Day 162

Dear Diary,

Well, as I feared, I’m gonna hafta continue my investigation into the mysterious circumstances surrounding the four dead bodies in my backseat without the assistance of my little grey cells. At least that’s how it appears at this moment in time. A pity really, on account of it would’a been a whole new ball game, me actually working together with my brain instead of us workin’ as cross purposes. As they says, ce la vie or celery to those wot’re in the know ‘n’ speak the way things is supposed to be spoke when you’re in Parlee Voo Frenzie. Perhaps I’ll try draggin’ out my little grey cells the next time I’ve got a problem, and perhaps not on account of intelligence is not really worth all the trouble it causes.

Anyways, to get back to my investigation. If’n you recalls, the four dead bodies of Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ the other, Miss Louella Da Bunkle, wot appeared to be a spare part, hadn’t been dead before their heads’d popped off ‘n’ rolled on to their laps a coupl’a days ago. In fact, up until that moment, they’d been a’jabberin’ away to beat the band and I’d thought they’d never shut the fuck up. Now I know your probably wonderin’ about wot ever happened to Missus Milly Da Fardle after she’d took off like a balloon wot’s got a leak ‘n’ she whizzed round ‘n’ round the inside of the bus (being me, in case you’ve forgot). Well, she exploded to pieces is wot happened. Or did she? And was them bodies wot’d got folded up ‘n’ packed into the pretty-as-a-picture cardboard boxes with hand calligraphied name tags attached to the tops really all they was purported to be? That, as they say, is the sixty-four thousand dollar question. And the answer, as least as I can figure it out at the moment, is not on your nelly.

To arrive at my conclusion I spent most’a the night examinin’ and re-examinin’ them aforementioned corpses. I unzipped ‘em up the from all the way down, ‘n’ then I re-zipped ‘em back up to the top, ‘n’ then when I’d did that a coupl’a dozen times I decided it’d be fun to turn ‘em all inside out. And this is when I really started to get more suspicious than ever that things wasn’t as they was supposed to be. And do you wanna know why? Because, my dear friend ‘n’ Dear Diary, their insides was as clean as a whistle. There wasn’t a trace of any inside-o’the-body ucky stuff. ‘Course, I already knowed there weren’t no bones, on account of whoever’d packed ‘em up like Christmas presents’d de-boned ‘em neater’n if’n they’d never had no bones in the first place. This of course, was a moment wot made me say, “Aha!” And indeed I said “Aha” at the time, but not really convincingly, on account of I figured the butcher wot de-boned ‘em might’a had one of them really sharp knives you see advertised on TV for ninety-nine cents wot can do anything ‘n’ everything includin’ choppin’ down a skyscraper ‘n’ a tomato at the same time. And only a knife like that could clean everything up so good. Anyways, since that seemed to me to be a rational explanation, I didn’t pursue that line of enquiry any further. Funnily enough, it didn’t really occur to me to ask WHY the bodies’d been de-boned the way they was, but you hafta rememberate I’d just had a argument with my little grey cells a few minutes before ‘n’ they’d staged wot they calls a work stoppage. And just in case you don’t see the ramifications of wot I’m sayin’, it has to do with me not thinkin’ so good on account of I’d not had nothin’ to think with.

I doesn’t really think I’m gonna get any further solvin’ this current mystery by talkin’ any more about why the bodies didn’t have no bones or who de-boned ‘em out or why they’s been scrubbed so clean. On the other hand, keepin’ on the track of the bones regardless, perhaps they doesn’t have any on account of they didn’t have none to begin with! That could account for the fact there ain’t no trace of bones anywhere on the bus (bein’ me), and believe me I know everythin’ wot goes on in there (or me, to be more precise). And don’t try to tell me the reason for the lack of bones is because the bodies was so dirt poor they had to sell their skeletons to earn money to give their grannies a operation. And anyway, if you want to be honest, who on earth would buy their rickety old bones? And don’t you go suggestin’ the buyer were one of them fancy restaurants wot needs ‘em so’s they could make a big old batch of veal stock so’s they could reduce it down to demi-glace ‘n’ then to glace ‘n’ finally into a single ultra-concentrate stock cube. Cuz if’n that’s wot you’re suggestin’, may I suggest right back that you’ve got even fewer brains’n me, and since those I have’re on strike my head’s nothin’ but a empty carburettor.

Huzza huzza. It really is a conundrum. Just talkin’ about it’s got me into a complete muddle. I’m sittin’ here lookin’ at the empty bodies of The Reverend Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Miss Cabbage ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician, and I’m also thinkin’ about the body of Missus Milly Da Fardle wot was whizzin’ round in circles ‘n’ then blowed up and is no more. And while I’m at it, I’m also examinin’ the pink cardboard gift boxes wot suddenly appeared and into which the bodies was packed. And on top o’that, I’ve just heard a squeak I’ve never heard before comin’ from the outside o’me. It’s accompanied by a tickling sensation wot feels most agreeable, and I wish to fuck strange thing’d stop happenin’ so fast one on top of the other!

Fuck, Dear Diary, this ticklin’ is getting’ more aggressive ‘n’ I do believe it’s tryin’ to turn me on. How the fuck am I gonna solve the mystery of the dead bodies if’n my fuckin’ pheromones is gonna play up? Fuck fuck fuck! I gotta deal with this. Right here ‘n’ now. You’d better look the other way unless you want to be embarrassed by the sight of a bus squealin’ for a good time. Bye bye, so endeth any desire I has to talk to you for the moment. I gotta do somethin’ nasty.