Day 156

Dear Diary,

Well, not only was the moulderin’ remnant of the lost world, namely Missus Milly Da Fardle, sittin’ in my backseat as I’d feared, but she’d brunged her mouth along with her, as well. And when I finally recognised she was the genuine article ‘n’ not just a scarecrow left in my backseat in error by a passin’ garbage collector, I put on my best manners ‘n’ said “Howdy Doody Missus Milly Da Fardle, ‘n’ how come you ain’t dead like the rest ‘n’ how the fuck is you anyway?” Well, the Ol’ bitch snorted up her nose like a steam engine wot’s got coal stuck up it’s smokestack ‘n’ she hawked ‘n’ spat green stuff all over my polished vintage linoleum floor. “I tell you wot, Bus,” she said with snot ‘n’ buggers drippin off’n her tobacco-brown ‘n’ radio-active teeth and cloggin’ up her chin hairs, “Why doesn’t you do us a favour ‘n’ shut the fuck up ‘n’ drive me back to my concrete bunker bungalow like a good Community Bus or I’ll melt you down ‘n’ remake you back up as a new refrigerator.” I wish I could say my motor oil didn’t run cold at the tone of her voice, but seein’ as how I’m a coward at heart, it did. I know I should’a ordered her off’n the bus for bein’ ruder’n a skunk in heat ‘n’ for speakin’ like a drunken lout to the bus (which is me), but I didn’t have the heart to do that to a helpless little old lady. Mind you, if’n you’d bribed me with a penny ‘n’ polished me up real nice with bees’ wax, I would’a said fuck it all ‘n’ done it anyway, if only so’s the world could see her bein’ ate up alive up by a million billion tonnes o’fermentin’ babby shite ‘n’ nappies. Holy Shit ‘n’ Hallelujah, wot a sight that would’a been for sore eyes! But fuck, I guess I ain’t nothin’ but a chickenshit bus, ‘n’ so I went ‘n’ swallowed my pride ‘n’ suppressed all the pain she’d caused me when she ripped my Ol’ heart in twain, and I bowed my head like a person wot’s in politics does when he’s dealin’ with a voter he personally wishes had been kilt in a random drive-by purse snatchin’ ‘n’ shootin’. I told her I was sorry for the inconvenience ‘n’ I knowed she had to get home in time to cook dinner for her twenty-seven kids and twelve abusive drunk husbands, but bein’ that we was temporarily trapped under the world’s God Almightiest avalanche of babby shit, I couldn’t go nowhere, no matter how much I wanted to. ‘Course she didn’t believe me, ‘n’ she then accused me of tryin’ to prevent her from getting on over to her bank, wot was The Bank of Old Wanger Nose, in time to panic ‘n’ withdraw all of her money before it could be took by the American property market wot couldn’t pay off its mortgages without eatin’ up her bank account. After she’d said this, I made the mistake of not keeping my mouth shut for the second or fourth time today, wot is a mistake I seem to be makin’ over ‘n’ over again, and wot’s turnin’ into wot you might call a fatal flaw. But whatever you might call it, I forgot to think before I opened my mouth, and I told her I knowed she didn’t have no bank accounts at The Bank of Old Wanger Nose or any other bank, and that all o’her ill-gotten gains wot she stoled from Wednesday night bingo was kept in a hole in the floor in a dozen cheap plastic rip-off designer label suitcases. And further more, I said, everybody knowed where she’d stashed all them millions she’d earned illegal from the sale of dead bodies from the funeral parlour to The Gnu-Fanny Premium Deluxe Luxury All-Meat Cat Food Company. And then I pointed a finger right at her scabby, rheumy ‘n’ protrudin’ eyeballs ‘n’ I raised my voice to heaven ‘n’ even set it to “Tremblin’ Preacher Shake ‘n’ Bake” on the decibel dial, ‘n’ I declaimed for all to hear that she’d invested all her illegal dead biddy cat food profits in industrial strength money launderin’ washin’ machines and’d opened a whole chain of illegal money-launderin’ washerettes over in them Scilly Isles. And once she’d wash ‘n’ dried the money, I said, she’d took every single shiny perma-pressed squeaky clean banknote ‘n’ bought fake designer perforated condoms to sell to countries wot was desperate to curb their babby-makin’ proclivities. And then, when all them unwanted babbies was born unexpected ‘n’ their mammies ‘n’ pappies was left more destitute than ever, Ol’ Missus Milly Da Fardle cornered the market in babby nappies ‘n’ formula and made herself another billion bucks or two by sellin’ them to the starvin’ masses at one for the price of three hundert. Foreign aid she called it. And by the way, Dear Diary, I want to make it perfectly clear when I was talkin’ about nefarious funeral homes, I was speakin’ about Misther Doctor Bernie Da Gnu’s ‘Wash ‘n’ Wake Funeral Parlour for a Beautiful Goodbye’ ‘n’ not the other one wot’s owned by Misther Pradesh Da Raddesh’s Fine Discount Men’s Suit and Shoe Company. Misther Pradesh Da Raddesh is perfectly honest ‘n’ upright, only the dumbfucks on the island wouldn’t send their dead folks to him if’n their lives depended upon it, on account of you never knows wot them foreign heathens’ll get up to with dead bodies when the spirit hits ‘em.

Anyways, no sooner’d I finished my lecture to Missus Milly Da Fardle on how she was a liar and’d got rich outta feedin’ dead people to their own cats ‘n’ makin’ poor folks in poor countries miserabler’n sin, than she took a Uzi outta her cheap plastic on-sale non-biodegradable shoppin’ bag ‘n’ pointed it straight at my nose. Well, right then ‘n’ there I saw stars in front o’my eyes, on account of this’d be about the hundredth time I’ve been shot in the windscreen or tyres or gas tank since the flood washed away the island ‘n’ kilt off all the decent folks. And to be honest, I’d just about had it up the top o’my roof rack. And so I said to that Ol’ bitch of a cadaver-face biddy, I said, “Now see here, Missus Milly Da Fardle, you put that there Uzi away before you blows off’n your thumb ‘n’ let me make you a cup o’tea with three kinds of potatoes.” And do you wanna know wot the bitch said, Dear Diary? She actually said, “Make My Day ‘n’ Lick My Skanky Pussy!” And then she shot me. Fuck.

This is the worst of all possibly ways to so endeth my day, but as they says “shit fucks ‘n’ then you craps on the floor.” I gotto go inspect myself for damage ‘n’ to see if’n I’m dead yet. And if’n I’m not I swear I’m gonna put that old bag of a bitch hag away somewhere where she can’t do no more damage, either to mankind or to innocent children or fluffy kittens. I’ve survived a flood ‘n’ atom smart bombs sent from Texas ‘n’ old womens peein’ on my seats, but now we’re getting’ serious. This means war.