Day 164

Dear Diary,

I decided to take a night off from worrying about wot was goin’ on in my life and instead I invited Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms ‘n’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, plus the first batch of a billion Howiepupples, in for tea ‘n’ scones with clotted cream ‘n’ fresh strawberries. ‘Course, there really wasn’t any tea or scones or any of them other goodies I’d like to have served, on account of I’m only a bus stranded on a beach and there ain’t no shops or cute little cafes in sight wot can supply these actual aforementioned victuals. However, since none of us have ever actually ate such edibles we enjoyed lookin’ at some photos ‘n’ imagining wot everything must’a be tastin’ like in places where they really does serve ‘em up. Belvedere, wot appears to be a cousin or somethin’ like that of Ol’ Everard, the original can o’worms, turned out to be a most agreeable ‘n’ entertainin’ individual. He was devoted to the first batch of one billion Howiepupples and couldn’t say enough good things about the eldest two, Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One. “‘Course, I’d prefer it, aesthetically speakin’, if’n Claude Minus One’d get a new hobby. I can’t say a life o’snortin’ his brother’s backside hole is any guarantee of financial prosperity ‘n’ spiritual tranquillity, but it’s his life ‘n’ if’n that’s wot he wants, then I’ll back him up regardless of wot folks says about him bein’ a preevert ‘n’ a bumboy.” It’s nice to hear a caregiver bein’ supportive about his charges instead of always harpin’ ‘n’ carpin’ ‘n’ talkin’ trash.

I axed Belvedere how Ol’ Everard was ‘n’ he said he was plain tuckered out. Crispy Crinkles, who as you know was Misther Howard Donald Da Fardle before he becomed the mother of the world’s new re-population project, has been extra busy fulfillin’ her maternal obligations, but so far none o’the new batches of a billions Howiepupples have produced responsible citizens. “Wot?” I axed, “Ain’t there no more like Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One?” “Unfortunately, the answer is no,” replied Belvedere, sighin’ deeply ‘n’ profoundly. “All of the new Howiepupples, and so far they’ve been three more batches of one billion each, plus one smaller accidental batch of fifty-three, have took after their father character-wise, and are nothin’ but mangy rabid curs with attitude problems.” Ol’ Belvedere broke off with a wave of the hand and handed out homework assignments to Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One to distribute to his other charges. It was only after they’d all settled down to revisin’ whatever it was they was revisin’ that he returned his attention to me ‘n’ our discussion. “Today, it’s long division, in case you’re interested,” he said, indicatin’ the subject matter of the homework. “Don’t they use calculators?” I axed innocently, recallin’ how things was back on the island in the days before the flood when there was schools ‘n’ brats ‘n’ a population wot couldn’t tie their own shoes without electronical assistance ‘n’ textin’ their feet. Belvedere gaved me a strangely old-fashioned look ‘n’ said, “We don’t use such things anymore, on account of children wot doesn’t know their tables grows up to be dumbfucks.” Not havin’ any experience with childrens myself, other than as a school bus on days when the Ford Transit was pretendin’ to be sick ‘n’ I couldn’t get out of it, I kept my counsel ‘n’ didn’t express an opinion one way or t’other. However, havin’ had more’n a few run-ins with dumbfucks, none of whom could add two plus two without equalling seventeen and a half, I secretly jumped up and down ‘n’ said ‘hurray’.

I cogitated a little over the implications of wot Ol’ Belvedere’d told me ‘n’ couldn’t think of anythin’ else to say about the first batch of one billion Howiepupples. They was clearly gearin’ up for success ‘n’ a life of endless possibilities ‘n’ the last thing they probably wanted or needed was some of my bad advice, ‘n’ so I changed the subject. “Is you all still livin’ in the shack on the beach?” I asked in a off-hand sort’a way. “Good God, not on your Auntie Nelly’s fanny,” he replied, a retort wot made the Howiepupples snigger ‘n’ giggles under their breaths. “That would never do, you know,” he continued. “Why?” I axed without thinkin’, “Isn’t that their home? Isn’t that where their mommy ‘n’ daddy live?” “Good God, Mr. Bus!” Belvedere exclaimed in a voice that shook my windows and would’a rattled my teeth if’n I had any. “Haven’t you seen the place? It’s a disgrace! A slum! A den of iniquity if ever there was one! And it’s full of shit! Worse than the East End in The Good Old Days! You can’t raise a family there, not unless your ambition is to cultivate a new generation of crackheads ‘n’ no account scumbags!”

Feelin’ suitably humbled ‘n’ mortified, I blushed ‘n’ apologised. “Where do you live then?”

“Well, right here, of course,” replied Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms in a resolute manner. “Right here on the bus!”

Right then ‘n’ there, Dear Diary, my heart sank down to the pit o’my stomach. I feared another round of “let’s take advantage o’the bus,” ‘n’ my motor oil runned colder’n a iced vodka martini. But instead of sayin’ “NO, YOU CAN’T STAY HERE” like anyone with a brain’d say, I muttered somethin’ about bein’ awful sorry but there wasn’t enough room on the bus, not with all them dead bodies in the back ‘n’ all the shit on my outside wot was a leftover from the time all the full nappies’d buried me in a pit. And typical of my luck, Belvedere wasn’t listenin’ to a single word or nuance ‘n’ obviously’d had made up his mind that my insides was where he ‘n’ his charges was gonna live. And fuck me, without further ado he ordered all the first batch of one billion Howiepupples to unpack their rucksacks ‘n’ take out their truckle beds ‘n’ clothes horses ‘n’ toothbrushes ‘n’ to make themselves at home. And all I could do was to stammer “Bu…bu…bu” ‘n’ watch helplessly as Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One supervised the little ones in unpackin’ accordin’ to Ol’ Belvedere’s instructions.

After everything was in its place accordin’ to Misther Belvedere’s way of doin’ things, the Howiepupples put their schoolbooks away in their little desks ‘n’ brushed their teeth ‘n’ washed their tiny faces ‘n’ kneeled down to say their prayers. “God Bless Misther Belvedere,” they sing-songed, “’n’ God Bless Mommy ‘n’ Daddy ‘n’ God Bless Misther Bus for givin’ us a new home and for servin’ us breakfast in bed tomorrow mornin’.” They then tucked themselves into bed with the help of Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One, after which they blowed out their bedside lamps ‘n’ heaven help us but Ol’ Sandman hisself came ‘n’ read them a story ‘n’ sprinkled sand in their eyes ‘n’ they all went to sleep ‘n’ snored as little kids does.

By this time I was so choked up and blubbin’ so loud on account of the Howiepupples includin’ me in their prayers, that I forgot to keep a eye on Ol’ Belvedere. I think I’d also forgot that, when you gets right down to it, he’s nothin’ but a can o’worms, and a can o’worms is the last thing you wants to open ‘n’ leave to its own devices. And fuck me, the minute I forgot about him, was I sorry. Right now he’s gone on back to the dead bodies ‘n’ is throwin’ ‘em outta the window, and while they may be nothin’ but deflated rubber pleasurin’ dollies made to look like three biddies ‘n’ one fake preacher, they still wasn’t impressed with that sort’a treatment ‘n’ called out to me for help. Fuckin’ fuck fuck, it’s another fine mess I’ve gotten myself in (to borrow a phrase wot can’t be beat). If only I hadn’t offended my little grey cells like I did, I might have a workin’ brain on my side ‘n’ be problem-free! Fuck O’fuckity, Dear Diary, I’m gonna hafta rescue the dead bodies and sort out this mess. Fuck! It’s gonna hafta be so endeth wot’d started out to be a promisin’ day but ended up in the toilet. Keep thinkin’ those good thoughts (a phrase I’d like to thank Ol’Rona Barrett for ‘n’ I hope she’s okay ‘n’ doin’ good). See you in the mornin’.