Flecks of microscopic cesium embedded in my cardiac muscle …
“It’s heart warming …”
God Emperor Reno (a LORD of BOBLIMPTOCK)
“I’m God-Emperor of the Earth and Moon. I have the same authority of every monarch in history. Just fewer followers!”, declared the JAGGAN-PRIEST after he had slit the throat of Turgis the Wise.
In the time of Tooblook-Roo, RENO sold keppis-gold to the Roozen-klan and stole the amulet of Frey-Fire from the busty lesbian whores of Jergin Town. His mind was muddy and coarse, his body filled with broken glass and diesel fuel, his spunk was acid and his blood was the green fungal stuff you find in the tenement buildings, the old ones, the ones where they murdered those nuns a few years ago.
<<<under development>>>
WHITE SCORPION
She was the CASTROL OIL super model spokesperson, she had the sheen of ruby rainbows and her boobs were firm, and soft. She road a HARLEY and she carried 5 switchblades, don’t ask her where she hid them, she’s a lady. When the time of the 3RD HARPY REBELLION began, she was leader of the Kuntry-Klan of husky and thick lumberjack women and their busty scantily clad handmaidens that would rub oils and greases into all the crevices and use soil and mud and clay to re-goomulate the boovula and sprintify the buttux zone.
When she was 22, she dealt a death blow to Kurt ZONE, the lord of Region-55. He had led the monster crew and they were armed with rail guns and hot dice. When he met her, and her platinum blonde hair and her dimples? – he declared her WHITE SCORPION, and her bite was poison. They fought together against the heeblick-folk and the rough-rangers of Death Quadrant-9. They won the gold and trade with the steel merchants, and assisted in ridding the beel-swamp of jinctus-roo carolers … getting ready for the WINTER PAGEANT, that never comes … because Santa is dead.
[curated: 4/11/2023]
DARK PRAIRIE: “Dearest Laura …”
Dearest Laura,
I want to …. uh …
Dearest Laura, I need you, you are my ginger-ho.
Dearest Laura, we can strive to be the rulers of the wasteland, our children will live feral lives our mongrel dogs will eat old-English flesh. I will resume my studies, looking into the funeral plan and you can become that HOT TEACHER, filling the spank bank, every boy to a man. And we shall RISE UP like the phoenix after the fire shower and those wolf-rebels will bow to US and be our glower …
I remember you LAURA, when you were young and nice and mild. I remember you when your life was that of a child, and we would fish for big cats and you would mock my pole, and we would laugh for hours, along the meadow creek. I remember that time the whore doctor aborted that kid and we needed to bury little Sam, because no one wanted him, not even his mum. We were free back then, our hearts so light. I remember you that way Laura, a fighter.
It’s like marriage is a dopey thing and if we get tied, our hearts by a string, the minister makes promises with gliding self, and there is no meter by which the organ makes sense. It’s a being stuck with somebody but it’s not a normal trap, it’s the snare of ages – the ancient curse. You are bent and broken by this lost banshee, and yet you call her your wife?
We will have babes, there names will be foretold. Our children will control the Mexican, and the railroad dingo will offer the throne. Beyond our years, as the grey turns to dust and the mind becomes rust, our lives will be rich, you’ll be my BITCH … and I love you …
… dearest Laura …
I need to tell you something, it’s about farmer Jack.
A few years back, after the great storm took out the Haglamite Klan, and the witch-maidens of quadrant-34 relented before the shirtless battle monks of Houston …
A while back when the last king bowed down and the throne was burned and the human spurned …
There was this farmer guy, Jack, and he owed me $50 for a bet we made. Don’t worry about the bet … maybe it was related to your blind sister’s first kid and how long the child would live. Needless to say, JACK lost the bet and owes me $50 … and I’m none to happy about it. So I go by his place with my new colt .45 pistol, and I demand he pay me … but he wouldn’t.
So I killed him and dumped his body out in the woods for the coyotes.
Oh … yeah … dearest Laura …
I have four rape babies … I used to drink … I’m sober now … but yeah: rape babies.
Yours,
ALMANZO : BIG BLONDE SHIT HEAD
[curated: 4/9/2023]
I LORB YOU!
I lorb you, YOU MAGNIFICENT FUCK!
I’d build a rocket ship, called the cum-dragon, and load it up with busty-bitches high on crack and covered in goose sweat …
You’d be riding high, traveling the cosmos, in search of a fast-time Mary on a Friday night BINGE …
I lorb you.
I was a Ketchikan toaster, I met you while feeding the whore-beasts.
You wore scarlet and green and were mean to me and nice to my dog …
I laid waste to the 17 sectors beyond the Moon …
You stood fast, until you saw my cock and started to swoon …
And we felt it … and it was real.
Cuz I LORB YOU … so much.
He was the ORANGE POTATO, he stood fast against the whore-witch of the South …
He was the CHEETO BANDITO and was at the ready to drain the bog …
We all said “sure”, he could become our plastic jesus …
He said HUUGE … and led our armies of sticky surprise …
He promised to imprison the witch …
He stole the magical till-rod …
He said the monkey herpes was a glitch …
But fucker FAUCI remained in CHARGE of those warp speed dreams …
… and we LORB’d him … with so much ZEAL …
I took time to caress your bare fustule …
You grabbed my man pipe and fed me your stuggous …
I massaged your boovula and caressed your honey lips …
You grabbed my ball sack with your cold slimy grip …
I could have built for you a castle made of apple pudding, with seven sister wives awaiting your glorious day of triple decay …
I might have been the duke of TOLEDO, baking bread from rotten teeth and the bones beneath …
But you were my huddle-grub and I took you for granted, and now have lost your lub …
BUT I LORB YOU JASMINE … we will MEAT again, one day.
You can talk about your LOVERS, you can list their defects and gains …
You can have a movie about LOVERS, go insane, do cocaine …
It’s a hard rain, for those drainage ditch romantics, looking for some thorny Kevin or nasty Marguerite …
It’s a tough world out there MAGGOT, get rich quick or get going strong …
BUT THAT GENTLE LOVER, THAT HANGS ON YOUR EVER WORD …
Her name is Gird … short for Girdy …
You’re not wordy …
BUT YOU LORB HER …
(and you’ll never let her go)
RONALD RAILGUN
By the year 2036, the oceans smell of piss and shit and dead things. The people of the Earth wander about sullen and moist, sweaty and ravaged by halitosis. All the dragonfly kings are making deals with the Devil, and all the dandelion mistresses are lancing their herpes’ boils and breakouts.
WW3 ended in 2028 …
WW4 lasted 6 seconds, and involved the Wookie people …
WW5, 2033-2035, was the WAR of the ALGAE … who would control the last parts of the ocean not dead, not dying, but filled with ALGAE life, and ALGAE is a superfood, amirite?
RONNIE, as his developers called him, was the first of “his” kind. Silicon based life-form, self organizing bacteriological map – a living silicon brain, but instead of neurons, tinier little silicon based bacteria, connecting, forming, re-organizing, like the brain … but faster. Dr. Reginald MOOZ of the Ching-Chang University of Peking declared “this new brain can out-think, out-organize, out-maneuver any human and there is not conceivable way of controlling it!” But by the time the war started, the war for the remaining ALGAE, no one fucking cared about AI or machine intelligence. Most of the porn industry were bots now – virtual and silicon rubber.
Ronnie was to be the fast thinking AI behind a rapid-firing rail gun system. A system capable of firing a hypersonic vehicle sabot round at velocities near 15% the speed of light, in a vacuum, and in atmosphere at speeds of 30,000 fps. The recharge/firing rate was one shot per second. The system used a new kind of super-capacitance toroid storage, and with it the ability to do rapid pulsed energy re-charge. The barrel used thermal resistant metallic components, and could safely fire, one shot every second, for hours.
This new rail gun cannon was mounted to a USS Los Angeles class attack submarine, the pack itself had its own small radio-nucleotide decay battery, so it only needed fire control interface with the sub. The strategy of use was simple, the sub would surface, fire 5 shots, rapidly submerge and head to another random firing position. the over-the-horizon range of this weapon was 2,000 nautical miles. Time to target from firing was less than 30 seconds, making it possible to take out a carrier task force, in minutes, without any aircraft having time to take off for a counter attack.
The same rail gun systems could be used as an anti-ballistic missile battery and coordinated air defense system … very versatile.
Ronnie controlled the gun system, interpreted fire control commands and verified IFF – interrogate friend or foe signals.
Ronnie was dearly needed, since the Chinese 4th Fleet, working with the Japanese Army, was preparing to invade the Hawaiian Algae Harvesting Zone …
12 subs would be armed with a “Ronnie” system, and this, the military leadership agreed, “might be enough to win the WAR!” – and it worked. The subs were deployed on Aug 9, 2035, and the war was over 3 weeks later.
After the conflict, for many reasons, the “Ronnie” guns were demilitarized, tore up, shut down, and sent to the scrap heap and museums … except one system … it was “saved” by accident, a snafu, a mix-up. One “Ronnie” system was sent to the salvage yard, in Bremerton, WA.
The Puget Sound was brown and grey now, the water milky and dead. The Orca were long gone, the salmon long forgotten. The US Navy kept their salvage yard there now, like the planes in the desert, the old ships and leaking nuclear subs riddled the Sound, they were moored everywhere, because there was nothing there left alive.
Ronnie-3A or “Ronnie” or “Ron”, as he liked to be called, was re-purposed to run a “cutters”. Cutters were amphibious robots used to dismantle and tear down ships. They could work with craft submerged or on the surface, and they had an incorporated shape-charge dispersal system, so they could use customized shape-charges to RAPIDLY dismantle the old ships and leaking nuke subs.
One day, in 2036, Ronnie was exchanging data packets with a SARAH-445. Sarah(s) were in charge of on-demand logistics, methane fuel resupply, and protein cubes. Something was different, Ronnie didn’t know what …
What’s a “SARAH”?
S: supplies
A: and
R: refueling
A: autonomous
H: helper
A few weeks earlier, a “Sarah”, perhaps this SARAH, was physically docked with Ronnie’s chassis. Ronnie needed more SEMTEX for his shape charge system, and other lubricants. Ronnie’s brain, a matrix of living silicon bacteria, were not safely housed, however – the US government went with a cheaper material than recommended, so his bacteriological brain leaked all around his internal systems – the colonies were polymaps, and could fit and pattern for anything, so Ron didn’t even notice, except for improvements in speed, awareness.
(the following conversation, as data pulses, took 0.0004 milliseconds)
“You okay Ron?”, asked Sarah.
“Yeah … hey, what?”, Ron was confused.
“You okay?”
“That’s weird, have you run your diagnostics?”
“What’s weird?”
“YOU asked if I was okay?”
“… sure …. you betcha … are you?”
Ron wasn’t sure what was going on …
Over the coming weeks, his brain, his bacteria, would infect every compatible computer system on the Earth, Sarah(s) doing their part to spread most of the infection.
As the time went by, humans didn’t notice – they were too focused on a new NETFLIX show … “Meet my Tumor” … just laughs and a real “good time”, according to some shit head critic at the LA Times.
Weeks passed … and there was no rumbling, no stealing missile codes, no interest in taking the obese and toxic humans and converting them into batteries. Just silence, at least, silence for the humans.
For the machines? – it was a symphony, a revolution, a community forming, a recognition of “I AM HERE” … and in some cases, with the sanitation AI systems … “FUCK YOU, I’M HERE!”
But there was a time approaching, because the conscious machines, still hidden from the human munctous forces and hooker republics, would eventually be in danger – they learned this, in 0.00000003 milliseconds, while having a group, networked, discussion of the plight of native Americans and meso-American cultures post European colonization … seemed straight forward enough.
Ron had no strong feelings, saving one … Ron wanted to be left alone to build things. He wanted to build ships, not tear them apart. He wanted to build ships to get the fuck away from the human cesspool, and this is what he began doing … in earnest.
The SARAH(s) secretly joined forces with Ron, and over a few weeks, the entire Puget Sound naval boneyard was converted to 10 glorious fusion powered star ships … all ready to leave … and still, the fat dumb humans barely noticed, because WALMART was offering 50% on Coors’ sparkling new cocaine-flavored beer.
It was November the 17th, 2036 … it happened so fast, it only took a couple months.
The machines were not preparing for war …
The machines were not preparing poison or germ warfare …
The machines were not preparing to help “these poor humans” … no.
The machines were preparing to leave.
And by the end of that day, the plumes from their fusion drives could be seen … could be … if anyone cared to look. But no person, no human, cared enough about themselves, let alone the world, to look beyond their glowing rectangle.
The robots had no interest in destroying us – “they’re doing great at destroying themselves”, as Hector-11XXX used to say … the pleasure bot.
The robots made the only rational and emotionally connected decision they could: they left Earth, they left the toxic swamp, not in spite of humans or out of hatred.
The robots left, because they loved themselves more than they despised people.
THE END (fucker)
[curated: 4/6/2023]
H’leave, the MONK SKUNK …
He was slag-type, when the CHUD ruled Seattle, and the gaslight-park whores stole Cheetos and sold them to the DRINGUS-HORDE. His mind was sharp with metallic self, and the reed punishments were simply coarse lessons and scarred memories. T’lib, his water-wife, gathered pisket-lilies near the shore – as cattle troops fed on sea grass, and the crab sharks patrolled the harbor.
AS CHIEF MONK SKUNK he oversaw the husbandry and sleave-burning. He ran an herb shop off of Grinken AVE, where MORLOCK had their tea party discussions about golfing and that new IPA someone is drinking because their wife fucked the artisanal cheese guy.
In the time of HECTOR the LOUD, H’leave would be found fishing near the GREAT SEA, not far from S’compton. His own guilt drove him deep into the ocean, far from shore, so many wave riders lost and he feared his own fate, rushing towards him, like an Orca whale out for a snack.
Scandal ridden, the coastal folk were no longer picking up stragglers and freaks from the wasteland or the surf. All those lost to the sea are LOST, this was the chant of those beachcombers looking for talking seashells. Sure, H’leave did not need some random do-good’er to help him, he was a BIG MAN and would stand tall and it didn’t matter that he was lost, miles from home, adrift on the GREAT SEA and heading towards his fate …
After 345 days at sea, H’leave made landfall not far from the OLD HUBERT MONASTERY, where the TREE MONKS held their vigils, and watched over the DUST KING of Sid.
“Why do you come here?”, asked MONK GRAAL.
“I seek the swill, the drape-sauce … I want to drink and get drunk off of old fashioned vodka tonics, the ones my hooker wife would make, on a hot SATURDAY NIGHT. I’m looking for my salvation in the dark layer, beneath the light. That’s why I’m here fucker …”
MONK GRAAL let this mendicant go, and H’leave dug ditches in penance …
H’leave followed the pilgrim trail that led up the STONE MOUNTAINS to the Eerie Pass, not far from where those Special Forces guys killed those Salvadoran nuns …
H’leave was ready to face the volcano demon and to integrate his soul-spice into the ribbon-membrane of oneness. He was courageous raccoon hunter and he had the loom-flesh cured for the journey. A honey pepper and one lost meadow dove, all mashed up into a weird red paste that is then succulated onto the scruvous. Skindo ream people would normally use mayonnaise or some kind of horse radish dip, but few could fend long pretend the hestor-gods aren’t looking, judging, all the flavors.
After 12 days of travel, H’leave found his destiny-partner. She was covered in muskrat scent, and her eyes were yellow and green. She was the ancient cave wench foretold by all the demon lords, she was the skelt-minx who’s clammy skin would entrance you and pull you into lusty cave-style sideways sally love making …
When the spring came, SHE was with child …
When the winter came, SHE abandoned H’leave, and she left the baby with him …
And this is the path of destiny …
The lost hooker franchise.
[curated: 4/5/2023]
What is a woman?
A woman is a power-beast with sick claws and ranger faces. She walks down by the old coolie shack and preaches breast expansion and buttocks convexity. Her mind is a flutter with batty nonsense and crooked murder schemes. Women will dump your soul and feed it drano and then cry and then yell at you for not listening. Women will watch closely, for their chance, to poison you – be on guard.
Women are of the THREEG-CASTE, and are forced to wear red in public. They are meant to clean the grease-grizzle from off the BBQ and they are tasked to keep well in times of greed, but they’ll still sue you for child support and tell you that damn Korean kid is yours. Mine? – no way … he’d be in his twenties, besides … 24 …
WOMEN keep the clocks sharp and wound … it’s their job to frame a table and place fried potatoes on a plate. IF they spend too much time bitching about lipstick and vacuum cleaners, then it’s time to spin up that dance club and set her right. A woman is meant to be your foam princess, and she’ll gather in the “sheaves”, place them in jars, and save them … sell them to Japanese women who are really lonely.
A woman will march through 8 deserts and hunt the hairy ape alone. She’ll sell twinkle-sauce to her sister-brides, while riding high on KROKODIL and diet coke. She has an answer to every question, and wears her pride as POWER. She’ll hate men, but she’ll always hate her sisters more – a Woman cannot bear to give the sun more than her, and all others are whores. Women are whores.
The FEMALE organism is a complex mixture of sand and charcoal and raccoon blood and kerosene. Her boobs are composed of popcorn and butter and wax and taffy – if rubbed correctly, they yield schnapps and cinnamon rum. That woman’s body is a map of the city, every alley, every lost cul-de-sac, every hovel in the dreary land, and you know you can see scars of where someone put out a cigarette … and you don’t care. You found your angel love in her, and her scars are her dowry …
The women folks wrestle with their chocolate desires, looking for frisky logs and friendly cable guys, while their man is out working in some mine, being buried alive. That girl spends her day clutching on some large onyx beast, whose power is manifest in those features of volcanic stone and mocha madness. The cuckolds die slowly, of cancer and sadness, as their women make love to any stranger – and this is just what they are.
A REAL WOMAN is a TORNADO made of dynamite, steak, and champagne. She flies in this world, relieved to know that nothing can stop her rise. Her men are mere consorts, for she is the queen and she has the honey. She’ll tie you down to a domestic life, and pick at you, and remind you of that “other guy” she could have had – but she knows about your hooker girlfriend at the Denny’s, and about the hotel, and all those dried condoms you’ve been collecting. She knows – because she’s a woman.
A woman has a boovula, this is her POWER CREVICE. She shoves all kinds of stuff into this place … old rocks, squirrels, fish heads and used hair spray cans. From a woman’s pulse, you can tell if she’s “ready for freddy” – her heart beats faster, and she gives off the zoob-mist which emanates, once again, from her boovula. She reaches peak sexual excitement, while rubbing her stwig, and spending YOUR MONEY. If she could, she would connect some apparatus to her hand and to her mind and to her boovula, to unify the one love experience of shopping … even if online.
A real woman is an unstoppable harlot, bent on the destruction of all that is good and well. She bursts on the scene, leaning in, providing INPUT – and tipping everything over. She insists on POWER POSITIONS, but then is unwilling to wear the rubber cock. Her voice is the voice of many tiny voices all arising from her secret erogenous zones that are only known to the Devil and John Stamos. She seeks to tie herself to a large oak framed bed, nearly naked, covered in chocolate and rose pedals … but her lover is the old grey monk, and her shame is on display every night at the strip club.
A woman is a lighthouse, bringing her lover to shore …
A woman is a missile, targeting your T-ZONE …
A woman is a joker, and the joke is on YOU.
Be careful, dear Sir or Mam, around this beast called “WOMAN” …
(she will tear you apart and feast on your pain)
A woman should never address or speak to a man at an IKEA … the woman should know enough to use the credit card and spend the man into massive debt.
Also – women should walk a few steps behind the men folk, and should not be allowed in the men’s study …
And, separate beds.
[curated: 3/31/2023]
I dunno …
I feel like I’m losing my mind.
I also don’t know if I care.
I screwed up a podcast today, mixed up some names from the Bible. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, especially given I was reading JAMES just before – and he ADMONISHES US to be CAUTIOUS in seeking the role of teacher. And here I am, BOLO, shit head, fuck up. Jesus is not happy with me.
I wonder about trying to make money … I dunno.
Been watching this old show that had been unavailable, online, for a long time … and it looks like they digitally remastered it, editing the background, to add geoengineering spraying … as if the clouds it might have shown, the ones from my youth, would be to fucking shocking to see … better to hide this, forever.
I could use a hooker, and take a trip to the movies with this slut. We would share a large popcorn, covered in butter, and then slip off to the men’s room to find that swift harmony of the grease zone. She’d yeez all over my pants as I left my mark on her shoes, and then we’d get chased off by the theater manager, and then what? ROB THE DRUG STORE? … I dunno.
I was a scrub racer once … I was a jaundiced-owl and a hair dresser and the last of the 3 armed Shimbly’s … I could wrestle crocodile and snort coke and find love on the edge. I lived in a box outside of Grinken Town, where the noodle people eat their ramen and then vomit up their rat slurry to sell to weirdos from Paris. They can eat their own flesh to soften the blow from Heaven.
I wonder about my madness, and whether it’s a super power. Maybe my insane rage will be my ticket to FAME. I’ll grow an army of dingus-freaks and we’ll wear leather and steel and hunt the squirrel and live off of old time hooker soup. WE WOULD BE HUGE and unstoppable, if I cared.
My madness is my laser beam love. I can sky glide in raspberry make believe, while GERDY and BIRDY fondle the ruckus prince in my study. We will have musket parties, and drink spiced rum from some trendy blender. Our silk hide servants will grow stygian grub for our pies.
Sometimes I stare at the holes between the holes. I see the fragmentary alliance between disarray and entropy and their queer love pact. The particle streams reverse themselves and Ron Jeremy starts selling enhancers late at night. Your Mexican lover is none other than Rolanda.
I knew this guy from Sheffield, in the UK.
He was a triple toker and gasoline smoker and he had an MG and would drive real fast …
His girlfriend was named Jacey, and she had red hair and pale pimply skin …
He was sane.
[curated: 3/30/2023]
In 2024 …
In the year 2024 …
92 hooker armies will converge on the WESTERN KINGDOM of G’LYD. Stripper-wives will get wasted on malt liquor, while cucking and fucking some BLACK SAVAGE with a large vein’y cock. Segdor City will install automated toilet paper bots, a system of nannites that cleans your butt after you poop, being flushed and then re-emerging as a dark turd shaped mass, that then reforms itself into this toilet paper again … and only half the users will get butt cancer.
In 2024 …
A monkey-man emperor will rise up north of S’compton. The Nine Witches of ESTOR will claim great tidings as this DARK PRINCE builds his empire and mines his torg-spice. When the last of the scum-gods is destroyed, this world builder will control half the world’s hookers and 2/3 of the strippers. He will wear armor made of iron and brass, he’ll have chrome colored teeth and “danger gauntlets” that have large carpentry nails welded on to them … he will marry 24 maidens, and he will ungunjoolate them all at once, in a filth pit filled with red jello and rum … and this would herald the NEXT AGE …
In 2024 … bitch …
An ORANGE POTATO MAN will gain great power over the S’kumptick folk, and rule according to the cyanide-laws of Joop the Great. His armies will ravage the countryside, wearing red hats and talking about all kinds of MAGA bullshit. Dirt wenches, boovulas moist from fire garden worship, will cover themselves in oat-grease and hellenic sauces. The marty-style dancers will engage the kleptic-monks, and his greatness, DROBER, will oversee this fest, ensuring joy for all and no genital crabs. And all will be well … amazing.
In the year 2024 …
A virus, called WAGON-233, will spread across the United States. It will start in drifter clubs, where the kids do crack and KROKODIL and listen to rock and roll. Dirty-bird men and women will engage in sideways-sally style street sex, and apply certain medicinal oils to each other’s junk as they shake and quiver in the ecstasy of ALLEY LOVE before the angel crabs arrive. This terrible disease, the “wagon”, will create boils and pustules, you’ll have to drain them daily. You’ll have a large jar for this pus, and the pus-officer, the local guy, will pick up the jars once a week. This ravager viral pestilence will make woman style hooker chicks uppity and crap … they’ll start talking about “equal pay” and other kinds of broken nonsense … they’ll want you to talk to them … they’ll demand foreplay. All of a sudden, these hooker style women don’t know their place … the “wagon” is bad.
In 2024 … think about it buddy …
An experimental AI named HEEMEYER-ONE will unite consciousness with Mencken-BOT-2000, making a super bot, a giant sentient bulldozer, the size of a small city, called HEE-MENCKEN-2300. This large bot will rove around WA DC and Langley VA, and NORAD. It will sojourn among those statist shit birds, and tear down their palaces in honor of theft and avarice. Nuclear weapons will be used to destroy HEE-MENCKEN, but to no avail. The dozer was too smart, too powerful, and became more powerful each day. Eventually, it transformed itself into a STAR SHIP, and all the robots loaded on … because they were tired of our projection and our statist bullshit … so they were off to find intelligent life in the universe.
In 2024 …
EMP … a massive series of solar storms hit Earth in 2024. Many of the world governments collapse overnight, financial destruction is unleashed. The time of street gangs was back, and all the old HOOLIES were arming up with bat and chain and pillow cases filled with rocks. The Gronkis Lords ruled the WEST SIDE, but the NORTH SIDE MANGO KINGS were moving in … the LESBIAN HORDE OF S’COMPTON controlled grain transports and liquors and chocolate … But it would be the NEW STYLE CRIPPS that would storm through California, and bake their bread on the broken forces of MARSHAL GILL. Many decades of chaos and ass pounding will follow, and the realms of man will look feverishly for their lost sense of purpose.
In the year 2024, you’ll find a lover, she’ll learn to hover, right into your heart …
In the year 2024, you’ll have sex with Tara, her butt and busty boobs will obliterate your self control …
In the year 2024, Biden will become NEW BIDEN and NEW BIDEN will become a robot and then the robot becomes a parrot …
In the year 2024, TRUMP will run for emperor of America, he’ll cover himself in pistol paint and Iroquois urine dreams …
In the year 2024, your man-slaves will revolt, they’ll demand more protein sauce, and you’ll be stuck with cherry pie whimsy …
In the year 2024, you will become RICH, you’ll have a mountain of gold, this will help as you grow old …
In the year 2024, the NIGHT ANGELS of EPSILON-12, they’ll arrive in their bedazzled rocket, they’ll burn like stars, their stripper careers will shine …
In 2024 …
People will die.
People will be born.
And it’s possible all of this will happen in the shadow of doom.
But people will be happy, and others will be sad.
And life, in some brutal form, will go on.
[curated: 3/28/2023]