Day 163

Dear Diary,

You’re gonna be right proud of me on account of FINALLY I went ‘n’ got aggressive last night. I was just so fuckin’ fed-up with all the crap wot was goin’ on and which just kept right on a’happenin’ without no rhyme nor reason or explanafication. First it was one thing and then another and then another. Ad finitum dee tum dee tum. And the last straw wot broke this here particular camel’s back was when I started to hear the squeakin’ sound right in back of my wing mirrors in the sensitive spot where it irritates me the most. And this were compounded a coupl’a million times by a ticklin’ sensation I wasn’t prepared for and for which I hadn’t asked nobody to give me. Hell, I hadn’t even put in a advertisement in the back of a newspaper sayin’ “Erotic ticklin’ wanted by classic vintage Daimler Burlington bus wot’s stuck alone on a beach with his windscreen shot out by a dumbfuck gangster.” And so I went ‘n’ forgot my manners ‘n’ I beeped my hooter for all it was worth, ‘n’ I also set off both my fire alarm ‘n’ my burglar alarm. Fuck, if someone’s gonna fuck with me ‘n’ get up my nose then the least I can do is blow out their eardrums!

Needless to say, whomever it was wot was irritatin’ me stopped wot they was doin’ almost immediately in both the squeakin’ and the ticklin’ departments. And let me tell you somethin’, the silence wot followed was golden. My oil pan ‘n’ fuel line was both refreshed ‘n’ cleansed and to be honest, I felt better’n I have since the flood washed us all away a coupl’a months ago. And so wot I done next was I thought I’d settle the matter of the four dead bodies, plus the blowed-up body o’Missus Milly Da Fardle, ‘n’ get the whole fuckin’ business outta the way so’s I could get on with life. And so I went straight on back to where they was ‘n’ I examined ‘em from head to toe, bein’ extra careful not to miss out on nothing. And wot do you know, but all four o’them bodies had little adhesive labels glued on up by their neck holes, and they all said “Acme Rubber Personal Erotic Companion Dolly Company, Satisfaction Guaranteed.” Wot the fuck? Wot was the dead ‘n’ hollowed-out bodies formerly occupied by The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Beryl form Beryl’s Hair Parlour for Old Women ‘n’ Miss Cabbage doin’ with labels like that stuck on the back of their necks? And wot was they doin’ masqueradin’ as rubber personal companion sexual satisfaction dollies when all o’their previous lives they’d been behavin’ like personal dissatisfaction pain-in-the-butt dumbfucks? I wasn’t sure I was ready to get a answer to these particular two questions, on account of I wasn’t sure my stomach was strong enough. So wot I done was rummage around under the seat where they was lyin’ folded up in their pretty pink gift boxes and I dragged out their heads from where they’d fell after rollin’ off’n the bodies a coupl’a days ago. And I tell you one thing, I must need spectaclulos or somethin’ like that, on account of them heads couldn’a be mistook for heads anymore’n a polecat can sing a Mozart aria. In fact, they was nothin’ but four big old watermelons with softboiled eggs for eyes ‘n’ gherkins for noses ‘n’ little American-style donuts for mouths. Fuck me with a burnin’ pyre ‘n’ keep me home from school! I knowed they was heads last time I sawed ‘em! I may not always look where I’m goin’ when I’m drivin’ down the street, but fuck it, even on my blindest days when my driver’s doin’ somethin’ nasty to my gear lever, I can tell a head from a watermelon!

Well, Dear Diary, as you can image I ranted ‘n’ raved ‘n’ expelled a shitload of evil black discharge from my tailpipe, ‘n’ then I settled down and looked at them heads again. And wouldn’t you know it but they may’ve been watermelons, but whoever’d done their makeover’d been one hellova artist in the makeover department. ‘Course, up close ‘n’ personal you could tell they wasn’t the real thing, but when the light was a flatterin’ pinkish peach ‘n’ they was wearin’ a attractive hat ‘n’ veil, even their nearest ‘n’ dearest would’ve mistook ‘em for the genuine article from across a crowded room. Sort’a the same principle as when a human bein’ gets a facelift ‘n’ has a coupl’a gallons o’Botoxification injected into their wrinkly bits. So, I guess I can forgive myself after all for thinkin’ the heads was real. But why pull this switcheroo? Why take away the real heads in the first place? Wot did it all mean? Wot was the significance of puttin’ four rubber personal satisfaction dollies with melon heads on my back seats, ‘n’ why after their head’d fell off, had the bodies been packed into charmin’ pink gift boxes with hand calligraphied name tags? And was the other dead person, namely Missus Milly Da Fardle wot’d blowed up while behavin’ like a balloon, also a rubber personal satisfaction dolly, or was she the real thing? And was her head switched as well? The thing is, if’n she was like the others, where is the post-apocalyptical chunks of exploded melon head brain? And where did her wig go? And for that matter, where did the wigs wot the other melons were wearin’ vanish to? And how about their clothes?

WHY WHY WHY? Wot does this all mean? Someone’s gotta be behind it, but who? And why is they playin such dumbfuck nonsensical head games with me?

I must say, Dear Diary, I was ready to give up ‘n’ surrender myself to never knowin’ wot was goin’ on ‘n’ never caring neither, when I was distracted by a knockin’ on the frame of my shot-out windscreen. You’d better believe I jumped about a mile on account of I thought I’d permanently got rid of “The Tickler” ‘n’ didn’t think anyone else was here with me. And when I jumped, I let off an even worser bad sort’a fart than the one before, and this one quite frankly smelled like it’d come on a main line from a room full o’teenage boys, and I bet it couldn’a been all that pleasant for anyone standin’ directly in back of me. At the same time, just to punctuate my feelings, I beeped my hooter again on impulse and yelled, “Wot the fuck do you want ‘n’ why doesn’t you leave me alone?”

Well, Dear Diary, there was a minute o’silence you could’a cut with a spear of asparagus, ‘n’ then a whole bunch o’ cute little baby voices chirped, “Excuse us, Mr. Bus, but it’s us, the first batch of the Howiepupples, ‘n’ we’d sure like it if’n you’d come out to play.” Well, believe me I was gob smacked, but then I looked at them carefully, one by one, and wouldn ‘t you know it but little Ol’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One was standin’ up in front, and who was they carryin’ but their pappy’s can o’worms. “Well, slap my arse ‘n’ butter my hole!” I exclaimed. “Wot a fuckin’ wonderful surprise!” ‘Course my language set the Howiepupples to smirkin’ ‘n’ gigglin’ ‘n’ blushin’ to beat the band, but I can’t say the can o’worms was overly impressed. In fact, it leapt outta the basket wot was bein’ carried on a sling strung between little Ol’ Claude ‘n’ the much bigger Claude Minus One, ‘n’ he sashayed right on over to me. “May I have a word?” it asked in a formal ‘n’ fairly disapprovin’ tone of voice. “My name is…” ‘Course, here I interrupted him straightaway, after all he ‘n’ me’d been almost bosom buddies a short while back ‘n’ I couldn’t rightly figure out why he was actin’ so proper ‘n’ tight-arsed. “Come come, amigo,” I laughed, tryin’ as hard as I could to break the ice. “I know your name, it’s…”

“Belvedere,” he interjected snappishly. “Belvedere Tin O’Worms. I have the pleasure of being tutor to the first batch of one billion Howiepupples. I have much to say to you, so you can cease writing immediately and put your pencil away forthwith.” And, as they say, that so endethed my conversation with you until he’s finished up his business with me. I’d better close, on account of he’s took a cane outta his satchel ‘n’ is lookin’ a mite perturbed. I’m gonna be whipped. Oh, mama, take me home ‘n’ twiddle with my doddle. And hadn’t I been thinkin’ I was never gonna have me a good time again?