all I had to worry about was bein’ buried forever ‘n’ ever in a mountain o’Howiepupple shite, ‘n’ never getting’ rescued. Why the fuck couldn’t we quit life, Dear Diary, while we was ahead?
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