Category: Lords of Boblimptock

Something weird is going on in Sector-19, something scary.

We’re sending out forces to investigate, but already we are receiving reports of “Wisconsin type love making” among the groblon-herders and there are concerns that the color-breasted harvel-wolves will go mad and attack random farmers planting corn.

Stories of migration and shaking, as if the Temple of the Dead Spirit has split in two and the last soldiers were killed in Scompton. No one knows why the monkey-sauce restaurants have stopped serving Danish people, or why the last Earl of Sweden is hungover and near dead in Stockholm. Xenii musketeers shower lead upon the rampart, but we’re still not sure how many “hairy Karens” are left roving those greasy streets.

We’re sending scientists and sorcerers and witches to the center of this thing. They’ll travel in tunneling ships and hoor-barges and by hyper-tube. Their equipment will be the latest in REI survival ware, with various bloob-guns and hex-grenades and a few of them “bouncing Betty’s” the kids keep talking on about. The scientists will keep notes and sketches, harboring fears of the Bishop Cycle, and the other star travelers from Mars. They’ll send word soon, and then that dread mystery will be solved.

Some people fear it’s about that new BUTT VIRUS that’s crawling up the pipes …

Sector-19 has had out of control roach-scurbing and bubbly body wash victory soap. There are dead henkel-birds all across the roads and muskrat trackers are getting lost in the subways, stepping on needles, doing the “blues” and then jumping into the train. Can’t be sure about the snake venom treatments, some people are drinking bleach mixed with sand and glass in order to expel their personal demons. Sector-19 is falling apart.

Gord-forgers, unleashing New Zealand bee-pollen bull testicle extract MAGIC, will lead the Uug-Too Tribe beyond the edge of infinity. There will be strange demons along the way, and huntress widows and old clasping freaks. The crab will settle upon the mud, as Seeg-Ruun builds his palace upon the golden mountain. But this will give way to transcendence, and Sector-19 will find peace.

(something from 2018)

I am issuing orders to all YORGON FORCES. It’s time to sharpen knives and load up socks with rocks. Take your jimbly-balls and tiger-shakes down to quadrant 43. At which point encircle the Drog-Armies of Forster, while wheeling on the rear of Bogon the Ror-Guergen. Seek out opportunities to harry and torment our enemies, bury the bones near the masonry pit.

I’m issuing MORE orders …

I am sending the lesbian sky navies out to hunt in their magnificent vacuum ships, dressed so scantily. They will patrol near space at 20-30 miles up, seeking out targets of lusty opportunity, keeping the HURG-MASTERS under pressure as Lord Synd rallies our forces near Boston and sends the color guard to Ringlet-prime. Sure, the women of the sky navy will be ungunjoolating themselves as they do battle, but that is as it should be.

I am sending the submarines on PLAN-JELLO-PIE …

They will move dreegen-fluids to the front line, so that our scar-fighters can maintain the front in good standing. These subs will run quiet and deep as various robot fish-people hunt them, and hunt them they will. Sub commander Carl will lead an assault upon the OCEAN PALACE of QUEEN GOPRA and her various sklag-warriors. Authorization to use wacky fission devices is given, start scraping the americium out of smoke detectors immediately.

A full assault on objective WHITE FIRE has begun, and General Woob of Grid-2 is in charge. He’s moving giant trebuchet and fire throwers to the front, he’s got a shit ton of diesel and a couple old tanks and 5,000 pounds of cocaine so he’s ready. The general has sent out scouts and is already moving up archers and the various swamp creatures from Denver. The attack might last years, decades … millions will die … all for the wrath of pitiable soul named Chad.

I’m ordering the milk maidens to prepare the great gorbly-bath. Skazi-herbs and goat-grease will season the great hole, as busty women wrestle violently to be the GOOB DUCHESS and to hold on to the magical refrigerator that contains all my jizz.

The battle will be complete, when the last maiden suckles upon zoom-spice.

I am issuing orders to KUNG-FU HEROES!

Grab your num-chuks and butterfly knives and shurken. Take the castle by first taking the guard tower, and shower upon the MOOG SINNERS all the wrath of Eegis the Mort. Remember to send those soiled materials to the Doctor of EEK, and let him sort out the protein.

I am issuing orders to the Klungiit-Armies and Crumbly-Gangs …

All HOBOS …

ALL WURB-NERBLERS …

ALL GINGOUS-FRUIT …

RISE UP … time to create chaos in region-5 will the slingo-pickets hold tight against Emperor Solz. Remember your training, playing video games and drinking code red … your dark marrow is coating … your fecal juice is LORE.

RISE UP AND FOLLOW YOUR ORDERS HAGLAMITES!

(all else is unclean)

I am issuing orders, so WISE UP NED!

If you can grab a spear made of old rebar and swing a pillow case filled with d-cell batteries?

If you can grab that jug of torpedo sauce and take a swig and jump full bore into the force of fire-snake-power?

You can form a gang or a clan or a sect.

You can mumble in vague phrases and let nothing burn but pain …

Your mind will split open with mold and your soul becomes walnuts …

And this is the only damn WAR you get!

This is your WARNING ORDER.

(this is your strife)

[Note: this is an EVERGREEN SUBJECT, and I may have ranted about this before]

If I became a porn star?

My name would be Rick Bigington …

I would have the main hustle in the valley, not far from In-n-Out, where my moobie-girls hang and sell strong-juice-donuts to the local cops …

I’d harvest the jelly and oil up, and when the camera turned on? – I’d turn you on … if I were a porn star.

They’d say .. “hey BIG RICK”, as I slung my dick for a stack of lettuce … and my girl Histy would do meth with me, in the park, after dark, we’d both have a NARCAN injector ready.

The honey-butter oil they’d rub on my man boobs would be filled with histamine minty freshness – as vapo-rub spore-gasm leads to nitrous type butt magic. And her tummy-gasp would sell DVD’s in CHINA – and most of the galley tribe would be stuck on “Who’s Miss Charlie” … our number debut HIT.

As a porn star, I’d develop a new MULTI-STAGE guru-type butt-muscle program with progressively re-shapening tube sock wrenching.

People would CUM to my seminars, and even TED would invite me to give a talk about “power drilling” and “West Kentucky Goat Stroking” … and other dignified subjects of totalistic love power.

As a PORN KING?

I’d buy a vineyard in some burnt out N. California crispy town, where the mungit-slaves feed on scale-flesh and the old dabblers shamble towards Grinken Town.

I’d call the vineyard “COCK CHUDSON”, in honor of a great actor who made a movie once called SECONDS, and how that story is like this story …

I’d shift PORN style, and reinvent myself after spending 8 weeks at a THAI monk guru spa …

I’d do a new series called: The English Dock Worker

I’d show up at her door, asking for money for the old dock workers, and she’d be in a t-shirt and underwear and ask me if I knew how to get on Instagram … it develops from there …

My girl and I would switch from meth/coke to cougar-snake venom, and my girl would have to inject this shit directly into my testicles … after my 3rd heart attack and 2nd zipper surgery.

But it would be my vineyard, and we’d do another “English” series called the: British Investigator

All filmed AT the vineyard – smart.

I’d be in tweed and all Scottish-Welsh bullshit … and she would be dressed like a nun … and my job would be to find the truth … this script writes itself.

As a porn star, one day I will die.

And it will probably be from pigeon-monkey herpes cancer, cuz, let’s be straight, that’s the end game for old burnt out porn stars … sleazy as F … dirty bird cave dance.

And on my death bench, as the seagulls poop on me, some old busty female hobo will say:

“Sir … how are you?”

And my last words will be:

“How’s your cable, Mabel?”

You’re all KESTER-FLESH MONGRELS for eating your grape salad and drinking that tangerine spritzer. Your tall hot skin-sack tells you kind things about your everyday living, as your giving heart turns to diesel fumes and my broken pipe leaks acid.

We’re striking …

We’re tired of your bullshit and your crap.

THIS IS A STRIKE because the formula one racers are stripper style bacon steaks and most of the people in charge are eating CHEESE while the rest of us eat fermented whale semen cake.

We gotta STRIKE, WE’VE HAD ENOUGH!

I’m tired of sleeping on mold-mattresses and living on the edge of a hooker nightmare. I know the world is spinning, and some joker is hiding his or her gold in their snatches … It’s what is going on. But we’re striking because we want diamond studded dildos and rhapsody style puppy mills.

People will say: “Why the fuck are you STRIKING DAN?”

And you know what I say: “BECAUSE YOU ASKED THAT SIDE-EYED QUESTION MR FUCKER!” … and then me and my buddies from the UNION find that dude, and beat him with rods … dump his body someplace where secrets are always kept. That’s a strike.

We’re striking because the RIGHTS of MAN, defined by Lord Clovar, have been violated …

We were promised beer-donkeys, robot-beings, half donkey, half robot, half beer, wandering about filling your glass with cool refreshing beer … this never happened.

We were promised 2 show, and 4 no-show jobs for that guy we did that thing with … you know the thing where that stuff that was left over from that other thing got taken care of? Not far from that place we went fishing last year, after the storm. That was a bad storm, when we had to do that thing to that guy.

We used to have sandwich and stew and chili parlors, where old grease freaks from the bowels of TOYOTA KENTUCKY could rub scleavit oils on his sores and drink moonshine with Tennessee whores. We used to be a proper country, and now we have to STRIKE!

There was a time when the hard working AMERICAN MAN of vigor and mineral spirits and aluminum siding was RESPECTED … because he had lungs half filled with asbestos and a heart racing from too much plutonium.

We striking because you drink your LATTE with your fancy BRITISH NAMED FRENCHIE … that beast is rancid and unviable … we’re striking because of THAT.

I know a lot of you think you are fancy.

You’re not fancy.

You are a kettle-worm awaiting a destination of diseased monkey paste because your slime village is the nest of all murder vipers. And we coming …

We coming to STRIKE!

STRIKE NOW, WHILE THE IRON IS HOT!

If you show up for this strike?

Borrow coveralls from your pal Frank, he has a real job, working on cars …

If you can’t borrow Frank’s coveralls, buy some of your own, but splatter them with diesel fuel and oil … it needs to seem like you work hard.

Make sure you have a grimaced look on your face – do not smile … STRIKERS don’t smile.

If a SCAB shows up? – you pick the scab … pick it, take it, put IT in the trunk of the LTD … drive to a magical place of empty forever forgetting … near the swamp.

But you show up to my STRIKE? – you gotta be read for anything …

Please pack some knives, and a fudd revolver, and maybe sock full of rocks and a bat … be prepared to swing and beat your way to justice … don’t let the factory manager get away with it.

Because we’re striking.

And we’re done with it.

“gravity” is owned by Gravity Corporation …

When you “fall” you pay them their fee.

When Gravity Inc says “fuck you, pay me”

they might actually break your arm or legs

(I know this)

I carried the straw for your 4 star wedding …

You took my garland and exchanged it for mead …

I dove straight into your impossible meadow …

You went to our bed with another fellow.

I yearned for shelter in the mountains of moss …
You put us at risk for cherry lip gloss.
I stood on the hill amplifying your love.
You took a ride with Bill and wore a rubber glove.

I said stop betting on end game losers.
You said don’t get into that bad cop’s cruiser.

I said find guidance from the frost king of Texas.
You burnt my heart with diesel fury, and then drove away in your LEXUS.

I built you a castle not far from Spain.
You said you wouldn’t stop doing cocaine.

I flew with the eagles in the Valley of Sheeb.
You looked at my costume and called me a weeb.

I stroked the onyx cougar and gave her my lead.
You found me in the garden, remember what you said?

I found a brown stain, you said it was yours.
You said you found pubic hair from one of my whores.

I took a long walk with Fister McGhee.
You shaped a new clock for timing the sea.

I fiddled with glory, in a codpiece of steel.
You sold are 3 babies for a crystal meth meal.

I tried to find witches to cure your disease.
You laughed at my quest and did as you please.

I rode a large bear to save you from death.
You spent a “hard weakened” with my brother Seth.

I couldn’t stop thinking you were the ONE for me.
You smiled as Brian covered you in pee.

I got lost in the deserts of Zoob.
You created a shortage in genital lube.

When the Moon went wild and I told you to smile?
You wandered with Lyle near the caves of Zune.

I stroked your Persian rug.
You spent the month with a eastside thug.

I ran the watch in the time of the apes.
You took my soul and squashed it like a grape.

I met your mom and she walked me all the way home.
You took my money to get another loan.

When I forgot your last heart with Marta in tow?
You walked the street like a dirty ho.

And if I mistreat you I can’t see the light …
You are my window lark, I give up the fight.

Fly away little bird …

Fly away sky-hawk woman …

Find your splendid home in the woods.

I’ll find my cave in which to linger.

This is Grinken Time …

In the AGE of BOBLIMPTOCK …

The kindred-dread of many minds,
spreading deeply from behind,
hurried voices soon shall find,
that rind,
left behind,
by the hobo kind.

You could have been a cocaine hero, raging with a voice of drymbly and bleeb. You could have sunk your teeth into tomorrow, but instead you sip the tea of old Keith and his barley excrement.

After many years my son, you will find the glory board and jump your way to SPRING MADNESS, as green shoots give way to chutes and ladders, and you get sad because nothing really matters. Your broken skull is potato skin to the gods, and your own morsel is but humble offerings to Chronos.

“WHAT TINGLIT MERCY IS THERE FOR THE THIRST-DURGEN?”, screamed Horz, the last THIRST-GURGEN and FIRST LORD of Tryb. He rode a horse of rage and fury, his saddle was made of onions and coal, he smoked a bowl after locking up his old man in the Sanikan, for a honey-bucket surprise.

As your limbs heal and your voice finds balance, the daughters of Histos will leave their pleasure caves and wander forth to find their mungit-mates. Sure, they will wrestle in mud pits for total busty dominance, but their bodies will be oiled and Brazilian style krazy, as driving Miss Daisy turns to Duel – best to pick up some extra fuel.

I can see the endings are empty too DEAR SON.

An age of fun and games gives way to consequences, and stumbling blocks, and crevasses hidden from the snow king.

Your meaning now is in BOBLIMPTOCK and those folk you can raise up to hunt scratch-dear and lamprey-rats.

So find that mud pit mountain dear boy, and seek out a lifetime supply of hookers.

Don’t feed a hobo …

He’ll stick around and find your wooden heart. As bird spray fills the air, his poop chute will overflow with whiskey time nightmares and beef jerky memories.

Your own gundiz-rune lover will have her tulip-pizza, and the straggling ghosts go awry.

Don’t feed a hobo …

His honey jar produces scandal glass. Tired street rats hunt the last parts to make it surrender, but the scourge of dorg-ass fills the sky …

And your walnut-house woman lives her best life, in the smoke and ashes of this take home menu.

And no scorn.

If you feed a hobo?

The 5 paths will split into 6.

6 will be divided by 2, giving 3.

3 cloud monsters will hunt the dark minstrel, as the clowns scurry deeper into the heart of the Earth. Guide stone fury fills the seas and the boiling spreads and the one eyed bird sings.

If in feeding a hobo, you find yourself stuck with a house of pain?

It was your vain attempt at domesticating the beast. His YEAST fills the caverns and spreads the infection, and your own inflection point is reached, as you scream:

“FUCK YOU HOBO, GO FIND THE SCARRED QUEEN AND BE HER SERVANT!”

But tears in reality break the scheme, and shame of insane trolley masters sends you careening towards doom. Get off the tracks? – not for you snack stranger, not for the gumpton-flesh either.

The hobo will find his veal stew.

A typical hobo carries switchblades and Vietnamese money.

He wields the battle axe, hunting street bear and grouchy fishwives, all looking for easy style Kentucky love nests, all hungry for beef steak tomato.

His chest is covered in dead yellowjackets, and his veins flow with Trixie dust fancy. He is ready to pick up that lead pipe and take a swipe at any old lamp herder. He is willing to steal your Casper wench, and lead the STROHGLIN-VOLK to safety, where she is, in the storm drain.

Hobos sing songs of forever time …

He hears the whispers of dying hooker soldiers, all tired from the battle and awaiting Valhalla …

He gets into swordfights with the pirates of Slyb, as the ever changing coordinate system wreaks havoc with his navigational beacon … tiger-swamp women are still after him, dressed in stripper uniforms and carrying dildos covered in lube.

The hobo knows how to speak dog and cat.

The hobo holds meetings and the pigeon and wolf attend.

At the great turning of night to day, when space captains find darkness in the dawn? – the hobo wanders the FEAR DESERT and haunts the boomers at WALMART and HOME DEPOT. He gives you that LOOK, and you clutch your purse, your wallet, and you keep walking … “just keep on walking”, is what you hear the hobo say … as his face crinkles, and the sadness glows.

HOBOS are CLEAN by being UNCLEAN.

They have the flesh of leather and dirt. Monkey-fungus fills their bones and their minds are filled with ant larvae and tardigrade stink bugs.

Their hands shake from drinking, and thinking, at last they might find a place? A home?

But they roam because they cannot stay, and their day will come when the earth opens up and the demon army rides on crystalline rivers and armored hippos.

So don’t spend time waiting for hobos to SAVE YOU – they got time for no one, and not YOU ever.

They will form clunket-armies soon, not far from where you shop for whale supper.

They will sharpen sticks, and pick their noses, and build campfires of Styrofoam and treated wood.

You will hear them howling minutes before they come, you will see them scowling as you grasp your fancy gun, the sun will shine one last time for frolicking code monkeys and stern looking house maidens …

But nothing will be heard as the fire spreads, and no more time for chicken McNugget heroes.

Can you find some time for fresh water living?

Can you cook a soup of marrow and snake?

Can you grow possum-fruit in the gutter, because your mutter is no longer here? – she drank too much beer in the bowery with pops …

If you can? – can you see what it’s doing to you.

Your freshly minced and diced conundrum.

So don’t feed the hobo.

Don’t be afraid to die.

Don’t feed the crying aqualung …

Don’t speed past your dreams, as the seams split.

Because nobody is waiting for you.

And nobody keeps the light burning, except you.

Men want women that tangle with fire … That stand at the gate, you know they can’t wait.

Men want women for the wanting and the hustling, it’s a game of chance, a fancy new groove, she’ll bring the lube and you can’t stop the house from shaking.

Men want women who live in the sky, carrying their timber wolf selves in their pocket, with a rocket, and a chain … one they attach to their slave named Blain.

Men want women that wear leather over the heart, with stern will and stubborn gaze, they braise the pulled pork patty with a love-blow.

Men want women who know about soup and stew and baked bread, they want women that can do math and build a plane and bring you joy, you know this baby.

Men want women who are warriors and queens, that will fix our machines and cook us a nice hot meal.

Men want women who stand real tall, look good at the ball, and have a shot group that’s super small.

Men want women of iron and lace, who carry burdens without care, their pie wins the state fair.

Men want women who stare into Hell, shaking their booty, and ringing that bell …

We want the woman of the forest, hairy legs and shorgon-fluids dripping from her moistness …

We want women to be the pincer movement of spirit, where mother-boys give way to men, and lost socks are found.