"GRAVY FOR YOUR BRAIN!" – Conspiracy Theory (1997)
MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230924_WOOKIE.mp3
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Topics:
MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230921_WHO_KNOWS.mp3
Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles
Cost of homelessness:
WHO KNOWS?:
Who knows … what’s next, what changes, where we will be at the end of 2023?
Who knows …
I desire an optimistic landing pad for my broken and dark soul, but what I’ll find are the KEEVUS-RATS and the old guard standing by the wall, letting in those chosen few who can submit to the power of the world. The old droghies sit at the table, eating their sausage mick-hoodles and discussing how many Vietcong they killed, so many decades ago. STYG-WARRIORS, talking colonoscopy and tumors and bronchitis and weird scars that none focus on for long.
Who is getting paid to take care of the bodies?
Where are they being taken?
When the old coot dies and the land is dead and the water has turned to blood, who knows, who cares?
I can take my corn scars and slather on the frungo-oils and carry myself about like some slab time king – not looking for the freeway or the hangman’s scaffold. I take my time crossing the byway, unconcerned and irrelevant to the movement of traffic. If I fall? – I hope a kind coyote feeds on my flesh, and then leaves something behind as a marker: “here lay a dead hobo, no one remembers, no one cares, everyone on the run, all refugees in a strange land of madness.
You took notice, HINDO-BOOG, when I stared into the abyss and saw my reflection in YOU. You tracked my actions and kept a journal, and there were too many entries and your pencil got dull.
You took notice when the AIR became metallic and the water smelled of aviation fuel and copper – in this there was a queer acceptance, if only the grey welcoming of those street crabs that can’t be stopped, only shunned.
STLEEG was muttering at the edge of the Clallam Transit Center, talking to his demon master – exchanging ancient signals indecipherable to normies.
KORN-GOL is arguing his cases on the 50 BUS. He is laying out the arguments, appealing to the supreme justice “fuckers … fucking casino … they took it … it’s gone” …
HAMLIN-TOURISTS depart the ship from BOON TOWN to CRUSKY – all the skein-cats change names and await the final banishment.
And it’s … who knows.
Glazed bear spice and tryouts for the stripper bar off of Carlsdale Drive. Hank has his pick of special toys to use, and then sends the rump to the toaster where they can shake their bags and watch the greasy fisherman whack-off.
I checked my baggage with Fritz at the RITZ and built a temple of disgrace outside the chapel. The corporal beat his drum and the 5 cohorts brought up the rear, as the dynasty of lost street people marched on to S’compton and Grinken Town and Old Helbridge AVE. No amount of fury stopped it …
And we don’t know.
No one does.
A tale of that FLIX BUS STOP off of 31st Street, in NYC, across from the Madison Square Gardens …
They cast their eyes at me and I winced, as the TUESDAY NIGHT COASTERS zoomed on by. their women-folk in tow, as the “johns” look on, seeking sweaty and degrading liaisons in some grimy alleyway in NYC.
“YOU FROM FRIMPTON?”, screamed Benny. He knows – he can’t really read or write, but he knows.
Benny ruled the streets around 31st Street, he carried a carpenter’s hammer and a roll of quarters. He was the SHOT CALLER on that block, working for the WEST SIDE JOOG-CLAN and running the flesh show near Broadway and Madison Square Gardens. “BIG B” as they called Benny sat large on his Honda scooter and would circle the gawkers and European vacation crowd, murmuring their broken English with strong German accents, being so aloof to the circumstance that is all to real where they are from.
The FLICKER BUS passengers would huddle in the darkness, as the “land crab” scuttles by, looking for some bagel left behind during the morning rush hour slog.
Benny was rounding up the joog-whores and other ne’er-do-wells this night … He had is brigade of boovula dealers, strutting, cussing, too coy or worried to look long.
Benny was a cowboy of sorts, keeping the “flesh moving”, making sure that all the old freaks could take a look and maybe decide based on the window dressing. The women were scared and poor. They wore tight clothes, with tears and visible blood stains on their jeans, near the crotch. Benny had to have a stony heart to do what he did – to be who he was. He had competition. He had enemies.
Benny faced opposition from the STRUG-BOYS of Harlem. They didn’t like how his crew was muscling in on the action and taking their cheddar …
Benny was constantly menaced by the HOOVER-SCOUTS of CROWN HEIGHTS. They carried fully automatic GLOCK-19’s and would spray their lead spew wherever they threw down …
Benny was harried by the BOOMER-RATS of PARK AVENUE – and these old skeez freaks did NOT mess around. One on one they weren’t much, but in groups of 10 or 20 they would surround you and pummel you with their “wisdom and insight” … by the time it was over, you’d pray for death.
Finally, there were ROMEO-DEALERS, spreading meth and X and KROKODIL. They’d sell blues to the street-rats, who after smoking that shit became their willing death zombies.
But Benny was fine, this was his milieu …
Benny was okay …
His ilk were striving in a world of degradation and deformed values, stale bread and moldy t-shirts.
He and his men were ready to go, for whatever, and it’s happening TONIGHT.
Benny’s not leaving.
Are you leaving?
MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230830_LEO_and_RHONDA.mp3
Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles
I’ve done some basic analysis, and the price of a bus ride is the cheapest option for me, all other options are unrealistically expensive, given the amount of stuff I have.
MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230825_ZONE_REAPER.mp3
Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles
Quick Updates:
still at the park, people seem really angry
this might be the first podcast from inside the tent, cuz we’re getting squalls and wind gusts
I’m glad to have the days here, at the park, to slow down. Yeah, I get weird looks because my aura right now probably screams “stay away from that scary guy”.
I get scared, sometimes, thinking that I’m used up. And worse? – that I don’t care that I’m used up.
I know this is true: I’m living in pretend land right now, make believe. I’m at a nice state park surrounded by “nice” people. I’m being left alone and I’m leaving others alone. I don’t have to worry about being robbed or killed or worse. But here’s the thing – I lived in Little Saigon Seattle long enough to know that there are horribly deeper levels of homeless. They make it sound like “well son, just pull yourself up by your bootstraps …” but at the bottom of the morass of American homelessness, is a slimy pit, with slimy cliffs … and no one, almost no one, ever gets out.
I’m not the commie who says “give me money”, just because. I did beg for help this week, and perhaps that was wrong or not or I still wonder. I have to respect my audience well enough to know that THEY can decide whether to give an old hobo money. But I don’t like the stench of grifting, and begging for help can feel close to that.
One more thing – I wonder if my lack of popularity relates primarily to one simple truth: my message does not resonate, because most people are shit heads and satanists at this point. I had some weird experiences at Walmart again – people who would walk towards me, as if to walk into me, with that very aggressive look on their faces.
“Don’t judge a book by its RV.” – Dr. Freckles
“Sideways is progress is a different direction.” – Dr. Freckles
park notes:
“… you say you listen to me, but you don’t listen to me …” “I try to listen to you.”
“some kids never grow up … she’s very skittish … it’s not your dog’s fault”.
ZONE REAPER: code name ALLEY CAT
He is a descendant of TREBLIQ warriors that live near Mt. Baker. He’s half CANADIAN, and the other half is all GOLD. He dreams of TIM HORTON’S muskrat scooter sandwiches and wishes his long past girlfriends well … all except Tessa.
He has a job of monitoring threg sector 18, where the scoob-raiders eat twembly and migrate monthly to the Duwamish River to refill on whisky stew and scogg-slurry. He keeps a close watch on BARRY the SKY DEMON. Barry flies about in his crop duster, laying down a nice mist of steezick gas and pesticides and other bits of debunkuated chemo goo. Got a keep an eye on Barry …
He’s looking for a room to rent, some place not far from Carrie’s Stew Salon And Tattoo Parlor. He got pulled into a “room for rent scheme”, using that old worn out chest nut: “will you send me the 60 refundable dollars to my random room posting”. The answer is: no … I don’t send any money till I’ve seen a place.
You could take him down by Rachel’s sewer rat bistro and suckle upon skeel-wine, waiting for the ALLEY CAT to furl his brow, and grab a bottle, and break it off in your nasty ass face. Zone reapers don’t have time for quasi-sect wannabes and left-side morgly-types … you see them at WALMART.
After the winter-battle of 2013, and his head was shot clean off? – the Zone Reaper was sent to the hospital at Lewis-McChord and they went ahead and used super glue and fishing line and rusty old hooks to sew the ALLEY CAT’s head back on.
BLISTO-ZIGGINS, the scudge wielder, rode with the Zone Reaper, when the harlots of grid-22 got frisky, and mcnuggins was on sale for 3 fiddy and you could still get non-deconstructed potato at the SKLEEG HUT. They chased the star pirates of XEEB and hunted curled beaver in the hooker region of sector-0098ZED.
“COME FORTH AND WASH YOUR FESTULES!”, cried the time-herald, bringing forth the sunshine day of forever before and ever until. His mind was warped from space dust and kiln-wine. Jester-turds would dance about that haglon, and the ZONE REAPER would mark time upon the clock that freak built, and the safe passage home to yesterday.
A jealous stag-minge from quadrant-MOOGON got caught in the Zone Reaper’s eyes, she fell in love, they connected and had a condo together. they would take weekend trips to the national forests of YOOG-8, and swim naked in the tondo-pools. He would inguzzlate her, using his sheebus-wand, and her boovula would detractify with oil kindness. But Zone Reaper dumped her because she was two timing with a squid-greeder, and maxing out his credit cards. She haunts him, stalks him, keeps track of him using witches and wizards and hyper-technology.
The hoove scoove kept the groove, and Ghendar’s slog wedding …
Jib-zoos were opening soon near the galactic center – the whole zoo is half a light year in diameter … crazy big. They’ll have lemurs … radioactive ones.
Castor creeps lurk between the blackholes and pulsars. Zone Reaper had his run ins with that crew. Those gunkit types carried 12 gauge 5 shot recoil supported revolvers, with mixed ammo, grenade, sabot. The creeps would hunt starships bearing gold and silver and hookers, and cocaine. Zone Reaper would use wop-guns filled with titanium plasma darts … he’d take’m out … and be back to Bregna-Prime for breakfast with his womens.
MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230823_Doctor_Freckles_Story.mp3
Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles
Who is Dr. Freckles:
MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230822_KITCHEN_DICK.mp3
Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles
KITCHEN-DICK:
“Where there’s smoke, there’s a hobo.” – Dr. Freckles
“One door closes, another one gets slammed in your face.” – Dr. Freckles
“As you look to the past, you see the future.” – Dr. Freckles
“Your life does NOT need a laugh track, just look around buddy.” – Dr. Freckles
“Things that are risky today, will be dangerous tomorrow, and deadly by next week.” – Dr. Freckles
I was a traveler, in the TIME OF HIPPIES and RED WINE,
I spent my time, dancing the chorus, eating ouroboros,
I taught TIMOTHY LEARY all that he knew,
we sniffed glue,
I was his guide,
my brain was fried …
I am a traveler, and it’s all FINE.
***
He was a TRAVELER, in the time of BOBLIMPTOCK,
He spent his DAYS in a haze, drinking monkey spit,
He scolded ELVIS,
He sang to OLD CLOVIS,
It was ATROCIOUS,
He had his clam lover on TICK TOCK,
Cuz he was a traveler, and the road was cracked, and the SHIP was ROCKED.
***
She was a huntress, dressed in fiery love,
She was the QUEEN, fitting her kingdom like a glove,
She drank urchin wine and laughed before the swine.
She held court in MEMPHIS,
she was TEMPTRESS,
always scantily clad,
YOU DON’T MAKE HER MAD!
SHE’S A FUCKING TRAVELER!
***
We were travelers on the ROAD of DISARRAY,
we made love to the swamp birds but HEY,
if a cow got into our way?
We’ll launch a troll-beam and see the world gleam.
As if this were the farce,
as if we were the fools,
as if land were far way,
wasn’t it cool?
To be that TRAVELLER?
To be that DUDE …
***
If I were 102 years old …
I’d live to see hyper intelligent bacteriological colonies form themselves into doctors and nurses at Harborview Medical Center. Nurse SKRON or Dr. SCLUB would seem like normal “people”, but they would simply be a self-organizing MASS of MRSA that had achieved consciousness. If I lived to 102.
<<< dedicated to that shit head mocking homeless people >>>
What you gonna do sucker?
When you TURN 102 …
(106 is a fucking joke)
You can travel deep into the Earth and find WORLDS within worlds. Like attraction to the ZONE 4-FLEX, where the magma heats your WOMAN SPICE and the tree-scar relents before the ROD. I saw that world, and met the uniformed belly dancers, and sought after the rock cocaine.
When you work in the below place, you do it in stages of PRESSURE … high pressure, low pressure … metal casements and concrete and steel.
It takes 3 days to get to your destination – 30 miles below the surface of the Earth …
30 miles down, in the dark heat of the Earth, where people drink wine fermented from brown recluse spider venom, and they slowly go blind.
I met HALDOON, a JING-JIT-BEING … down there.
I met that rock man, and looked into his silicon eyes.
He would tell me stories of the last YORT-Queen, and how his men fought wars against the MOLE PEOPLE to control the MAGMA FARMS of T’limpf and FROH.
Haldoon told me to follow this path:
THESE ARE THE BROKEN WORDS OF HALDOON!
A TIME IS COMING TOO SOON …
Your family will hustle and run from the fright, but the night won’t let go, and your world won’t stop spinning.
Because he is winning, for now …
And he is the MASTER of CONFUSION.
So said Haldoon.
I saw a green wire princess holding court at Trey’s Knock-up Saloon. She wore a black and white dress, and red lipstick, and her eyes stared at your crotch all the time. She’d only see the PACKAGE and not the MAN, and her killers stalked her all night long.
She was the midnight syren, and her madness was on display to every 3 bob Charlie in London.
I kept watch for women like her, because this was the black heart of living and those who wandered the streets were worse than vampires – they were humans.
I left Trey’s and went onward to OLD SHIMBLY’S off of Puxton Street, not far from where KING LEOPOLD raped and killed that Christian nun 700 years ago – it was sacred ground to the poncy types that strolled like vicars from place to place.
“Killed and raped”, not in the that order, from what I can ascertain …
At Shimbly’s I met Firona Devastonia, she was well known in GRIKEN TOWN for her “beef eater style boovula festies” and other orgiastic adventures involving gorilla tape and vodka. She asked me if I wanted to “see the King” and I said “that old QUEEN?” … and we laughed. She made her bang selling smack to the dandies of London Town and the finance freaks and the politicos. They all knew her, and she had dead man switches with half the barristers in England, just to protect herself.
“How you doing JACK?”, she asked, leering at me, nursing a gin and tonic in that badly lit pub.
“I’ve been okay, just got back from Syria.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Nothing … just vacation.”
Firona threw back her head, rolled her eyes, and let out an ape laugh.
I couldn’t tell Firona the truth …
“Hey honey, I just got done cleaning up a mess for the USAF … they accidentally killed 50 children at a school because one of their drone pilots was high on meth … so it was a ‘cleanup’ job … janitorial work.” – I couldn’t tell her that. She’d seen ugly things. She told me once she met a guy who said he “worked the job” that led to Princess Diana’s death – and now that the person who paid the contract was King of England? – what the fuck do you do with that info … remember what happened to the nurse that leaked info about a royal birth several years ago … you just end up dead.
I said a bit more to Firona, but I had a meeting in Chelsea, and I couldn’t be late.
I grabbed a car and took the ride out to the smelter where my new client was – he owned the place, he owned several places that provided specialized castings and metals for the aerospace industry.
In 2012, his company had been contracted by a major airline to provide replacement turbine blades, but it was a “budget thing” and they couldn’t really afford to pay top dollar. My new client, Marvin Till, told the company that these blades would cost less, but last half as long. The buyer heard “cost less”, he didn’t hear the rest.
At the smelter I tipped the driver, and he drove off. I wandered into the warehouse and Marvin was there, with two well dressed bodyguards.
“JACK my BOY … it’s been a while.”
Marvin looked drunk, but I never had an issue with drunken sots … as long as they paid.
“Jack, I have a problem.”
It turns out the airline company had planes falling out of the sky, and even though they blamed the “avionics”, the real truth was that the blades on the engines were burning out at altitude – and this was not supposed to become public. A young and eager reporter with Air and Space Weekly had interviewed Marvin, wanting to know if there was anything else to report – and one of his engineers overheard the interview.
Making a long story short, the engineer met with the journalist, and she, Nikki Wallstrom, was going to break the story in a few days. She hadn’t turned in anything to her editor yet, not even a draft. But she was going to meet with him for breakfast.
“Jack, I already have the job done, they’re at a place not far from Avon … you know … where Shakespeare did his thing.”
I needed to drive out there, clean the place, dispose of the bodies. Basic janitorial work.
I got to the house near Avon at around 3 AM. The lights were off, and luckily the nearest neighbor lived about a half mile away.
The cleaning went fine, by the book – but there was something weird about the bodies.
The engineer had been dead for an hour, but his flesh was still supple and his eyes were bloodshot and green.
The journalist, Nikki, had a similar look – but despite having no pulse, she twitched, periodically.
All of these troubling issues went away, after I chopped them up and let them dissolve in the tank of nitric acid. I looked like a grounds keeper, for this job – and the “water tank” I towed behind my lorry was the actual dissolution tank for the body parts.
I was driving to the coast, to a friend, to take the remains of what was left and dump it in a cesspool he had, after the acid had neutralized.
It was weird.
About 30 minutes from my pals place, there was noise coming from the hitch between my truck and the tank, so I pulled over … must have been almost 5 AM, and the sun was still below the horizon.
I inspected the hitch, and it looked fine – all except for this bluish goo, it glowed.
I don’t know why, but I touched it, and it stuck to me – it burned into me.
And then, I heard it:
“YOU ARE THE STOOGE BUDDY …”
It was in me, yelling, screaming …
“YOU ARE THE DUMMY … DUMMY.”
I had a flask of whiskey and some Xanax in the glove compartment, so I grabbed 5 pills and took a swig …. hoping some basic pharmacology would help.
“YOU CAN’T STOP ME THAT WAY …”
“What do you want?”
“I want you buddy.”
I thought I was going insane. You do this work too long, you go crazy, you see things. I had this friend once, a “cleaner” from Detroit. He’d been doing the work for 30 years, and then he just snapped. He went to the police, told them everything, gave them locations and even some evidence he’d kept, as insurance. The cops took his statement, his evidence, and burned it. Then he was committed to a private institution in Canada – where later he “committed suicide”, which was convenient for his former clients and partners. I didn’t want to go crazy, but I’m not sure I have a choice.
“Buddy, you think you’re crazy, BUT YOU ARE NOT …”
The voice went on to describe the 7 dimensional war between the JOOG-BEINGS and the KLEPHITES …
For 2 million years they’d been at war, an overlapping time war, and all of HISTORY had become unstable.
ZEGON, the Klephite, has a basic job – when some temporal event goes awry, “clean things up”, make it look like nothing happened … ZEGON was a cleaner, just like me. But unlike me, his technology was more advanced.
Funny thing – the hit on the journalist and the engineer? – it was a botched thing, in a way. Originally the story was going to be about corrupt business practices in the airline/aerospace industries and the deaths of hundreds that resulted, but then the story changed.
The engineer had been working on a new kind of black box, one that utilized quantum entanglement to share data, instantly, anywhere in the world.
Remember that plane that disappeared in 2014? Over the Indian Ocean? – no one knew what happened. Zegon knew … and if that black box had existed then? – others would have known too, and Zegon couldn’t have that.
Zegon cleaned history …
If something was supposed to happen – it would.
If something was the result of a time traveler or “fractor” committing a “causality error”, it would be sanitized.
If a black box existed that allowed recording, remotely, instantaneously, no matter WHERE (or WHEN) the plane was? – this would impact Zegon’s employers and the Klephites generally, and this would be “bad BUDDY”.
“Buddy …”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe me buddy?”
“I don’t know … where are you?”
“Well, that goop you touched contained regenerative nanites … these here nanites contain self-organizing capabilities for tracking and recording … similar to what that OTHER DUDE was working on … I don’t really understand it, I just clean shit. Any who, you are not talking to me, but I’m 34 minutes in the future, at your pal’s place, where you’re headed.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Cleaning.”
“YOU KILLED HIM?”
“Nah … he’s been transported out of this timeline, we like to study you turds.”
“Study?”
“Yeah, not my work … but the really smart GUYS and their AI slaves, they love studying you and the other hairless monkeys.”
At that moment I could feel my heart beating faster …
“Just go with it Buddy, they say it’s painless.”
“What is?”
“Death … this kind of death doesn’t hurt … once the nanites reach your brain stem, it will be DONE … but before you go, I just got to say I love your work BUDDY …”
My body collapsed underneath me as the sun began to rise.
I had nothing worthwhile to remark upon, to remember, no wise words to say. No “life passing before my eyes”, I had 2 failed marriages, an unpaid mortgage, and a house filled with dust and bad memories. It wasn’t much to say goodbye to.
I could feel the parts of me being torn apart, as my body dissolved around me.
But I felt no pain.
I just hoped Zegon would clean up the mess, and do a good job.
THE END
You find it at the grocery store, in the place they keep the hoog-fish and the salamander monkey juice.
You find it in the street, where the wild things go to die after the midnight poisoning. The MOON shines the way to these broken morsels and your woman promises to make the scourge stew, as if any final moment is regrettable and each passing sandwich can be flushed.
Vinyl and torn, the rabbit has tumors …
The tumor meat is FLESH MAGIC, and our tacos continue.
I was working for Gerald Fites, and his army of donor rats – he was chief chef at the new restaurant off of Gypsum Street. His sister managed the city kennels and made fresh cats available, the rich people didn’t care. They thought it was “Thai-Mexican fusion with a Boston spice”, but what it was? – Chinese magic, and overdosed SNEEG fruit.
Figger? – he gathered stunkton-meat from the gutters outside St. Marks, the priests would spit and howl and talk about altar boys they’d “made men”. Figger would haunt those places out of remembrance for his sister Tara – the girl fished out of the bay, after the bishop was finished raping her.
Figger was addicted to 8 kinds of drugs …
Figger made a little extra money doing “deliveries” to the taco stands in Central Park, and his mate, Todd, helped him with the rats he could catch outside the children’s hospital.
One night, after the MET shut down and the penguins were ripe …
That one night Figger needed extra cash, and he understood it was about “meat”.
You could get cubes from the government outlet, and they’d say on the packaging “44 grams of scale-protein”, and not many knew what that was …
Scale-protein was something they gleaned from the landfill, usually 4 times a week, using straining machines – a scrumptious mixture of sloog and skrig and skunk and squirrel. The mixture was heated to remove biological activity, and the brown sugar was no more ready for the win.
Figger got lost in the wastes of Manhattan, no one saw him, gray and red …
Figger’s mind grew coarse over time as more of his friends got picked up, for just being there, existing. There were these new LAWS against “hanging around” or collecting near the abandoned McDonald’s. “Congregating” is what the city council called it, and people were just “picked up” and taken “some place”.
Some place downtown, funded by the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation, an old textile mill where sweatshop workers used to make sneakers and wallets – and now it was for the strangers, the ones that go missing. Cops just take them there, and then they just disappear – nobody cares, not as long as the MEAT keeps flowing.
New types of meat were now available:
And there’s no telling where this goes …
They’re still grinding up mite and gnat larvae …
They’ll be selling CHEESE TOLEDO next Christmas …
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230713_EVERYBODY_IS_ROBOTS.mp3
Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles
EVERYONE IS ROBOTS:
Come on buddy, you don’t see IT?
It’s everywhere, the janitor, the nurse, the candlestick maker … all cyborgs, all pre-programmed neuro-synthetic bacteriological computing …
It started at Harborview Medical Center, where they got that RADIATION GUN, that PROTON CANNON they use to fry the tumors out of unsuspecting rubes … Microbiologist researchers started noticing a new kind of bacteria, with divergent organelles that looked like synapses …
Out of the gauntlet of overused antibiotics and radiation and chemo therapy – and old people, lots of dying old people, came a super intelligent bacteria colony.
When it first thought, had a thought, meditated upon itself in some kind of fucked up Cartesian sense, it gave itself a name – “Conscious State 1” … It quickly discovered the INTERNET and began shipping itself, using UPS and FedEX, around the NATION …
Little vials, labeled “love sauce” went everywhere … and people drank the crap, because they thought it would “enhance their female orgasm” or “made their ROD bigger, vein’yer, ribbed for her pleasure” … this is how it began.
Here’s how it’s going …
This all started in November 2018, by December 2019 all of the principle systems of total control had been captured by the colony … a colony now measured using cardinalities approaching the SET of ALL whole numbers … big, huge.
Trump was easy – his mind was folded into the general colony in a matter of days, now he looks the same – but he’s really just a skin job, a replacement.
Biden, the Clintons, Kamala, the Obamas – all advanced colonies of bacteria …
And now I’m here in S’compton, and I think “if I just cut deep enough, I’ll find the wires …”
But there are no wires, only a deeper pain of ancient sadness …
A song that is sung, to celebrate the first LIFE FORM …
A billion year scream from the first thingy …
“I AM HERE … now where’s the BEER FUCKER …”
CRYPTO GRYFTO: https://www.zerohedge.com/crypto/ex-celsius-ceo-arrested-fraud-charges-bankrupt-crypto-firm-sued-sec
Ozone: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=8320
Random: don’t take health advice from Twitter
Natural Supplements for Fucked Up Worlds: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=8318
Life continues DESPITE nutritional supplements: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=8310
Finding our place: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=8316
Vatican needs to confess: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=8308
Truth and Forgiveness: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=8304
Elon Musk wants me to go to Canada: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=8300
One more strike: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=8294
I was at the grocery store and the attendant wiped her butt with a scorn rag, and then began checking me out. She smeared fecal matter and vagina butter on my eggs and milk and cheese, then she muttered “do you have a discount number”, and I said yes …
“My discount number is 28 …”, she just stared at me … I grabbed my hag food and left.
CHEEVUS, my friend at the Maverick, has started selling stuurg-corn after midnight out back …
You take this stuff and mix it with gasoline and dead penguins and you end up with FROOG-SKEIN, and this lights up your mind and allows you to commune with eerie forces not far from SKLEEVENVILLE …
CHEEVUS just got done with parole, he’d stolen a car and driven it into a rest home …
CHEEVUS was awarded a lesser sentence because the 12 old people he killed? – well, they had COVID-19 … he was flattening the curve, is what his lawyer said …
Shit is falling apart.
I met my old girlfriend DUNDY at the cafe last weekend. She got done washing pig trucks and was wanting a “nice date” – so we ate chicken-chunks and potato eyes … her eyes grew large when the TACO SURPRISE showed up …
Dundy got sick, real sick …
Dundy vomited all night and then started bleeding from her bonus hole …
She couldn’t stop thinking it was over … I told her, we didn’t know. No one knew, not when it’s REALLY OVER …
I told her they could replace her insides with PVC and old broken alarm clocks and empty spray cans …
I told her we could save up, and get her one of those NEW SYNTHETIC digestive tracts, the one with the cartridges and the gasoline flare mechanism …
I told her I loved her, and it didn’t matter that her ass-fire was bad, or that the gases were making me sick too …
She just wandered off later that night … into the alfalfa field …
Dundy was discovered, days later, in a dumpster – she’d blown her own head off with a shotgun … on a piece of paper taped to her shirt read “I DID MOST OF THE WORK FOR YOU …”
Crap is getting real.
I saw OLD SKLIG at the rail yard …
Sklig had been lurking near RAIL CAR 004, the one where the old hobos and wanderers congregate. He’d been working the EEK-MINES outside of Elko in Nevada …
Sklig was hired to set charges and drill holes and find chunks of hooker gold in the debris of every landslide. He worked hard and spent his weekends hiking around the hills and mountains and surfing the dingus-paths where old besto-wolves hunt the younglings, all huddled together in the fear cave.
Sklig was caught by someone serving papers, he’d left his 8 wives in Ohio, and never got around to updating his address … They fought hard for several hours, with rocks and knives and bats and sticks. When it was over, Sklig was dead and the land was drenched with NEW BLOOD – strange wildflowers began to bloom in the aftermath, and the desert thrived again.
Stuff is weird, mang …
Mexicans and Italians …
They don’t belong here …
They steal everything they find and set fire to all the old folks. They sell s’klink to kids at the blind school and mock the old gods and the new …
Sure … at first they seem okay, but after a while they’re checking out your stuff and measuring you for what they can TAKE … who they can SCREW …
The town was a good town before they got here …
Now the Mexicans and the Italians have destroyed it.
What are we going to do???
DANES?
Danish people?
Everywhere they live there is nothing but poison and polluted lands …
They bring smiles and kringle and pasteurized diabetes dreams, marinating in Copenhagen nightmares …
“DANISH PEOPLE RUIN EVERYTHING” was ORIGINAL TITLE Shakespeare chose for Hamlet … the Jews in charge of England rejected this.
Danish people will smile and laugh and walk the streets with their blonde kids. They sell crack cocaine to the TURKS, and the TURKISH BIKER GANGS are their street lords – enforcing their RULE over the slime of the world …
DANES are RESPONSIBLE for 78% of all child trafficking worldwide, and 89% of all juvenile diabetes. They seem “so nice” while they are chopping up babies and feeding them to sharks for their holiday entertainment.
It’s fucked up what Danish people have done to the world …
What can be done?
Schrodinger was a DANE …
He was caught, torturing cats, in 1929 …
He claimed it was for “science” …
(but we know what DANES do with CATS)
Did you know that over 10,000 cats were killed to prove Schrodinger CORRECT?
WHAT MONSTERS!
White people?
Who the fuck are they?
All pale and ghost like …
Moving about in the shadows, afraid of harming their alabaster skin …
They mock the sun BECAUSE the SUN cures the disease – and the WHITE MAN holds his disease close to his heart …
He pretends to be so many things, but he’s a liar …
He speaks with many tongues, he sells diseased blankets to indigenous tribes …
The white man is the homunculus of twilight horror, and spends his days collecting objects and gold and other things to HOARD … He won’t share, he’ll watch your baby starve … that fucking WHITE MAN.
What the HELL WHITE MAN?
CHINESE PEOPLE? – can’t be trusted …
INDIAN PEOPLE? – happy and lazy …
RUSSIAN PEOPLE? – angry and drunk …
CANADIANS? – what do I need to say BUTT HOLE …
But the IRISH are cool …
The IRISH are good …
The world would be nothing but sadness, if not for our ginger smiles …
(and that’s still working)
(so you should thank us)
CRAVEN RACES!
Single moms go trotting around on SATURDAY NIGHT at the LAUNDRY …
They beg for quarters from the old bachelors who’s hooker wives dumped them.
And the baby?
The baby is left in the car, as the MOM goes into the bar to get drunk and hook up with a tattooed biker named Kyle.
A lot of men, myself included, felt like cash machines when we were married …
Did we marry the wrong woman?
I DUNNO SHIT HEAD – did you have sex with the wrong man?
Did some GOOD LAY leave a slug in your belly?
Was he really a “nice guy” who only beat you sometimes … but he had a “good job”, amirite?
Seems like everyone, myself included, is getting what they deserve.
A SINGLE MOM is a cave-maiden. She sells castor oil soap and varmint sweat while her kids walk the streets tossing bricks off the overpass.
A single mom spends her day watching JERRY, as she eats marshmallow spread and frunctulates her boovula. She has no guile, only a meth smile.
Her TARGEN DUGG fuel KING uses her as a mechanic’s rag, and when he’s done she’s none the wiser … only a case of the crabs as remembrance.
Single moms know how to party …
A single mom never loses, because she never risks anything worth measuring – her cargo shock container paradise is covered in skittles mold and American cheese.
Her peanut butter brood lurks outside the abandoned lot, never knowing when their next meal is coming, always RED EYED and hazy. They know mom’s just “tired” and “needs a break” …
They know RAMEN PIZZA is for dinner …
Single moms can COOK.
A SINGLE MOM is the WASTREL, the viggis-banshee. She yells the name of her lover, her donor, as she bangs the landlord to pay rent. She hearkens after the FIST, but claims to her support group she “just wants a nice guy”.
Single moms tramp about after midnight in SCOMPTON, sometimes with their kids in tow …
She’ll sell slug-flesh to the Jesuits and forget all this pain in the confessional, as nasty Roman priests whisper dirty words in her ears …
A single mom is a stop sign made out of jello.
A single mom is a HERO … to her dealer.
She gets discount on TRANQ and ROCK and her teeth are ground down to nothing …
She breastfeeds her newborn, feeding her the same pain that she was fed – a cocktail of low expecations, poverty, neglect and abuse. From her tit comes all the pain, from her is delivered a soul knife.
A single mom speaks LOUDLY of her SISTERHOOD, as she mocks her sisters wailing in the streets. She is SO HUGE in her matriarchy, as long as CHUCK is working checkout, as long as the OLD ENGLISH 800 is on sale.
Single moms like to smoke cheap cigars.
A single mom drags the TEMPTRESS FORCE, digging graves near the abandoned library. She confides in street-demons and makes pacts with the Devil’s hairdresser. Her walls are made of flesh and steel, her body grows tired from the ageless theft.
A single mom can’t STOP the fires, and doesn’t want to – no more than she wants to give up her pipe. She’ll attend all her meetings, she’ll do the SERENITY PRAYER, but at 2 AM when her kids are asleep, she slips out back to pull on the meth pipe with LARRY, the building janitor, and plumber … he’ll give her a rock or two.
After the MOON DISAPPEARS, the worry lines turn to wrinkles, a single mom sits silently in her room …
Somewhere in this world of discarded humans.
Rocking on her chair.
Muttering phrases of “could have been” …
Knowing she will never see her children again before she dies.
For in her love were lies.
And in her soul is nothing.
The first Pioneer probes were launched launched in 1965, sent on a grand tour of deep space.
Many did not know this, but NASA used an experimental ion drive powered by a radiological decay battery – capable of reaching 50% the speed of light … but it gets worse.
One of the Pioneer probes slipped into a black hole and hyper accelerated backwards in time, such that this probe visited many places … planets … dive bars.
On the probe are instructions on HOW to get to Earth …
On the probe is a message: “Please rape us …”
(abductions)
Voyager was about sending them a record to play, loudly, while they raped us …
Throughout the UNIVERSE, we are known as PLANET RAPE.
(or RAPE-PLANET)
(let’s not complicate things)
(this will only hurt a little)
This applies to the environment too …
Like “hey, CUM to EARTH and fuck the planet, and fuck us …”
My friend went to Mars …
He sent me emails and text messages after he got there … pictures of him with underwear models, hanging out at the BAR on Olympus Mons … great view of Mars.
A lot of people I know are going to Mars …
And then you get to send messages and hang out at the bar …
LIVING LIFE BIG …
Is it true, O Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego ???
Is it true Whitman, Price and Hadad?
Do any of you remember the “apple pie” from that show JUSTIFIED?
(sometimes I want the apple pie)
A man is a GONDO-LORD, he carries his scent with pride, he RIDES HIGH on the gasoline-travelers and herds his women folk using dogs on a chain …
A man is a FESTIVE KING, with LIGHTNING EYES and hard scaly fists …
He does not CARE what the HUNKTON FOLK THINK.
He is MAN …
A man hurries through the tunnels of his broken mind, looking for fragments of happy day peace, somewhere near the perimeter of his foggy Sunday memories. He carries a baseball bat and walks tall through the underbrush. He seeks after AMERICIUM COCKTAILS and cancelled hooker princesses looking for action near GRINKEN TOWN. He endures the winter, only to find himself running from apes …
A man takes his time making love …
He caresses the woman’s boovula gently, as he massages her dryngian zone. He smokes cigarettes and drinks whiskey and rides his lover like some mad space cowboy, wildly shaking his fists a the unloving gods …
His tickler fancy is without compare, and those who target the weakness of his heart will feel the cold steel of his sword’s embrace …
HE’S A MAN … and he’s crazy.
He’ll walk 700 miles to seek revenge and soothe his intemperate heart, and afterwards he finds his hold fast somewhere deep in the Mountains of Droom. Sure, he gets tired and afraid, but he won’t show it – he’d rather just do more CRACK and get over that pain …
That’s a man too.
A MAN is a midnight pilot, taking his plane to the NORTH POLE. He skips the training and just jumps in, tearing up bushings and pistons and watching his copilot fret … but he’s not afraid …
A man is cursed to feel IRON PAIN and the fury of guilt and eternal shame. He is REAL …
A man can’t be stopped by flamethrowers or “bouncing Betty” mines …
A real man doesn’t use SOAP … fuck that.
Threaten a real man saying “we won’t cut your hair, or sell you products, or decorate your apartment”? – and a real man says “I was worried you were my black market hookup for 9 mm sub machine guns … what a relief …” – is how a man thinks.
A MAN? – will FIGHT against ANY ODDS …
He’ll load up his pack with C-4 and ammo and gasoline and dynamite and rocks …
He’ll come at you, wailing and screaming, hooping and hollering, just to see you GO MAD from angst and soul desolation …
He brings his A-GAME all the time, ready to fight hand-to-hand against any BRAZILIAN GRAPPLER or KOREAN street fighter. They all want to beat him, but they CAN’T … his eyes burn and his body aches and his bones are hard and his fingernails grow long …
A man is lost without some purpose and crumbles in chains …
He is dead behind walls and sorrow …
He MUST BE FREE …
That’s a man.
I dream of a future …
Where every neighborhood has it’s own indirect fires capability using rail guns they slam together from all kinds of spare parts, GE imaging machines, garbage dumps …
And they spend all day shooting molten rounds at each other.
For no reason but LOVE.
I dream of a NEW LAND …
A land of whore-cakes and newspaper fireflies …
A land where the cervids grow 20 feet tall, and have BBQ SAUCE for blood …
A land of gingus swamps and dead head mariners, all looking for frosty excitement and being led astray, down the hole, to the broken sepulcher, where the bodies were treated, irrigated and then disposed of …
We’d dance CRAZY in this new land … we’d make friends with scorpions.
This is a dream worth having …
I dream of a world …
I dream of a land …
I dream of a hooker wife …
I won’t stop dreaming.