Dylan's Diary

[Transcriber's Note: Patrick Thornhart wasn't the only man in town who confided his most heartbreaking emotions, deepest thoughts, and manly longings to the sympathizing-in-silence pages of a trusted journal. Dylan Moody (Patrick’s "angel," Margaret’s, first husband) - despite his farm boy origins and distinctly noncerebral image - did too. Although Dylan is no longer part of the Llanview landscape, having returned to North Carolina, he left these words behind for us to remember him by. So, in the interest of fairness, here, in Dylan's own heart-rending words, is his side of the story, which inadvertently provides insight into the love story of Patrick Thornhart and Margaret Saybrooke Moody.]

Dear Diary,

It's me, Dylan Moody.

Member how tore up I was when Marty and me split up, all cause I warn't about to let her boss me around and make me quit the community center? And then Marty, she went on over to Ireland? Well, Marty come back from Ireland today. She had a great big ol' smile on her face. I reckon she must of missed me somethin fierce so maybe I'll just mosey on over to say hi.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Well, I slowed down long enough to let Marty catch me agin. That gal was ripe for the pluckin so we went and got financed. Yep, we'uns is gonna git hitched. Maybe I shoulda let her go to Ireland afore this. Yea buddy, she musta really missed me. I reckon she got so lonely over there by herself whur nobuddy even speaks English it finally made her 'preciate me.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Spoke too soon. She played me for a sucker - me, Dylan Moody! Ain't no possum ever git away from me yet - I kin track em down and shoot em right between the eyeballs ever time, but I reckon Marty ain't no possum and she sure pulled the wool over my eyes. I shoulda stuck with my ol hound dog and forgot about wimmen.

Man, I just found out she slept with some Irish guy name Thornhart over to Ireland. And now he's right here in Landvue.

S'pose Antonio knows where I can git me a shotgun?

Marty and me is THREW. Maybe Luna - the good Lord rest her soul - took Max back after he fooled around on her, but I sure as hell ain't that stupid.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Good news - Marty and me is engaged again! And I'm gonna git me some again. HOOO-EEEE!

Bad news - she made me take a bath first.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

That Thornhart bum ain't nothin but trouble. Thanks to him Blair Manning is suin my finance fer Todd dyin over there to Ireland. Well any man that was married to Blair is better off dead to my way of thinkin, but Marty she dint have nothin to do with it.

We had to go to court today and I saw that Thornhart give Marty the eye. If he thinks he's goin to give her anything more n' that, he got another think comin. I'm gonna hafta keep MY eye on that there dude.

I ain't as dumb as I look.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Marty and me done got married, that's why I ain't writ ya lately.

We had us a real nice weddin. I was so proud when me and Marty took our vows in front of everone in town that mattered most to us. When right reverend Andrew axed Marty if she took me to be her lawful weeded husband, she even said "I do with all mah heart." I was just sorry that lousy Irishman warn't there to hear it!

Put that in your Irish pipe n'smoke it, Thornhart O'FOOL.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Me and Marty are livin in her millhouse. Ya know, I din't want to mention this afore, but she was actin kinda funny afore the weddin. I mean she was always up and runnin to the attic like they was somebuddy up there. I was startin to think the place had haunts or somethin. Heh heh.

It still don't set right with me that we're livin in her house. I'm fixin to buy us a new place but I don't make that much money. Marty, she got plenty of money and when she gits to be a M.D., she'll have even more. But I ain't goin ta take my woman's money. They say if'n I learn me how to make some of them fancy-dancy cocktails at Rodi's and learn me how to be a real bartender then I can make the big bucks.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

It's hard to write this, real hard. But I cain't keep anythin from you.

Me and Marty was happy at first but she can't fool me. I got the instinks of a bloodhound. I know she's still lookin at that cussed Irish feller everwhere we go. She din't come home from studyin' one night and she sez it was cause her and that Thornhart got locked up the in liberry after closin hours. I trust Marty but I sure as shootin don't trust that Irishman any farther 'n I kin throw him. I'd like to throw his sorry Irish butt right smack in the middle of the Irish Sea if there is one.

Diary, how much you wanna bet they did more'n read BOOKS, less'n they're fixin to learn Braille.

Yesiree bob, I'm gonna have to keep both mah eyes on that Irish feller.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

P.S. Hey Thorn-for-brains - yer not the only one can write POEMS, buddy:

Roses are red
Thornhart is dead!
Violets are blue
And so are low down dirty Irishmen after I git threw
With 'em

Dear Diary,

I'm so mad I could SPIT but I'm all outta chewing tobaccky. That good fer nothin Thornhart just insulted me right to my face! He called me farm boy over to Angel Square tonight. That lousy - poem boy. This ain't the first time he insulted me neither. I ain't forgot that time in the liberry he said to me "books are very precious, you should treat them with respect." Huh! Who he talkin to! Hey PAL, you oughta treat the awful wedded HUSBANDS of women yer CHASIN AFTER with respect!

Thornhart warn't feelin no pain tonight let me tell you. He musta been hittin that Irish sauce cause he was as drunk as a lepercorn in a vat of my mammy's high-test corn squeezins, but it don't make no mind. I'da walloped him real good if Marty hadn't drug me off. He insulted Marty too. Nobody insults MAH little woman and gits away with it.

He better watch his Irish step.

Thank Gawd I'm a Country Boy
By Dylan Moody

I may be just a farm boy
I may be a country hick
I may talk kinda funny
And I may not be too quick
But that's all of no account cause
Marty's married to ME, and not you PaTRICK.
YOU (I'm too much of a gentleman to say it but it rhymes with TRICK)

How ya like them little green apples, Thornhart?

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Dangnabitall anyways! I'm gettin real sick and tired of Marty playing me fer a fool. Whadda she think I am some country bumpkin just fell off the turnup truck? I ain't been nothin but a good husband to her the entire 3 months we been married. And thats a lot longer than me and my first wife stayed hitched.

But she up and runs off to some isle in the water with that Irish jackass and then she makes up some cock and bull story about it and then she acts like she's glad ta see me when I turn up there - like I was gonna FALL for her lies. Uh-UH, no way, Ho-SAY! As soon as I found 'em there I knew what was goin on.

Nobody messes with MY woman, Diary! No way, no how. And I was goin to let Thornhart have it right between the eyes but just then that ole stove jumped away from the wall and socked me in the back.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

P.S. This is fer you, Thornhart:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Watch out Thornhart
Dylan Moody's a-comin after YOU

By Dylan Moody

Dear Diary,

Sorry I ain't writ ya for awhile but I ain't been able to write.

Cause I'm crippled from the waist down.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Well Marty and me're livin at the Palace now. They don't know if I'm every gon walk again so Marty's havin the millhouse made excessible for my wheelchair. Ain't that big of her. Evertime I turn around - and it ain't easy in this dang chair - that lily-livered son of a Irish setter is under mah feet. Wheels. Whatever.

I'm goin through rehab in the swimmin pool where everbody can see me and talk about that poor crippled boy that poor ol' Marty is stuck with. Marty thinks I don't know she's just pretendin to be nice to me and actin like she wants to have a baby with me but I ain't that stupid. I know she's just puttin on a big act cause she feels guilty that I cain't walk no more. And cause that doggone Thornhart feller took up with Blair Manning and ain't givin her the time of day no more even if he is livin right next door in the stables.

And he called me a farm boy!

Yeah, I might not be able to walk but my brains ain't in my feet. No ma'am, I ain't that stupid.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Miss Vicky Lord Buchanan uh Carpenter came by to see me today. Wanted to gimme some old laptop computer she had layin around over to the Banner. She said it would hep keep me busy. I didn't want to take her old charity. But then I got to thinkin. I'm awful board. If'n I did have one of them computers, leastwise I'd have SOMETHING in my lap to play with.

Knowhaddahmean?

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Now you just tell me - just what in sam hill was Thornhart's book doin under me and Marty's bed? You mean to tell me ol' Thornhart keeps a what-you-call journal? Ha! That sissy-pants! Shoulda knowed it.

Talk to ya in a spell, Diary.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

P.S. Thornhart ain't the only one can write poems neither!

Owed to Marty
By Dylan Moody

Here's two nickels and a dime
Call someone who cares
But ef you call Thornhart's line
It's gon' be busy cause he's phonin' Blair's

You ain't worth a quarter of MAH time
So you jest take your phony lines
And on your way out on past the exit sign
Don't let the door smack ya on your behind

Not bad ef I do say so.

Dear Diary,

Good news - I decided to try to make it work again with Marty. (It - you know, it.) I done me a lot of thinking. God knows t'warn't easy. But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

But Diary, nobody rolls my chair like she do.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Dammit all to hell. Either that was some mighty fine corn likker or I just saw Luna. There I was all excited cause my legs moved and I couldn't wait to get me home and show Marty maybe somethin' else that I'm too much of a gentleman to mention was movin' too. Then Luna shows up after all this time. Where the hell was she when that stove attacked me on that dadburn island last spring?

Luna talked to me like I was some idjit or somethin'. She always did, so it must of been Luna - not the corn likker I drunk. Anyways, she's right - Marty don't deserve me. I'm outta here (as soon as I kin get me a tow).

Marty don't know it but she's about to be the ex-Mrs. Dylan Moody. I wonder what Andy's doin tonight.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Marty didn't argue with me when I told her I wanted a D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Dadgum it anyways. This is all that goldurn Thornhart's fault. Why the tarnation didn't he stay back in Ireland. I shoulda offered to buy him a ticket a long time ago, he likes boat rides so much.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

Today, I saw Marty with that lowdown Thornhart. At first I wasn't sure it was them cause I sure didn't think they'd have the nerve to show their faces together around town so quick. Course, I was lookin' at 'em from the back. Everbody gets ahead of me these days less'n their goin' to they own funeral. My legs is movin some but I'm still in the wheelchair.

But then I saw that Irish snake - man, that ole St. Patrick, he DIDN'T chase em all outta Ireland like I heard tell -- pull somethin outta his pants pocket. I heard him say "heads or tails" and he flipped it in the air and then I new it was one of his everlastin brown pennies. Marty laughed and said, "What difference do it make. Either way I win."

What was that supposed to mean? Is she bein unfaithful to me this fast? We ain't even divorced yet.

I wonder how long the waiting period is to buy me a shotgun in Landvue?

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

And this here one's fer you, Miss Smarty:

You ain't nothin but a hound dog
Whinin all the time
You ain't nothing a hound dog
Whinin all the time
You ain't never been a good wife
Hope you fall right on YOUR behind
This time.

By Dylan Moody

Dear Diary,

When in tarnation am I goin ta get outta this here wheelchair. Maybe I oughta get me one of them electrical ones. Then I could chase me down that Thornhart a lot faster.

I could back into him and mash me up some Irish taters all right. Heh heh. Make me some good ol' Irish stew.

Maybe I don't need to git me a shotgun after all.

Yore good buddy,

Dylan

Dear Diary,

No, that dang Thornhart, he ain't the only one can write that there sissy poetry stuff. No buddy. Here's another one.

Hot DOG! Man, I'm on a ROLL with this here stuff!

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a DEAD THORNHART TREE
I'm gon' fix his wagon
He'll wish he never was born, no indeedEE

[Attempts to slap knee, misses, inadvertently hits brake on wheel; is facing downhill]

AAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>WHUMP!!!! <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

A Week Later

Dear Diary,

Thornhart just mucked out that stud (he oughta know about STUDS) Errorby's stall and this infernal chair just took off and ran me right into a big ole pile of that there horse manooer.

Is this a what-you-call metaphor for my life or sumpthin?

Thornhart din't know it but he was doin me a favor. Ah'm OK. And guess what Diary! I got all shook up and my wheelchair got all busted but the docs sez the bone fragments in my spine, they moved around some more and your bud can walk agin.

Not just walk neither. That looker Linda's teachin me the uh - the Mackeral? - the Macaroni? - uhhh, the MACARENA!

Yore eggcellent buddy,

Dylan

P.S. Marty who?

"Nacho, nacho man . . . Dylan's gon' be - a NACHO MAN!"

The Happy Ending