Day 165

Dear Diary,

First thing this mornin’, I had me two urgent tasks to attend to, namely cookin’ ‘n’ servin’ breakfast in bed to the first batch of one billion Howiepupple cute-as-a-button youngsters, and rescuin’ the dead bodies of Miss Cabbage ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician from the puddle outside wot they’d landed in after’n Ol’ Belvedere Tin O’Worms’d throwed ‘em outta the window. The first wasn’t too onerous or difficult, on account of everybody knows Howiepupple youngsters’ all-time favourite breakfast in bed is mished up worms on toast served up on a tin plate. And Ol’ Belvedere, wot’s nothin’ if not knowledgeable about the carin’ ‘n’ feedin’ ‘n’ bringin’ up of Howiepupples, comed up trumps when the time arrived, ‘n’ he offered a billion of his own personal worms outta his own personal can for the repast ‘n’ also sacrificed part o’his tin self to be made up into tiny, easy to use ‘n’ convenient ‘n’ never-wash ecologically-sound plates, perfectly designed for the Howiepupples to handle. Initially I’d hesitated to ask him if’n he’d mind givin’ of hisself for such a noble cause, but he was the one wot offered to help out. “Hell, Mr. Bus,” he said as I was a’hummin’ ‘n’ a’hawin’ ‘n’ a’wonderin’ how I was goin’ to bring up the subject, “this is wot us cans o’worms does for a livin’.” Well, as you can imagine I was took aback ‘n’ sore amazed by his generosity, ‘n’ I was also feelin’ more’n a little bit guilty about all the bad things I’d said ‘n’ thought about him over the past coupl’a days. And he must’a read my thoughts, on account of he said cans o’worms was used to bein’ misunderstood ‘n’ havin’ their motives misinterpreted, but as far as they was concerned it was all water off’n a duck’s back. “We may not be appreciated all that much, but hell, cans is cans ‘n’ worms is worm. We’re all of us recyclable ‘n’ replaceable, ‘n’ quite frankly, us cans o’worms is as proud as punch to be doin’ wot we does!” All this was so new to me, ‘n’ I was so used to thinkin’ of cans as somethin’ I enjoyed runnin’ over on the street ‘n’ blowin’ up with firecrackers ‘n’ squashin’ flat for the recyclin’ people, that it’d never occurred to me they was alive ‘n’ not only almost human but superior to humans in a shitload of ways wot counted most. “Jeeze Louise, Misther Belvedere,” I reposted back to him, “I quake ‘n’ tremble in admiration ‘n’ I lay myself at your feet in abject worshipfulness.”

“Come, come, Mr. Bus,” he answered back as if he were nothin’ special ‘n’ wot he did he did on a daily basis and it were only normal behaviour. “Me ‘n’ my worms is just one ol’ can o’worms in long line of cans o’worms. We’re born, we live a few hours or even a coupl’a days, ‘n’ then our little worms is used for fishin’ bait or planted in a garden or grounded up for fertiliser, and we ourselves ends up where all good cans go in the end. In a landfill or bein’ recycled into a newborn baby can or a car or endin’ our days thrown by the side or a road or river ‘n’ rustin’ into a derelict home for grubs ‘n’ creepy crawlies.” He stopped for a few moments ‘n’ sucked on his teeth is a way I found particularly irritatin’, ‘n’ then changed the subject. “Do you know wot becomed of Ol’ Everard?” he asked is a grave ‘n’ serious manner wot told me he wasn’t about to spin a yard or tell a dirty joke.

“No,” I replied. “I guess I assumed he was lookin’ at the next three generations of Howiepupples for Crispy Crinkles ‘n’ her mangy no good rabid dog of a husband.”

“Thank God that wasn’t his fate,” sighed Belvedere wistfully, before fallin’ silent ‘n’ then sayin’ “farewell ‘n’ adios ‘n’ I’ll be seein’ you in a better world” to a coupl’a worms wot was about to volunteer for breakfast duty.

I waited for him to talk some more, but instead of continuin’ his dissertation, he bowed low to me ‘n’ without warnin’ cut hisself into a billion tiny tin plates on which his worms, havin’ mished themselves into a pile o’mash when I wasn’t looking, distributed themselves in a billion tidy portions. My mouth fell open, ‘n’ as the Howiepupples beganned gobblin’ up their breakfast ‘n’ usin’ their plates for flyin’ saucers, I blurted out, “but you didn’t tell me wot happened to Everard!”

Well, just before he ceased to exist, the last piece o’him – wot fortunately enough was also the scrap wot had the mouth in it – laughed a ironical chortle ‘n’ said, “I wasn’t gonna tell you, but wot the hell, it don’t really matter none.” But then just as he was gonna let me in on his secret, one of the Howiepupples, the fat one with the biggest appetite, gobbled him down ‘n’ burped.

“Fuck!” I said to myself. “Now I’ll never know.”

So, that was that as far as Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms was concerned, and here I was, left alone with a billion first batch Howiepupples ‘n’ without a can o’worms to educate ‘em ‘n’ feed ‘em ‘n’ see to their needs, includin’ changin’ their nappies ‘n’ burpin’ them after meals.

“Fuck!” I said again with vigour ‘n’ emphasis.

“Fuck!” I snapped a third time. “Wot the fuck am I gonna do?” “Why?” I wondered, does I always end up on the receivin’ end of a great big old mess. I’m a bus (albeit a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 with a handcrafted coach ‘n’ bespoke upholstery). All I does is haul folks back ‘n’ forth ‘n’ forth ‘n’ back. I don’t do nobody no harm. I try not to be too crabby, at least when my seats isn’t peed on or when dumbfuck brats don’t kick my tyres or scratch my paintwork. I’m a bus. A fuckin’ bus.

Just then my pitty party rant was interrupted by the yells of the four dead body personal erotic rubber dolly suits callin’ from the mud puddle where they’d been sittin’ for the last coupl’a hours. “Yo Bus,” one of them shouted (‘n’ I recognised the voice as belongin’ to Miss Cabbage). “Come ‘n’ git us or we’ll report you the call centre for passenger abuse ‘n’ you’ll be turn into a garbage can!”

God Bless Ol’ Miss Cabbage. The sound of her voice snapped me outta my blue funk ‘n’ brunged me back to my happy self. Wot I’m gonna do now is rescue ‘em ‘n’ bring ‘em back in ‘n’ lay ‘em out again on my back seat. I don’t think the Howiepupples will mind all that much. In fact, they might like the company of loonies ‘n’ strange dead folks wot’re really made outta rubber. It’ll make a change from goodie two shoes cans o’worms wot’re forever sacrificin’ themselves in the name of doin’ good. As I always say, a little good goes a long way ‘n’ too much of it rots your teeth. And there ain’t nothin’ good about this particular bunch o’dead folks, ‘n’ as far as the Howiepupples is concerned, the change will be as good as a rest. Anyways, I’ve sanged a après petit dejeuner lullaby to the little darlin’ ‘n’ I think they’ll be out cold for at least a half an hour, and that should give me time to bring their new rubber babysitters in from the cold. Please don’t make any noise or rustle your pages ‘n’ wake ‘em up before I return, Dear Diary. I don’t want ‘em to open their tiny eyes ‘n’ think they’re all alone ‘n’ defenceless. Not that I’m worried they’ll be frightened to death. I’m only scared they will take advantage of the situation ‘n’ throw a wild party and destroy my interior even more than it’s been destroyed already.

I’ve just finished the lullaby, ‘n’ so I’ll put away my pencil ‘n’ say so endeth the lullaby ‘n’ I’ll be back with dead ‘n’ rubberised dumbfucks before you can count to ten.