Day 159

Dear Diary,

Well, I’d sure like to say “It’s a Glory Halleluly Big Day,” and I’d also like to be enjoyin’ a hand-wax ‘n’ tailpipe blow out, too, but there’s just so many miracles goin’ round at any given time. And, as usual, all of them wot’re helpin’ folks at this moment in time’re somewheres way over on the other side of the world. Not that anything wot you could exactly call “bad” or “oh shit, we’re well ‘n’ truly in the fuckin’ soup without a crouton” has come our way since we had our last conversation, but as sure as grass in the kennel’s brown, Ol’ God’s sure’s shootin’s not doin’ a good job of supervisin’ things over this way. Either that or he’s tryin’ to teach us lessons wot’re above our heads. Poor old bean, I bet when he created us as bein’ two cards short of a deck, He thought He was makin’ life easier for hisself, provin’ yet again even Gods can underestimate the power of dumbfucks. I dunno. Perhaps this is all a bad dream ‘n’ I’m gonna wake up in the shower ‘n’ with a blond bimbo named Pimples Magee, and none of the rest of this shit will have happened.

But anyways, let’s get back to last night. After I’d put my pencil away, Dear Diary, ‘n’ stashed you into your waterproof oilskin pouch so’s you wouldn’t get wet or deranged no matter wot the weather got up to, I took leave of my senses ‘n’ inspected them there four pink satin cardboard boxes containin’ the folded ‘n’ pressed bodies of Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl The Hair Beautician ‘n’ The Reverend Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Luella Da Bunkle. I examined ‘em real close like wot a custom’s inspector does when he’s lookin’ for somethin’ illegal ‘n’ contraband wot’s bein’ smuggled into the country. And after I’d gaved the boxes the once over a coupl’a hundert times, I turned my attention to them bodies up close ‘n’ personal for the longest time - even makin’ use of a magnifyin’ glass as well as a microscope I found lyin’ in a corner of my boot - but to tell you the truth I couldn’t figure out wot the fuck I was actually lookin’ at. I mean, a body’s a body and it still looks like a body, even after it’s dead ‘n’ the heads’ve fell off KER PLOP ‘n’ landed in its lap ‘n’ then rolled off on to the floor ‘n’ been stepped on. But somethin’ was wrong here ‘n’ nothin’ I knowed about life ‘n’ death ‘n’ wot happens when decomposition sets in agreed with the evidence. And then somethin’ occurred to me. After all wot’s gone on in my life, wot with the flood’n folks drownin’ dead in the ocean ‘n’ getting’ blowed up by the West Texas smart atom bomb attack, if there’s one thing I know about, it’s wot they calls “the stench of death.” And even though I’m only a dumbfuck bus (albeit one with a immaculate pedigree) without a nose to snort through, I can still pick up the delicate essence o’corruption by absorbin’ it through my sensitive custom-applied paintwork. Death is death. Rot is rot. And stink is stink ‘n’ it makes my hair stand on end.

But the funny thing was, no matter how hard I rubbed these four aforementioned dead bodies over my paintwork, I could’na smell nothin’. That’s N-O-T-H-I-N’. Fuck all. Period. ‘Course, at this point, I had a perfect opportunity to say “fuck, it’s none o’my business what’s went on, and if I do nothin’ ‘n’ ignore everything, nobody’ll think of questionin’ me down the line. After all, I’m only a dumbfuck bus ‘n’ as ignorant as a second hand car.” However, on account of I’m a fuckin’ nosy parker, I couldn’t live with that, could I? And that bein’ the case, I went ‘n’ did wot I shouldn’t a ought to’ve did, and I took them aforementioned dead bodies out of their boxes ‘n’ I unrolled them and lined ‘em up in a row, nice ‘n’ neat, ‘n’ then I fetched the four heads from the wheel well under the seat where they’ll rolled and from where they was lookin’ up at me like four o’the dumbest boiled hogs I’ve ever did saw.

In a old-fashioned murder mystery TV show, this’d be where the murderer would’a snucked up behind me ‘n’ dispatched me with a hatchet, after which there’d a’been one o’them commercial interruptions where they’d try to sell you feminine hygiene products or show you how to have a good time by getting’ drunk ‘n’ laughin’ a lot with all your friends you’ve never met before. But fortunately, wot was goin’ on here wasn’t ‘n’ isn’t a murder mystery TV show, old-fashioned or in the here ‘n’ now. And bein’ that this was and is happenin’ in real life ‘n’ not make believe, nobody comed after me with a hatchet, or showed up to axe me wot the fuck I was doin’ or even pulled a gun on me ‘n’ screamed “Freeze Fucker” ‘n’ marched me on over to the electric chair. In fact, I wasn’t interrupted by anything at all, which was a nuisance on account of interruptions sometimes makes your brain go round ‘n’ you comes up with The Big Idea wot solves the crime. BINGO BANGO BOOM!

Anyways, havin’ got this far in my examination ‘n’ feelin’ sort’a like Jessica Fletcher on a episode when the script wasn’t quite right, it finally occurred to me to shut off my brain ‘n’ my motor mouth and try to be wot they calls systematical. So wot I done was I went back to the bodies ‘n’ I sniffed ‘em once again in case I’d missed out on somethin’ in all the excitement. And you know something? I had. While there sure as fuck wasn’t no dead body smell, there also weren’t no smell of folks havin’ lived in them bodies either. And this made me go “Hmmmm”. And so I snorted again, and this time I come up with a distinct smell of rubber.

Well I tell you, Dear Diary, this caught my attention and I had one o’them Ah-Hah moments, ‘n’ I said “What the fuck?” so’s everybody’d know I was on to somethin’.

I’m sorry to say this is as far as I’ve got in my investigation. Fortunately I’ve got all sort’s of forensical CSI equipment in a special compartment below in my undercarriage, but I gotta put my pencil away before I can get it. I’ll be back in a coupl’a minutes or hours or when I gives up on the whole business ‘n’ says “Fuck It All.” If I decided to take the latter route you’ll hear me say so endeth this fuckin’ episode ‘n’ let’s turn over to Gardener’s World.