Day 160

Dear Diary,

Okey dokey, let me try to explain wot is happenin’ ‘n’ why I think I’m goin’ crazier’n a hootie owl. When last I was walkin’ to you, I was about to go ‘n’ search in my underbelly for some o’that fancy TV forensical equipment I’d ordered over the Internet last week. Unfortunately, when I opened up my special CSI-brand carryin’ case, all there was in it was two rubber bands ‘n’ a paper clip, an old-fashion cotter pin ‘n’ a paperback book full of suduku puzzlements. I put all the stuff with the exception of the puzzle book into my pocket for easy reach durin’ my further investigation of the strange goings on back there on my back seat, and the book itself I’ve put on my bedside table for tonight. I ain’t had nothin’ new to read since the atom smart bomb the Texans sent over blowed all o’my books away as well as all of the intelligent people with somethin’ to say ‘n’ also the pretty sports cars, so at last I’ll have somethin’ to do in bed other’n twiddle my thumbs ‘n’ play with Ol’ Misther Prefers-To-Play- With-Someone-Else.

As those of you who’ve spent your nights watchin’ TV instead of engagin’ in a private life or literary pursuits can imagine, my initial reaction to my patented forensic CSI equipment attaché case was one of acute disappointment to say the least. When you see them actors on TV solvin’ crimes in forty-seven minutes, they’s got a dazzlin’ array of technological toys to help ‘em get the job done, complete with all the bells ‘n’ whistles ‘n’ snappy dialogue ‘n’ good hair wot you can never do for yourself at home. And naturally, seeing as how I’m wot you’d call a hi-tech machine myself, bein’ a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 bus with handcrafted ‘n’ custom-designed bodywork, just seein’ all the technological wonders them actors can perform without even breakin’ into a sweat thrills me to the bone. Especially on account of I know the actors themselves is only puny dumbfuck human beings readin’ lines wot someone else’s wrote, and they’re only goin’ through their paces in a paintin’-by-numbers sort’a way. All they’re doin’ is like dogs wot’re trained to heal ‘n’ fetch your granny’s slippers ‘n’ bedpan. And them shiny blingy gadgets wot’re snap, cracklin’ ‘n’ poppin’ all round ‘em is nothin’ but fakes operated by a bunch o’whiz kids off screen. Mind you, even fake machines can make your eye-teeth drool, and I’ll tell you somethin’, just thinkin’ about wot they gets up to makes me proud as fuck to be a machine! Too bad the machines don’t get no money for makin’ dumbfuck actors look good, but hell, I guess that’s Hollywood.

Anyways, as I was sayin’, my first reaction to my new patented forensic CSI attaché case was that I’d been ripped off, and this made me mad as fuck and I yelled at myself for bein’ took in by them TV shoppin’ channels yet again. But then somethin’ occurred to me, ‘n’ the penny dropped ‘n’ I had another “gotcha” moment. And I thought, “Yessiree Bob, you’re not thinkin’ straight.” Just because we see them CSI investigators wearin’ designer goggles ‘n’ surrounded by flashin’ lights ‘n’ squirtin’ funny powder on bits o’garbage, it don’t mean they’s actually accomplishin’ anything, and it also don’t mean them good-looking shiny fake machines does anything either. Wot we forgets about is that the cops in charge, the ones with the actually cojones wot’re doin’ the actual detectin’, ain’t anywhere in sight. In other words, while the audience is busy bein’ entertained by all the flashy strobe lights ‘n’ dark lights ‘n’ auteur shadows ‘n’ alternative rock music ‘n’ the actors’ designer stubble, the old flabby gumshoes’re out o’camera range sloggin’ away ‘n’ solvin’ who’s killed whom ‘n’ why they’d killed ‘em. And this realisation made me think of that patented CSI equipment attaché case I’d bought ‘n’ paid for with a credit card I’d found on the beach, ‘n’ I got a idea in my head I should look at it again, and this time more carefully. And low ‘n’ behold, the minute I’d opened it back up I spied a little zipper lurkin’ in the shadow of the linin’, right in a place you’d overlook if’n you wasn’t thorough. Well, naturally I was thrilled to bits ‘n’ so I unzipped it, ‘n’ wot do you know but there was two items I’d not sawed before: a plastic pretend silver box with a waxed moustache inside, and a old lady’s knittin’ bag with a set of knittin’ needles ‘n’ a ball o’fluffy pink wool. I looked at the contents of the compartment I’d just found, and then it dawned on me. Real detectives don’t need no hi-tech razzle-dazzle. Real detectives use their little grey cells. And “hot damn ‘n’ hallelujah,” if’n I doesn’t have an abundance of grey matter to work with, nobody does!

From that moment, I was filled with confidence instead of frustration ‘n’ despair, ‘n’ I saw my investigation from a different angle and in a different light. And you’d better believe I went straight back to them four dead bodies and looked at them again. And then I looked another time, after which I closed my eyes ‘n’ left my little grey cells alone to get their work done without any outside interference from me. And presto! I was suddenly inspired to look at the bodies a third time. And the first thing I saw the third time I looked at them was that none of them was wearin’ a stitch of clothing ‘n’ was naked as a jaybird from top to toe, a indisputable fact wot made me feel as dumb as shit on account of I hadn’t noticed it before. And after I got over the shock of seein’ wot Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician looked like in the altogether – a sight wot proved once again that Ol’ God should’a followed his original instincts ‘n’ covered human beings (especially old ‘n’ wore out ones) with a shitload of fur, just like a bear – I realised I’d missed another pertinent detail. Each ‘n’ every one of the bodies had zippers goin’ all the way up their fronts, from their ugly hairy bits to the top of their bodies where their heads should’a been. One again I said “hot damn ‘n’ fuck me with a roto rooter,” on account of I knowed immediately I was on to somethin’ big in the solvin’ the case department.

Well, just so I wouldn’t jump the gun ‘n’ come to the wrong conclusion, I told my little grey cells to tell me wot I should do next. And after thinkin’ things over and turnin’ their heads this way ‘n’ that ‘n’ examinin’ themselves in a lookin’ glass, they said I should put on a pair o’gloves ‘n try to unzip the zippers. Which is wot I did, minus putting on the gloves, of course, on account of I’m a bus ‘n’ I can’t buy no glove wot’ll fit over my wheels. Anyway, I unzipped the zippers like I was told to do and right away I got another shock. None of the four bodies had anything inside themselves at all! They was, in fact, emptier’n a buffalo’s scrotum after it’s been turned into a ashtray.

So, Dear Diary, this is the evidence so far: I got four dead bodies without no dead body stink but smellin’ strangely of rubber. None of the bodies’ve got any clothes on, but they’ve all got zippers goin’ up ‘n’ down their fronts. And lastly, they’s not inside o’their bodies and so far I can’t see no evidence they’re anywhere else either. ‘Course, I’ve reach one or two conclusions on my own and without the help of my little grey cells, but I’m gonna wait a bit before publishin’ ‘em, on account of I doesn’t want to make a fool o’myself again this afternoon. And while I wait for corroboration from my little grey cells ‘n’ also from the knittin’ needles wot I ain’t yet consulted, Dear Diary, I’m gonna rest my eyes ‘n’ I expect you’ll be wantin’ to take a break yourself. My little grey cells told me they’re getting’ fed up with me always endin’ each day by sayin’ “so endeth”, ‘n’ so for once I’m not gonna say it. In other words, it’s so endeth to my habit of sayin’ so endeth, ‘n’ to hell with it.