Day 158

Dear Diary,

Well, the insanely headless Missus Milly Da Fardle Monster whizzed berzerky round and round the inside o’the bus (being me in case you’ve forgot) for no less than thirty-seven hours and twenty-two minute ‘n’ at least a coupl’a seconds. And then all of a sudden the old bat let out a earsplittin’ squeak followed by a whine to make your blood curdle ‘n’ whey at the same time, and then she blowed up into sub-nuclear partisniples. ‘Course, bein’ used to so many explosions in such a short time, I knowed exactly wot to do, ‘n’ so I shielded my eyes durin’ the explosion so’s not to burn out my headlamp elements, ‘n’ consequently I missed out on the more spectacular fireworks. However, I gotta say the whole thing were over faster’n a boy’d first sexual experience, and as soon as it fizzled out ‘n’ the final squeal went fizzle-splat, all there was left was a sickening BOING followed by silence. A second later, ‘n’ just as suddenly, the sky inside my coach was like a blizzard, ‘n’ from every direction includin’ the floor it was rainin’ a regular onslaught o’miniscule flakes o’burnt out rubber. And boy did it stink up a storm inside o’here! Just like at the tyre dump in back of Misther Florian Da Blossom’s Discount Used Tyre Emporium, where every Thursday night they burns last years tyres to get ‘em off’n their inventory, a fraudulent insurance swindle Ol’ Florian can only get away with on account of the island’s two numbnuts police constables, Humbert Da Elephant and his partner Helen Da Barren - who’s what they use to call a ‘woman policeman’ back in the good old days when all they done was guard the tea tent for the Women’s Institute – goes ‘n’ eats one of Missus Da Elephant’s pressure-cooked roast lamb dinners with three kinds o’potatoes ‘n’ special gourmet turnip surprise. Anyways, as I was about to say, the burnin’ rubber rainstorm lasted pretty much until every last molecule of poor Ol’ Milly’s shredded corpuscles’d settled on to the floor ‘n’ seats, where they pretty much ruint my shiny new linoleum ‘n’ hand-sewn upholstery by burnin’ holes at unattractive intervals. As you can imagine, my attention was on all the damage wot the deceased ‘n’ particled Missus Milly Da Fardle’d wrought on my delicate interior. But then I got to thinkin’, perhaps I should take a leaf outta the locals’ book of etiquette ‘n’ treat the fuckin’ bitch dyke with some forgiveness ‘n’ respect ‘n’ reverence now that she were finally good ‘n’ dead ‘n’ not even all the King’s horses could put her back together again. And so I tried rememberin’ wot the biddies always said when they mentioned the name of someone wot’d gone to meet her Maker, and I decided it went somethin’ on the order of “God Bless Da Fuckin’ Skanky Bitch, Missus Milly Da Fardle, ‘n’ may her hiney find productive work ‘n’ great favour in the eyes of The Lord in spite of itself, aaaaamen.” ‘Course I may not’ve got the words right, but I’m pretty sure the sentiment is more or less correct.

Anyways, havin’ settled wot I was gonna say about the Ol’ dead ‘n’ shredded old fart if’n I happened to mention her again, I turned my attention to the others wot’d been sittin’ on the back seat with her – namely Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl the Beautician ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ the leftover skinsuit o’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle. As you might rememberate, last thing yesterday, just about the time Missus Milly Da Fardle’s head went berzerk ‘n’ the old bitch was sent whizzin’ ‘round the inside o’me like a balloon wot’s sufferin’ from a leaky fart, these other folks had themselves a party of their own. For no reason I could think of, other’n they was tryin’ to outdo Ol’ Milly in the fuckin’ stupid tricks department, their eyes popped out on springs ‘n’ their heads plopped off on to their laps all at the same time ‘n’ at the count o’three. And that’s how I’d left ‘em when I last had a minute to spare to examine them. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise when I turned to the three of ‘em (four if’n you counts Miss Louella Da Bunkle’s skin as a complete biddy) to ask wot the fuck they was up to ‘n’ I hoped they hadn’t ruint my hand-loomed upholstery any more’n Ol’ Milly had, when instead of ‘em sittin as before ‘n’ cradlin’ their heads, they was all folded up neat as a whistle ‘n’ wrapped in pink tissue paper ‘n’ placed in custom-designed ‘n’ satin-covered cardboard skinsuit boxes. And before you ask, the reason I knowed each boxes’d been made special for its designated occupant was everything fit just perfect. The bodies was folded ‘n’ packed neater’n a pin ‘n’ each box was labelled accordin’ to its occupant. In other words, the box on the left (my left bein’ the right hand side o’the back bench seat) had a engraved pink card with “Miss Cabbage, Model No. 5” wrote on it in a fine Italian hand. The next box over – the one to Miss cabbage’s left – said “Miss Louella Da Bunkle, Jumbo Bustier Model Skinsuit with One Spare Pair o’Britches.” And so it went, with the next box reserved for “The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser, One Fake Black Preacher Suit Model Number 57A with Aluminium Gusset ‘n’ Elephant Vibrator Attachment”, and finally, last but certainly not least, “One Beryl Hair Colourin’ Stained Pinny Model No. 3 with Yellow Teeth No. 62 ‘n’ Two Pairs Ugly Grey Crimpoline Trousers with Size 17 Custom-Inserted Tobacco Crotch Pouch.”

Well, fuck me with a soda siphon ‘n’ blast me up to Mercury, but I hardly knowed wot to think. In mean, wot the fuck was goin’ on? One minute I was sittin’ quietly under a million billion tonnes of Howiepupple shit ‘n’ getting’ settled in for a eternity of waitin’ on some archaeologist to come ‘n’ rescue me in a coupl’a thousand years, and the next minute there were a bunch o’dangerous ‘n’ demented survivors of my past wot I’d thunked was long-dead ‘n’ buried, praise God ‘n’ hallelujah. And there they was a’sittin’ in my backseat ‘n’ actin’ like they’d never been anywhere else. And just when I was about to go right on back ‘n’ question them as to how they’d survived ‘n’ why they’d come to torment me once again, when each and every one of them goes crazy berserk in ways nobody’s ever gone crazy berserk before since the world was burped into bein’ in the great cosmic splat. And a minute after that Missus Milly Da Fardle’d blowed to smithereens ‘n’ her burnt rubber bits is hidin’ out in every single one of my secret nooks ‘n’ crannies. And on top o’that, the others wot was with her are no longer sittin’ in their seats massagin’ their heads, but are all neatly folded ‘n’ packed away in custom-made boxes with cute little pink labels tied on with gold ribbons. Hmmm. A shitload o’pink ‘n’ gold. Sounds too familiar in a way I doesn’t like. Fuckin’ shit. Oh well, there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it now so I’ll just hafta wait ‘n’ see.

Anyway, Dear Diary, I hope you understands the complexity of my situation at present. I’m gonna hafta put my pencil away ‘n’ consult my inner bein’ before confrontin’ them aforementioned boxes ‘n’ givin’ them the once over ‘n’ the third degree. I dunno how long it’ll take, but I simply gotta find out for myself wot’s goin’ on! And I promise cross my heart I’ll let you know wot I uncovers. In the meantime, I’ll close with my usual “so endeth” on account of it’s how I always end, ‘n’ I can’t wait to bring you some good news tomorrow, or at least a ray of hope.