Day 166

Dear Diary,

Well, I’m happy to report the four dead body rubber person erotic pleasure suits is now happily back on the back seat and talkin’ about their adventures in the puddle. And as much as I almost hate to admit it, bein’ around old-fashioned dumbfucks instead of politically correct cans o’worms seems like a breath o’fresh air to me. I guess havin’ lived on the island so long with idiots such as Fergal Da Fecker ‘n’ Finian Da Fabricator ‘n’ Misther Patchouli Da Fanny ‘n’ Floozie Da Smelley has spoiled me for anything smackin’ of worthiness. And if’n that makes me more of a dumbfuck islander than a vintage classic Daimler Burlington CVD6 Bus, well, so be it.

For far I don’t really know wot happened to the dead body rubber suits, either when they got mysteriously put into the bus in the first place or subsequently, when Ol’ Misther Belvedere Tin O’Worms threw ‘em out the back window ‘n’ into the puddle. You see, these particular dead bodies has this bad habit o’screamin’ ‘n’ yellin’ ‘n’ gabberin’ all at the same time, which is sort’a fun to listen to but not very effective in the Conveyin’ of Information Department. And unfortunately for me, on account of I’ve suddenly been placed in the childminder category after their old babysitter, Belvedere Tin O’Worms, served both hisself ‘n’ the billion worms wot was ridin’ around in him, to his charges for breakfast in bed, I ain’t gotta hell of a lot of time to carry out my investigatin’. Now you know I’m sort’a fond o’kids in a impersonal way, as long as they doesn’t kick the back of my seats or slash my tyres or ruin my custom-pimped paintwork, but I’ll be the first to admit they can be wearyin’ at times, and one of them times is now. You recall they’d been singed a lullaby before I went over to collect the dead bodies. Well, that worked a treat, until of course dead Ol’ Miss Cabbage ‘n’ The Reverend Doctor Paisley Pisser ‘n’ Miss Louella Da Bunkle ‘n’ Beryl The Beautician got all excited ‘n’ their not-so-dulcet eardrum-puncturin’ decibels woked the brats back up again. Only this time the Howiepupples’ve caught on that somethin’ is, as they says, afoot, and no amount of lullabyin’ ‘n’ bribes of chocolate velvet puddings or promises of violent computer games is gonna make ‘em go back to bed. Fuck. As you’ve probably guessed, I had no choice but to let ‘em crowd around me while I does my investigatin’ of the dead bodies. Not ideal, especially considerin’ there’s a billion of ‘em jostlin’ for position, ‘n’ no matter how I tries to keep ‘em in line they still manages to get too close ‘n’ trample all over the evidence.

You may have noticed, Dear Diary, that I’ve failed to mention Ol’ Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One. I’m gonna be upfront ‘n’ truthful with you ‘n’ admit that the of the reasons for this is that I’d plum forgot all about ‘em, which is wot happens when a roomful of obstreperous kids makes you overlook the two teacher’s pets sittin’ quietly in the corner ‘n’ plottin’ to take over the world or feed rhubarb to your favourite pig. And that’s exactly wot happened here. While I was fully occupied in getting’ the billion minus two Howiepupples sorted out, the other two was not only up to no good, they was bein’ downright dastardly ‘n’ showin’ a remarkable talent for major criminal careers to boot. Let me tell you wot they was doin’.

You rememberate a couple or three or four days ago when out of the blue Miss Cabbage ‘n’ the others showed up outta the blue ‘n’ was hidin’ out on my backseat. And you probably also recall the next time I noticed ‘em they was nothing but empty rubber sex-toy dolly pleasurin’ suits ‘n’ was folded ‘n’ packed up in pink gift cardboard gift boxes. We’ll I couldn’t see how this’d been done ‘n’ I knowed there weren’t no great illusionists in the area performin’ important slights o’hand ‘n’ I doesn’t believe for a minute that Ol’ God’d take His time out from His busy schedule to dabble in wot seems to me to be the dumbfuck ‘n’ inconsequential – unless of course He needs to unwind after a busy day at the office ‘n’ there’s nothin’worth watchin’ on the box. So wot I done was I put the situation down to bein’ just one o’them things. And even though I’ve finally started on my serious investigations now, I wasn’t seein’ no hope of advancin’ any further ‘n’ was about to shrug my shoulders (metaphorically-speakin’, bein’ that I’m a bus ‘n’ ain’t got none) when, not more’n a half a second ago I happened to catch sight of Claude ‘n’ Claude Minus One outta the corner of my eye. And do you know wot they was doin’? For a start, they’d disguised themselves by puttin’ on fake brown deliveryman uniforms, complete with humiliatin’ polyester shorts ‘n’ yellow nametags on the breast pockets of their humiliatin’ polyester short-sleeved shirts. And second of all, they was fillin’ out forms on their hand-held electronic computers wot’re connected to their headquarters. And third of all, they was attachin’ address labels to four o’them brown shippin’ envelopes, ‘n’ coincidentally (or not) these squishy shippin’ envelopes was exactly the same size as the four pink gift boxes wot the four dead bodies’d been packed into. Well, the minute I saw all this I had no choice but to say “fuck me with a shoppin’ trolley ‘n’ stoke me up with eggnog!” So THEY – Claude ‘n’ Ol’ bottom-sniffer, Claude Minus One – was behind this latest round o’strange ‘n’ possibly illegal doings!

There is nothin’ for it, Dear Diary, but for once in my life I’ve simply got to put a stop to bad stuff. I’ve saw the glint in them two eldest Howiepupples’s eyes ‘n’ it don’t exactly spell Altar Boy of the Month. And fuck me if’n this time out I’m not gonna be sneakier’n a kid cheatin’ on his exams. I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see them ‘n’ that I’ve given up on my investigation ‘n’ have decided to devote my life to the bringin’ up of the billion first batch Howiepupples wot’ve been dumped on me like orphan babies under a rhubarb bush (which, I suppose is true, though not literally). But all the time I’m feignin’ cupidity ‘n’ glarin’ dumbfuckness ‘n’ behavin’ like a regular reader of the tabloids, I’m gonna be a’watchin’ and a’waitin’ ‘n’ getting’ myself ready to pounce!

The problem is, Dear Diary, I needs all my wits about me just now, as well as both hands. So wot I’m gonna hafta do is put away my pencil. Forgive me I won’t be tellin’ it to you while it happens, but wot I’m gonna do is leave you open to tomorrow’s page ‘n’ hope you can absorb some o’the excitement through osmosis (or somethin’ like that). Anyways, I’m goin’ on duty now. Hopefully, tomorrow I can say so endeth whatever it is wot is fuckin’ up my head ‘n’ peace of mind ‘n’ so beginneth the next chapter in our lives!