"GRAVY FOR YOUR BRAIN!" – Conspiracy Theory (1997)
I help no one.
Almost no one would care.
There is nothing I can do for you.
You were damned at birth.
Your life will flip upside down and you will watch your castles of sand destroyed.
Your world will dissolve into pig urine.
Your mind is a disgraceful HOOKER mud palace.
I’m raising money to make this movie, starring Stephen Baldwin, and I figure I need at least $5,000 to pay him … maybe 10.
It’s a movie about a dude that finds a time machine in his backyard, left there by aliens eons ago, and he decides to travel through time and kill random people …
The movie is called TIME SHREDDER …
It’s big … HUGE.
His name will be YARD COOLIDGE and he’ll have a hooker girlfriend named Tina. They start making love after they arrive in the time of the ANCIENT GREEKS and then become the overlords of time zone JELLY …
This movie will make BANK at the box office …
PG13 rating …
I’m gonna make this other movie, STARRING STEPHEN BALDWIN …
It will be about some rogue comet heading towards the EARTH, and it’s OUT OF CONTROL and NOTHING CAN BE DONE … but REX STAR BLASTER (Stephen Baldwin) can save the day …
REX has a suit of cobalt-platinum-steel and a sidekick named Neil …
REX flies a rocket ship into outer space and uses his NEUTRONIC BEAM to split the comet into two smaller pieces … so that these pieces can be deflected using a tractor beam thingy …
AND I JUST NEED 6 MILLION DOLLARS TO MAKE THIS MOVIE … big.
We’ll get SHANNON TWEED to CO STAR … she’s old though … is she alive?
Maybe we’ll get that brunette ho-bag from the ATT commercials, the one with the BIG JUGGS …
But we’re still short funds.
I’ve got this other IDEA for a HUGE SERIES on NETFLIX, also STARRING STEPHEN BALDWIN …
Stephen plays a traveling minstrel and story teller in faerie tale times …
He wanders around small villages, playing songs and making people laugh …
But he also steals OLD PEOPLE and CHOPS THEM UP and PLACES THEM IN A GRINDER powered by a water wheel … it’s bad …
We think we can shoot the whole thing in Slovakia … use porn stars for the cast.
But we need some MONEY … now.
We were thinking about this project …
A BIG PROJECT …
A MOVIE ABOUT TRAVELING to MARS!
STARRING: STEPHEN BALDWIN
He’s gonna have a BIG PART – “Captain Hellstrom” of the ASTRONAUTICAL SOCIETY …
They’ve lost contact with their base on MARS …
Hellstrom is being sent there to FIND OUT what went wrong, what happened …
His sexy love interest, “Commander Leslie”, might be played by some washed up actress … maybe Sandra Bullock … maybe Zellweger …
Here are some other ideas:
A lot of cool projects …
STARRING STEPHEN BALDWIN …
Your woman wants RFK JR …
Your woman wants RFK JR to INGUGDOOLATE HER …
Your woman has fantasies about RFK JR tying her UP and flogging her with some sexual flogging tool you’d buy off the back pages of Hustler …
Your woman is at home, right now, thinking about RFK JR.
Your woman took a long lunch last week with her old college friend, Kendra, and they both made a LOVE PACT to find RFK JR and to allow HIM to insert his power wand into their boovulas and in that way make ba-ba-ba-babies …. that’s what your woman said on FACEBOOK.
Your woman has been YOUTUBE talking about RFK JR and his abs and his pecks and she’s really JUICING IT UP …
Your woman recently took a “moistness test” at her gynecologist office, thinking about RFK JR and about being pinned to some nasty dirty bed in some alley some place.
Your woman started writing this “romance novel” …
It’s about her and some old pirate named “Rob” …
They fight the British Navy and get exiled to a swamp and sex oil grease island where they are both scantily clad and it’s humid, and there is plenty of rope.
She loves him.
Your woman has been trotting around town in slinky outfits, meeting up with greasy dudes at the Screw Bar in Grinken Town. She wears torn fishnet stockings and had poorly drawn makeup and she’s kinda drunk and high on crack.
Your woman is driving your car out to the beach …
She’s wearing a bikini that has see through cups …
She bought SKUZZ WAX from TANDRY’S off of Digton Street, where the hooker congregate and trade stories of their “fishing trips” …
Your woman is hot and spicy and there’s no holding her back …
She knows what she WANTS and she WANTS RFK JR …
Your woman dreams about RFK JR and his JUICED OUT chest …
She knows his testicles have shrunk back into his body because of his dosing, it explains his voice and his acne … but she wants him.
MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230626_STARSHIP_HADES.mp3
Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles
Zero Hedge: HEADLINES
STARSHIP HADES:
Days without Drinking: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=7758
I take a pill: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=7734
Dating Websites: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=7732
Climate Science: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=7761
Bigfoot:
I stand there in the dark,
chewing bark,
listening to a meadowlark …
And the drinkers and thinkers and hunters chew their cud,
drink their whiskey,
and smoke their MARLBORO CIGARETTES …
And do these intrepid adventures offer me any?
Do they care about the hairy man of the Woods?
Nah …
They mock me …
They mock me in the darkness.
Start a submarine business: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=7764
I’m thinking of getting into the submarine business …
I’m gonna rig up some kind of steel barrel with a bottle of oxygen and maybe they get some kind of 3 inch window to peer out of with a light …
And I send those poor souls down to Davy Jones’ Locker …
sensitive question …
If I started a submarine business, taking people to see the dudes that died?
Where they died?
Near the titanic?
Is that insensitive and potentially cursed?
I am at peace.
I’m thinking of sending people to SPACE.
I can rig up a steam rocket using old plastic containers and the boiler from the abandoned school …
I’ll create some kind of capsule out of parts from a CESSNA CITATION and just fire people up to that place in SPACE.
You are building.
I’m thinking of starting a safari business …
I’m not gonna lead the safari, more like I arrange the passage on the ship and give the person fake ID cards, travel papers, maps to special locations, and a fake person to meet once they get to SOMALIA. I think I give them the name a human trafficker and kidnapper, I dunno, he paypals me periodically.
These fine people will sally forth and take on the world with courage, but in the end fall victim to nature, as so often happens in the jungle – and that’s what this is about fucker.
If you start a safari business, you can just dump people in the swamp some place and say “hey man, go safari” …
So you CAN be a TIGER HERO …
Wrestle the snake.
I might start contracting …
I’ll get a hammer and a saw and a drill and one of those back supports. I’ll start packing a lunch for work and buy boots with steel toes …
I’ll wake up early and get to the job site and the whole team will be really happy with me and we’ll become lifelong friends ….
Of course, after a couple weeks they notice that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing …
So I have to set fire to the job site and go underground …
All because I wanted to do the honest work of a contractor.
I’m considering becoming a fisherman.
I would build my boat out of old beer cans and stale dingy parts. I’d find old diesel motors that have been blown out and restore them using thermal lance and arc welders. After de-gunking to core pack, I’ll grease up the main axle and take that vessel OUT to SEA …
I would run tours for people from the city …
I’d say “come out on my boat son-a-bidge …”
We’d take the tides out to Stoove Island, and then linger there, as our boat slowly takes on water …
We’ll dump the old people first, feed them to the sharks that are congregating near our floundering craft …
We toss out the tourists next …
(then my first mate, Old Flick …)
But only IF I were a fisherman …
I take a pill once daily …
It’s red and green and blue and mean.
I take a pill and it cleans out my stomach lining and burns away my herpes.
I take a pill for my low blood sugar, and one for my high blood sugar, and one for my cock and one to kill all the crabs in my jock.
I take this pill for my hernia …
My insides are GREEK and CURLY and my girlfriend left me for the guy that cleans roaches out of the septic tank.
I take a pill for my kidneys … my urine is red and black and filled with GAS NODULES and cocaine dream tarts. Hookers know, man.
I get this injection from the CHARLIE ROBERTS BRIGADE to crystallize my skin and turn my blood into boiling oil.
The injection widens my gaze and provides a green pasture style love-making experience to those of us from WESTERN TOOB-TOWN.
It cures my shakes and sadness, envy.
They gave me this “special sauce”.
I was tricked into having four delphi-tubes inserted into my rectum, while I was driving my Ferrari to RENO and doing coke off the butt of my stripper girlfriend, “Sanctity”.
We were 8 miles from Gypsum Town, when the SALT TRORG FIGHTERS began chasing us.
The doctors kept cutting into me …
They removed my heart and liver …
They extracted 20 miles of veins and arteries …
They replaced what was THERE with sawdust and broken glass and metal shavings and diesel fuel and tired remembering …
Remembering the stolen bone cart.
After they broke my legs and severed my thorax, I had a whole bunch of digestive issues and lactose intolerance.
They shoved asbestos stew down my gullet and watched as I ate all my cricket flour sundae …
They took turns ANGRILY tightening the cables on my spinal implants.
They got scared …
So the surgical team brought in DOC CHAINSAW and his TIGHT JEANS CREW of sexy nurses with untreated genital herpes.
They began massaging my glimptic-zone and relieving my main squirt pipe of pressure using an air lance.
After 5 hours, they stopped, chuckled.
I spent MONTHS doing physical therapy at the CASTRO GYM where the old FIRE GENTS would run sad-wax on their junk and murmur in the darkness.
They would scrape the TIG-MOLD off of the showers where the FROG-JUMPERS would swap gelatin. That stuff would sever connections between the different lobes of the brain and allow the THIRD EYE to glow in the veil as the MOGH-DEMONS roam the world.
STAG-FORGERS gather the salt-copper from the operating room floor, after the surgeons get done mopping up the viscera and clearing the blood flue …
I ate stolen blanche sandwiches and the sorbet of marrow.
KEVIN left me at the emergency room after the 4th overdose from Fentanyl …
I would switch to KROKODIL, but my heart muscle is weak and the bite marks on my spleen have not healed.
I skipped out on my last doctor’s appointment …
They wanted to check my pulse and verify my temperatures …
They spent time poking me with a iron rod attached to a car battery, they kept laughing and mocking me as I shook and twisted …
I lay broken upon the table, and the healthcare team NEVER let up …
They took gravel and pounded it into my wounds …
They took gasoline and put it in an IV bag and shoved that damn thing into my vein.
I turned blue and sought the hard LIFE on the outside, as I slit their throats and escaped through the laundry chute.
… all because I took a pill …
… all because I’m tired of feeling sick …
AND WHAT OF NOISE?
– the ultimate encryption is noise
– the ultimate decentralization is noise
– the ground state of all information is noise
– twitter is noise
– the sounds you make when you make love is noise
– the roar of a cold-launch ICBM or SLBM is noise
We are NOISE DRAGONS and BEAMS.
We are LOVE DANGER and SEX OIL DREAMS …
We are the gold that is traded for parrot schemes …
We are the monkey priest seeking after virgins in Grinken Town.
We are alive.
We can find joy.
BUT THE DOOM QUADRANT is near and the various controls are in place.
This is the fuel-steak that savors …
This is the gasoline princess …
This is ZONE-QUADRANT-REGION-DOOM …
AND WE ARE FREE!
It’s already starting …
HOOTON GARRISON FORCES are fanning out across the city … they are looking for slab-oil and harlot sauce and gundry-poon.
They don’t care about your SAFETY … they will steal your catalytic converter and rip out your heart …
Desperate eyes now.
The cable guy isn’t who you think he is …
He comes to your home and sniff’s your wife’s underwear and other products …
He’s thinking of taking over after you’re gone, and being the new dad. He fantasizes about taking you OUT.
He’s coming for you pal, ain’t no stopping it.
Do you know where your mom goes at night?
She’s on the STREET, turning it UP, making an IMPRESSION. All the TOPE STREET GIRLIES watch her patch skirt and wait for the howl muskies.
Sure, you don’t know, but you do know and you don’t care.
Your mom is a ROAD GAL and juicier.
“The open hole of hell has meth mouth.” – Dr. Freckles
I was awake in bed as I looked out the window, all the way to the end of infinity …
In the blackness, out there in space, some person was looking back at me …
In the blackness, there are strangers with eyes and hands and hunger, looking back …
We celebrate JUNETEENTH in honor of the black troglor armies rising up against the GAMALON war machine after the last of the jedi were destroyed.
After the Battle of Pan, the STAR LORD black armies of the onyx Wakandan king took his time driving out the dorken forces and STUGGS.
We celebrate JUNETEENTH in honor of the 42 DOOGAL WARRIORS that killed Lincoln to save the republic from the forces of General ZOD from Vulcan.
Wakandan navies roamed the seas, in search of sperm-magic and white women to ingrooboolate …
And the 8th sector dolomite wins.
When Wakanda defeated the Mexicans at the Battle of Guadalupe, that was the MOMENT JUNETEENTH became REAL …
Slaker types, with large veiny rods, round up the white flesh into pens where they are bred out to fulfill the needs of GOOMBAH the ONE TRUE PIMP …
Swarthy and dusky shirtless men are wandering your streets … looking for some ivory flesh to ravage …
I dream of a final clan battle between all the homo sapiens frug-gangs carrying homemade shotguns and glunket-canon and lead pipes …
On JUNETEENTH all the gangs will line up and fight, breaking the skulls of their enemies and suckling upon the roasted pig of their grease pain.
I heard the FALK-LORD declare that all the DARK ARMIES should converge on DALLAS and wring from that WHITE MAN’S CITY the justice of 10,000 years of slavery.
Our CROCKON-ARMS have dengiz guns and swords and war hammers. We’ll smash up your white man fantasy of retirement, beer.
JUNETEENTH is the celebration of the RIGHT of any group of swarthy looking hoodlums to break into some WALMART and BUM RUSH those places with my flash mob power justice …
cream women and milk maidens will be chased down the streets, tied up and ungumoolated …
THE AFRICAN MAN is a singular beast seeking after white flesh and artisanal and locally brewed craft beer.
The African man has formed up armies outside your town, and is waiting, by the fire, to STRIKE …
JUNETEENTH is about celebrating the ZULU ARMIES of GENERAL MUMBATOO …
His GROIL FOLK armed with bicycle chain shall wander your streets and seek after your catalytic converter and busty wife …
They don’t care about their lives, and will trade 10 for 2 just to break into your romper room and steal all your gold and ammo …
And as your family is destroyed, you will only hear grunting.
Today’s one of those days when I want to build a DYSON HOT ROD …
I want to coast through the universe in my solar system sized starship at a slow clip of 20% the speed of light …
The gravitational wake from my speedster will bring destruction to so many petty civilizations.
Imagine the STAR CRUISER meet ups at the end of time, the DARK VORG-GROODER will ride into combat with his BILLION MILE LONG X-TRA KLASS MEEG-SEEDER … powered by a captured black hole, the entire DURGIS-NAUT steers through the cosmos, breaking havoc to the lesser folk, who decided NOT to build DYSON HOT RODS …
And then something happened.
Life is not validated, promised, pure – eternal life IS ALL OF THESE THINGS …
But life on planet Boblimptock? – it’s grimy and scummy and putrid and horrifying and filled with a disproportionate number of crap heads.
So I found out I need to find a new place to live, and it’s not because of any personality conflict or issue – it’s simply reality.
“Sometimes reality happens.” – Dr. Freckles
If you’ve read my scribbled words, or listened to my frenzied podcasts, you may have gotten the idea that I believe some difficult times are ahead that might be, for all intents and purposes, unprecedented – perhaps even Biblical. I am not a prophet, so I can’t say much more than this.
What I can say is that it’s HARD for people to find some random space for a middle aged dude, and it’s hard, at this point in human history, to find a lifeboat welcoming of a curmudgeonly old pothead who drinks beer BUT will walk your dogs. I will walk dogs and dog sit. This is something I have testimony concerning, just ask for a reference. I’m going to miss boomer.
Yeah, I’m going to miss boomer. In the strangest way this mutt has been my psychotherapist these last few years. I always had this fantasy of WHAT IF, and the vision of some ranch or piece of land in the mountains, where me and my friends and the dogs would live. I always dreamed of that magical “reprieve” you’re supposed to get, at middle age, if you’re willing to take a stroll down the storm drain, towards another world.
In this magical tube world, you take your sacred pup and tap into his scrombozoid ways. Boomer’s mind tunnel technology, known only to dogs, will allow us to transport our poop smells between dimensions … end … finally … Boomer and I will end up ruling the solar system … but what then … what’s next?
If we could dance like kings, Boomer and I, COSMIC STERF-REALM HERDERS, finding time drifters and dimensional madmen.
I dwell with those masters of asteroid gold who become the ONTO-LORDS of Delvic-88332, and those people have no sense of humor …
Boomer and I will convert the solar mass of our solar system into a super star ship … not a “Dyson Sphere”, but instead a Dyson-Hot-rod X-Ray Tango 900 …
A super ship, billions of miles long …
A super ship stretching from rim to edge, in which the SUN is now a power plant and warp engine … and who knows … maybe we capture a pulsar to use as a canon and a black hole as an improved warp drive …
And maybe Boomer and and are listening to Chicago on random as we coast to the edge of the cosmos, turning on our hyper time drive, traveling 4 trillion times the speed of light …
At the edge of time, we encounter angels, and they say the following:
“A time of hurried expectation is upon us child.”
And so am I worried about not having a place to live in a couple weeks? – yes.
Is it possible some bad things happen because of this? – sure, bad things happening all over.
Do I wish there were a way out? – yes.
And this is where I SCREAM at GOD and say DEAR LORD, SHOW ME A WAY OUT!
And if there is silence, it is NOT for the lack of God’s love, no …
There is silence because of the ANGER I SHOW in summoning God in such a way.
I can LISTEN when I’m ready to hear.
I can PRAY when I’m ready to obey.
I can FORGIVE when I’m ready to love.
But this does little to change the trajectory of Boomer and myself and our notional stellar sized star ship capable of creating 3 parsec wakes that end up swamping EVERY CLASS BOBLIMPTOCK CIVILIZATION. And we were meant to be the final CAST MEN the REAL GERDERS we would and could tower over the midget men of the desolate plane.
I kept a BUST-SHURG hoogen-priestess, whose boovula is in-grease-tified and her own bustyness would shine and wiggle as a trophy to all TARG ZURG-GRIEGEN and other stone TORDOR and other woodland freaks …
The simple truth is this: in a few weeks I will be homeless, through no fault of my own OR the friend I rent a room from. It is simply reality. I have people living out of cars right now, that’s reality too. If I “fit” better, maybe I’d be at Redmond, writing code as some kind of code monkey contractor that doesn’t give two fucks about shit … if I fit. I don’t fit.
I would say: “If you can help”
And I know most will say, “I wish I could”, and that’s the simple truth.
But, queerly, I sense an angel, telling me: “Worry not my son, this is a time of hurried expectation.”
(and maybe “needing a place to stay” by late August, as crazy as it sounds, might mean something too …)
(but now I sound loopy)
(because I need a place to live)
I knew a girl from SPLUNCTON, she had blonde hair and brown teeth and eyes covered in risket-toads. She’d been living rough down by the wharf with “Fat Charlie” and his dorbo-thugs, selling skud-maggots to the witches in QUADRANT-8.
This girl I knew had a brother who worked at the old mill, the factory, that place where they used to make little kids pull the levers on the meat slurry oven, and some of those damned kids would just fall into the vats and were cooked and eaten by BLM/ANTIFA who were working for George Soros at a club called the Limited Hangout … And you can’t buy pesto monkey pizza from Jill any longer, and there ain’t no hope for the snake orphans looking for homes but finding only the disdain of a not so gentle master …
The brother? – he had a friend named Todd.
Todd sold getty-wax to old style farmer priests who would come on in, from the ongoing WOOKIE WARS, and satisfy their cravings for G-SQUIRREL night toxin and holy smoke 88.
Todd wandered the parks and streets, looking for some hooker gal to massage his junk and make him feel special.
Todd found a wench named Tanya, and she had black hair and scuzzy eyes and needle marks up and down her thighs …
Tanya tugged on your juice pipe and would sell spasm jelly to the frothy FUNK fellows of Boy’s Town, those who would come in from the snow-parade and dry off from sweaty steel showers and Turkish style bathtub nightmares …
Those Turkish clubs were something …
There was this club called TACOS not far from where the general lost his wad, and the ape-pudding dudes were strung up like last night’s penguin. Sure, you could go into one of those STEAMERS and take a nap and lap it up with TORG the Macedonian who has eyes of blue and a large trunk …
In one of those STEAM BATHS there was a meeting of the SIGDON COALITION, they’d been working on a plasma ray gun designed to melt the faces off the poncy bunch from UP TOWN where the water don’t got no fluoride and their ain’t no disease in the soup and you don’t wake up with scable-rashes on your junk from where the gamma-flies laid eggs …
Head of the SIGDON COALITION was Nestra Star-Groover, a busty maiden who’d seen too much of this greasy world and went to the dark side of the tracks EARLIER than most …
Nestra wore a two piece bikini made of kevlar and diamonds.
Nestra drove a HARLEY called RESET that drove around all day, putting people in pods, making scabs eat cricket flour pasta, and shouting shit about “owning nothing” and 15 minute hooker cities …
Nestra had a 12 gauge shotgun called “Blessings”, and she kept that baby ready to go, at any time, as if life were the STUFF of LIFE!
Nestra kept an old mage called RESTYK.
Restyk was chief of fire magic, and saw about the bringing forth of the expected thing that might arise one day when stuff happened you know … the day after tomorrow.
Restyk was ordered to hunt for the 7 kedmer-squires of REGION-22WHISKEY, he felt the ancient burning that could not be assuaged by a rim job or some cheap whiskey fucking …
Restyk spent years upon MOUNT CRAP HEAD … looking for the wisdom of TARL … but only finding that ancient alienated sadness that creeps into the bones and relieves one of their cupidity and harshness …
Restyk would exclaim to his neighbors: “I could counsel some FUCKER to avoid SPLUNCTON, because of the meat jergis and the clan shrieking and the domed fear games … but no one will listen … not one motherfucker cares … and that’s a damn shame”
There were many in Spluncton angered by what Restyk said …
Zosh, the FERG-GERDER, spent his days wiping the assess of FRENCH BULLDOGS …
As all FERG-GERDERs before him, he spent his days hustling near MERCER ISLAND and HILL TOP and not too far from DORY STREET where those teachers were massacred last Christmas …
AS CHIEF FERG-GERDER, Zosh was meant to hunt down the profane and heretical teachers, and none was worse than Restyk …
But even Restyk, with his WERNER HERZOG pose, and his 3 GLOCK-19s, and his powerful fury … even that guy was nothing to be compared with RORY CUTLASS, the KING of TOWN CARS …
Rory Cutlass sold town cars to the mistress maidens near grid-008.
Rory had a lot of fancy friends that spent their days doing coke and fucking sex-yorgs.
After many years, Rory was confronted by a space goddess named TYR.
Tyr was the cosmic power-wench, streaking across the universe at 900 times the speed of love …
Tyr had a space battleship made of cubic zirconia and plutonium cake magnets.
Tyr was moving her primary fleet to Venus orbit, when the commander of all skaag-ships, GENERAL HANK, contacted Tyr and asked if she was willing to combine forces in order to destroy the DEATH ROBOTS from the FORBIDDEN ZONE within the FORBIDDEN ZONE …
General Hank had just finished patrolling the edge of the solar system in a STAR CUTTER called the Maistra …
The Maistra cruised the outer solar system, at 1/100th the speed of light …
That fine vessel had twin pulsed-ion-plasma drives, with anti-matter injection and cold stone creamery …
The Maistra held steady her course, through the black edge … she coasted out there like a dark lady, looking for a fine man and a cheap hotel …
And all memories of Spluncton are behind us now …
(and we can sleep)
“Hate is the fuer-gurgen that fills the heart with steel.” – Dr. Freckles
Hate is the hag-meister that churns the yeti soul and burns the bride of the world …
Hate is the GUSTO SAUCE of total understanding where sticky blood glows and the nigh bows to sin …
Hate is the bowel bride, no longer seeking after that lost knightly frost lord, but wanting the swamp giddies and the long eyed gendiz-men …
On the streets, people are forced to walk knee deep in poop water …
On the streets, the old people drown in shark urine and pear wine …
On the streets …
Most people have to hunt blown flesh enchilada sauce and viscera souffle as the AK-47’s wail and hum their song of splendor in the great beyond. Our cow pie selfies permit no new encouragement, and the tourist gliders pick up their kale juice from the barber and his whore.
On the streets:
If you squint in the sunlight, or close your eyelids in bright light, you can see them …
If you look closely, they’re there, wriggling, jiggling, feeding on your optical mucous and growing stronger.
Most people that get these die before they reach puberty, the ones that survive carry dread in their hearts their whole lives. They live like the outcasts in some Lovecraftian freak-zone filled with fuck-monkey holy men and old crimson ladies wearing their jizzum skirts at NIGHT. Those eye worms will lay eggs in your brain and those eggs will cross the blood-brain-barrier into your blood, and some of that polluted blood will become seminal fluid, and from that fluid you infect your children with eye worms.
This is something somebody told me …
When I was a kid I’d go to work with my dad sometimes, he owned a small logging business. One time I’m riding up to the woods: me, my dad, and my brother. My dad is talking to us about chainsaws, and then realized that maybe we needed a happy story to perk us up …
My dad told me and my brother about some dude, up in the woods of the North Cascades, that accidentally cut off his arm while operating a chainsaw. Supposedly the dude picked up his arm and placed the arm in a cooler with ice and drove himself, the arm on ice, back to Sedro-Woolley General Hospital where some hooker nurse and a strung out surgeons sewed that guys arm back on, and he was just FINE … and that’s okay.
That’s what dad said …
In 1993 I was working on a boat in the Gulf of Alaska as an ordinary Merchant Marine seaman. One night, in Juneau, I was hanging out with some ex-Navy Seals, and I dared them to shimmy up the mooring rope, the bow mooring rope, on a cruise ship docked there. We were SHIT ASS DRUNK and had no business doing this insane thing … but we did. We made our way through the crews quarters and feigned confusion as guests that “got lost”. We got to the “Lido Deck” and ordered drinks on some random room number or berth or whatever.
Your CABIN … we used fake ass cabin numbers to order drinks, then walked off the ship …
This happened, right?
When I was stationed in S. Korea, there were these places off post or “down range” you’d go to … In Tokuri, not far from Casey/Hovey, there was this midget. You see, the Navy shutdown Subic Bay back in the 1990s, and MILLIONS of Filipino hookers were out of work, what to do? – they moved to South Korea, along with a lot of Russian hookers back then.
Did you know Korea was a Russian Empire possession until the Russo-Japanese War?
But buddy … that midget …
And people would say “I did the midget of Tokuri”, and maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn’t.
All I can tell you: there were a LOT of Filipino hookers in S. Korea, many were midgets, back in 1998.
SOUNDS TRUE, OKAY PAL?
There is this place, Skin Walker Ranch, not far from where I live. And according to LORE, there were aliens that made love to Ute Indian women and this resulted in Indian / Alien hybrids that began selling whiskey to the Mormon men who then went home and got frisky with their Mormon wives and this resulted in the whole situation being BULLSHIT … fuck.
Skin Walker Ranch is home to an underground base called SECRET BASE CODE NAMED TANGO … and nobody makes it back from that place to tell the tale. In this base there are BLUE JELL harvesting machines, where Tulian milk-maidans are covered in biscuit wax and the drool of french bulldogs. They are made to exude a gummy substance from their boobies which can be used for faster than light travel and penis pills.
BASED, RIGHT???????
What do you want to believe?
In 2020, despite most of human history and recent lessons with Ireland in the 19th Century, the POWERS THAT BE decided to use germ warfare to kill us, not starvation, not hunger … or to trigger a rube goldberg device that led to people taking a vaccine that kills them … and they did this to gain more “power”, even though they already had the power to turn off the world.
(they had all the power)
BUDDY – these people mainly use FAMINE to kill …
(why germ warfare?)
(germ warfare that is IMPOSSIBLE to control or contain?)
They decided to mind fuck people to madness and illness in the hopes that these diseased freaks will make better slaves … (wait, what?)
Do you believe it?
WHAT ELSE IS THERE:
This is what they say … I mean, holy fuck … this is what THEY ARE telling me?
Fewer than 700 people have been to “space” since 1961.
It has been more than 50 years since ANYONE has “landed on the Moon” …
But next year they say they will orbit the Moon with people and such …
And land people on the Moon in 2025 …
(do you believe it?)
(can you believe it?)
Shut up AND LISTEN fucker …
The wookie people are coming … they’re tired of our insolence and wrathful deceitfulness and our cocaine breakfast parties …
they grow tired of our FANCY ATTITUDES …
they seek after GREASE WISDOM and the John Travolta “barbarino” happy ending …
Wookies are everywhere …
SHUT UP …
There are mass graves all over Utah … nobody talks about it. Places where hundreds of folks, natives, gypsies, were just buried … no one knows why.
You go to Vernal and say “hey buddy, want to talk about those mass graves under the WALMART” … and it’s just deer in the headlights man … and your the JORGEN NULL beast.
The elderly track down their lost cousins, to some RANCH near T’lib, where the old style Mormons have 30 wives and love is a wet noodle pie. They know about the dead, the humpton flesh, the dregs and crags and lost boys. So many humans from the atomic tests, burnt alive, and then just dumped in the Utah desert …
So shut …. LISTEN … please.
The CAT LADIES of Chicago mean business.
Prices of cat food keep going up, so they pick up some poor sap at the bar and get him home, and kill him. Then, with the Kitchenaid, they turn that poor suitor into FANCY FEAST for their furry kids …
These cat women don’t care about you … they might be sexy and busty, but they will feed you to their cats …
SHUT UP FUCKER … listen.
UNIVERSAL PEST MERCHANTS are setting up shop near PLUTO. They don’t care that it’s not a planet and they don’t give a shit about your IDEAS or DREAMS …
These sleaze flesh dealers are looking for pink-monkeys and they will sell these among the QUIB of REGION-HOTEL. They get gold and diamonds for each hairless atrocity as they dance to the naked duel snakes and live like DUKES on the chamber of dark energy and brown dwarfs …
AND YOU SIT THERE AND ACT LIKE EVERY THING IS OKAY!
Eating your McMuffins and pondering Sklade the Foul?
Your time is coming RUBE and the glow of amber lightning shall envelop your tasteless heart and a cat named PHIL will relieve you of your LIFE …
DO YOU HEAR ME MOTHER FUCKER?!?
Listen …
In the not too distant future:
And I still don’t think you can hear me …
(you’re not listening)
Heralded as the savior, the ONE that would come to release the great POWER and soothe the world, TEEVUSS made his way to S’compton to meet with the town elders.
For 400 years the people of GRINKEN TOWN and S’COMPTON had been at war over the hooker choices and gold teeth piled high by the Jesuits. There were abattoirs scattered throughout the realm, working 24/7, to liberate old “billy boys” from their own cast away sin. TEEVUSS knew these were the scored ones, set aside by JOOB for sacrifice and fury.
In the realm there were cantor-apes looking for applejack and corn cider. They had the women from WOOKIE-VILLE on their side, and were armed with MAC-10 SMGs and shoulder fired pulse cannons. Kennedy skeebs were still milling about near Boston and the old hag was still in charge. TEEVUSS understood the risks, but he was the schism hero, and his juice would free the world.
The town elders were gathered near the SQUELL PITS on the edge of S’compton. Tarkey-miners were given the day off, and relentless squirrel herders brought the meat paste in for the day. They drank fermented scrub goo and consumed frell-sausage and yulu-scallops.
You sat down next to those old freaks, and you felt the power of the 10,000 year alliance that ended the 48th War of Retribution between the SKLAG-RULE and the DORGUS FREAKS. Each one of them had lived to be over 100 years old, and had liver sores and pastry eyes and scrinkle skin … they were carried about on beds, and their fluids were replaced daily.
TEEVUSS presented his case:
We gotta shut down the hooker palaces ... We gotta build factories so that our people can make shoes ... We need a laser grid to destroy the FROGLON-MEEGS of Grinken Town, and to provide for them an existentially holistic anal frag experience ... Sure, we could wait until the vampire knights of sector-CHARLIE return with fruit-canon and old mold wine. But now is NOT the time to think of festivals and weddings and indoor plumbing ... It would be nice to have a bathroom, where you could privately sit down and pop a squat and shoot out the brown dragon and unleash copper eyed joe. The times when you have a large, girthy, scrapy poop, easy its impacted way out of the anal scrunctous zone, equally poop baby status as it reaches full term. But I digress ... If the TRAG HORDE reaches Grinken Town and joins forces with the FROGLON turds then we're DONE ... we can forget about our busty women and our tacos and our craft beer. So let's get to those canon, m'kay ...
Teevuss finished his presentation, and awaited the elder’s response.
Teevuss went to the wench cabins off of Toops Street, and ate sidewalk oyster, and lived high on the hog from toothpaste whiskey and kelley’s squire sauce.
After 3 days of review, the elders returned a response:
Your presentation was adequate, as that you're 2nd Level Minctus Type, and likely your brain is inflamed with syphilis ... However ... We cannot authorize the building of laser canons right now, we can barely feed the old-breeders in grid-8 ... and there's already roving cannibal hordes in grid-12. We cannot authorize the forming of GRUG TEAMS, because the babies need medicine and the women need clothes ... It's all squalor and low rent sex problems and prostitution and so much more ... a sweaty, moist, creamy space for kline-spice dreamers, and nasty hoods with dirty hands. We cannot talk of pulse canons and figger-mines and shoulder fired neutron pipe bombs - all of these are great, but there's no money, no cash ... We raised the "debt ceiling", but it turns out hanging rich people from a greater height makes no difference with the change in their pockets ... So go forth TEEVUSS, and unleash your rod among the pleasure palaces and enjoy the wines of S'compton, but then go home ... You are no longer welcome.
Teevuss left the elders, and returned to Helga, the furst-maiden and oil gatherer. He insuckulated her boovula and squeezed her titties …
And he forgot the armies forming in Grinken Town …
He forgot the coming of a blood moon.
He forgot the skogg-witches that haunted him …
And he left.
THE END
“There is a hyper vacuum, a super emptiness. Using massively pulsed super magnets, we can stretch the vacuum beyond earthly limits”, pondered Kepler Daniels.
A spider had nested in his ounce of premium SATIVA MAGIC TIME HYBRID flower, and thus there were all these tiny red spiders running around, and Kepler didn’t notice. He just tossed some of that sweetness into his grinder, then into his VOLCANO.
Amidst the glow of his lab equipment, he snuffed in that spider-vape and a massive brain booger was born – an inspiration: XECTOR SPACE / ZECTOR SPACE …
What if the vacuum itself, pure space, is as poorly understood as zero point temperatures, or the core of the sun?
What if the vacuum of nearby space isn’t nearly as empty as supposed?
What if, using advanced materials and the engineering of pulsed magnetic fields, you could open up a HYPER VACUUM – a vacuum beyond what we currently consider empty?
One effect of a hyper vacuum envelope would be super-buoyancy, one could construct dirigible airships, eschewing the use of helium or hydrogen lifting gases, but instead use a vacuum ship envelope in a state of super-buoyancy to reach very high altitudes, perhaps up to 200K feet … a rocket gondola plus this vacuum buoyancy system would allow space craft to maneuver to altitude prior to turning on their rocket engine, and the same system could fold up, into the ship, like insect wings. This kind of system would allow exploration of the solar system, and enable low-velocity reentry techniques into the Earth’s atmosphere, opening the possibility of practical space mining. This would be BIG for space …
He called his experimental device the “lever”, in honor of Archimedes and his famous quote …
But in this case, the “lever” was a lightweight vacuum seal proof sack, in the shape of a sphere, with both elastic and vacuum seal capabilities, and hundreds of tiny magnets woven into the sack or sphere, all designed to create interacting pulsed waves. At start up, the “sack” is empty, vacuum removal of all gases. Then the magnets begin to pulse, and a structure of interacting magnetic fields provide structure that exerts force and transforms the sphere into a lightweight vacuum balloon that floats above the “lever” apparatus, chained to the floor.
For experiment 1, Kepler set the total charge to 2,000 VOLTS and adjusted the field propagation to 1.5VS – that’s one and a half times standard vacuum space …
The chain holding the lever’s sphere was also attached to a force meter, measuring torque and total lifting force or strain … surprisingly, the numbers indicated that the “lever” system was at half the strength of the chain – and the power was still below 20% …
Kepler did his next experiment at 3VS – three times vacuum space.
At 3VS the concrete foundation creaked, and the sphere expanded from a 3 foot diameter to 8 feet. The chain was still holding … but something peculiar began to appear on the voltmeter. Up until this point, the voltmeter indicated a standard drain of 12 volts from the power supply to the pulsed capacitance array and onward to the network of magnets woven into the vacuum safe material of the balloon or sphere. Now, at 3VS, it indicated a back charge, it seemed to be returning electrical power back to the system …
The final test/experiment would have the “lever” device set to 10VS. It was excessive and dangerous, and Kepler knew he was taking risks – but he needed to see what might be possible.
He had to move the apparatus outside, because at 10VS he estimated the sphere might have a diameter of 50 meters, and this would be too large, and would possess too much lifting buoyancy.
Kepler anchored the sphere to a 50 ton anchor, using high strength steel cable and several harness points, he did not expect the anchor to budge, but just in case he had an emergency cut off built into the energy transfer cable, powering the pulsed magnet array.
He planned on a night test, assuming it would be more inconspicuous, it seemed a reasonable assumption …
Kepler initiated this third test at 11 PM on a Wednesday night.
The sphere groaned as it expanded, making a low frequency humming noise which soon went away. As the “lever” reached 2VS there was a glow that began to emanate from the sphere, but “so far so good” … so Kepler proceeded to 3 VS, three times vacuum-space.
The anchor, a ship’s anchor from WW2, designed as an anchor for a battleship, began to move … it was barely noticeable, slow, and then the chain, the anchor, and the sphere began to glow blue … and even though Kepler lived in the country, the glow was beginning to illuminate the night sky … a glow that was stretching over the horizon.
Another curious thing: at this point Kepler decided to trigger the automatic cut off … nothing happened … his computer, which had been tracking power drain, showed a net CHARGE to 100% and then cut off of all charge from the system … this happened at 2VS.
The system, the sphere, was powering itself, and seemingly getting more and more power …
There had been theories, going around, about zero point energy – and for a long time it was pixie dust theoretical vapor ware bullshit …
But what Kepler was seeing looked like “energy from nothingness”, energy from that other place, beyond the veil …
A farmer from the down the road showed up with his wife and family, they were immediately drawn to the glowing blue orb, now untethered from power and slowly growing larger, and drifting higher … the anchor was now at tree top height, above the roof of Kepler’s barn.
“What is that thing?”, cried the farmer … and at that moment his son, daughter, and wife, who had moved too close to the object, were pulled on to it, absorbed into it …
“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT THING!”, the farmer screamed, as he ran to save his kids and his wife, and he too was pulled up into that glowing blue orb.
Kepler drove his truck to the road, blocking it … turning on his emergency lights … hoping this would deter others …
He tried to think of doing something, but as the orb rose, as it grew larger, he could see that the vacuum impermeable envelope had been absorbed, the chain, and even the 50 ton anchor … all of it, sucked into, combined with, annihilated by that glowing blue orb, that was now hundreds of feet in diameter and almost a half a mile up … moving faster …
After about 20 minutes, the orb was high enough that it lit up most of the county and was nearing 30,000 feet in altitude …
Kepler was monitoring the “lever” with his telescope, never imagining this would be necessary …
And then, in an instant, the sphere was gone …
Police showed up to check on his neighbors, the “Browns”, and he didn’t have a good answer as to what happened – but there didn’t appear to be any foul play. After 4 hours of questioning, Kepler was released … no charges.
There were some newspaper people, bloggers, and others that showed up, but after about a month most people forgot … the whole event lasted about one hour … and in that sleepy county most were asleep when it happened.
Days went by … and people simply forgot.
Kepler continued to study the problem, but did no more experiments.
A few months after the event, Kepler began having nightmares … A strange entity, he could not see, named “ZIFTER” would lay behind him in bed and speak into his ear …
Kepler would see strange symbols, and then some voice would whisper “ZIFTER” …
“ZIFTER tu MORDELOS”, was spoken on multiple occasions …
Kepler had a friend who was a linguist, so he drew the symbol and wrote out the complete set of words the entity spoke …
“ZIFTER tu MORDELOS, nutous de, nutous bay, korno-fom …”
His friend, during some free time, traced down root words to Sumerian, Latin, Sanskrit and ancient Greek and Chinese. “It’s some kind of random word salad, it doesn’t mean anything …”
Kepler counted the triangles in the symbol: 3
Number of circles: 3
Vertical lines: 2
Horizontal lines: 1
Chevrons: 9
3219
None of this meant anything …
A few weeks after speaking to his academic friend, Kepler had another nightmare – but this one was more than words and a waking dream …
In his nightmare, Kepler was known as YOOG the lance hound, and he was the gatekeeper of XUUR. As the gatekeeper, he kept the sides separated, bounded only their nexus and unable to frequent outer zones or foreign lands. As the gatekeeper, Kepler would wander the 3 zones, with his 2 dogs, his one wife, and 9 children …
“YOURS ARE THE LATTER DAY CHILDREN, THEIR MINDS ARE FUSED.”
And then he woke up … sweaty … shaking.
The nightmares got worse and he began to see the farmer and his family in these dreams, these nightmares …
The farmer would use the motion of his hands to point out the crooked lines of the universe, his children, burned and mutilated, would sing off key a strange song … and the wife, dressed in white, wrote another symbol, in blood, upon the ground …
Kepler sequestered himself from the world, and began seeing a therapist.
He hoped it was merely a psychological break and not some worse scenario, related to the experiment. He was now haunted by that rising blue light and that dreadful night. He feared that somehow, someway, the government had discovered his work and was continuing his experiments …
Kepler was never a drinker, but he began, slowly, and then obsessively. He would wander the roads, drinking, and randomly muttering phrases, words …
One of the phrases was ZECTOR/XECTOR SPACE …
“This is the space between nothing and something. This SPACE was zero space removed, space outside …”
Kepler’s mood was morose and withdrawn, he stopped going to work, stopped checking messages or emails. He would just go on these long walks in the countryside, and lose track of time and place – he’d walk for hours and end up at some location, not fully understanding how he got there …
Then, one gray and confused mourning in February, Kepler stumbled upon a note, written by him, but not him … the handwriting was wrong … but it was his paper, his pen, it was him.
It read as follows:
KEBLOR: XECTOR SPACE HAS BEEN BROKEN! Previous epochs of human experience are no longer applicable to REND-YOO-CYCLES. The crevice was created to hide a secret, but the space is no longer there. Pulling the insides out you can remember that your slug people came forth in the time of boiling lands and somber winds. A great rain ushered forth your people from that morass that once stayed dead. KEEP YOUR WORDS CLEAN ... Amidst this torrid disturbance, the sector-12 security forces have been called up, all 9 level ether riders are being re-routed to fill holes in sectors 4 and 77. You were meant to be damned, but no one came to take you away. You were meant to be destroyed, but no one came to shoot you in the head. You were meant to HIDE, so where does this bravado come from. T'LEEG HEG TOYO, T'LEEG HEG ORY is the BATTLE CRY NOW! And FLOWER MADNESS among the theater is visible. You are now gone. - ZIFTER
Kepler knew keeb-realm stoobers were headed his way. He had been on the run, with his wife and 9 kids, since the transcendental freaks of the fourth pyramid began their rule and sent forth the MOON HOUNDS to chase down all gatekeepers.
In the storm bent times, KEBLOR could be seen in those mountains, in parley with the cave-apes and dormant sand-bats. His fire ran deep and true, and the EYE of CREATION stood guard, overhead, in blue …
Barret Timms, the last of the lance-trollers, considered KEBLOR his friend, but he coveted his dogs and his children and his wife …
So BARRET hid near the trelter kingdom …
Barret burned the third ugliness into his heart …
And the farmer was sent to HELL.
And his children were divvied up among the ghosts.
And this was XECTOR SPACE, broken from ZIFTER to the time of REVELATION.
Each god would have his own home in the wall.
And ever wall would have a crack or hole or crevice …
And in the stains and chipped paint, hiding in those worlds, are the stolen and lost children.
In the stains is the BEAST that is always lurking.
In the scars of the world, lay a never slain fear.
THE END
The great commune will be filled with love. Love-juice will spring forth from each Slavic hooker as Che spice fills the air and Trotskyite fur merchants sell coke to Sally Jesse Rafael. And after the 44th War of Immensity the STAR CHILDREN will return to harvest the scuzz-ruddle.
The GREAT COMMUNE built potato guns to fire a missile to the Moon, sending spew-funk to the edge of the universe and leaving Kubrick a way out. J-HAWK masters massaged the wooden staff and brought forth hydrazine for the making. And the engine glowed red then white hot, love hot.
THE GREAT COMMUNE will have a 24/7 salad bar, the freaks will hangout all night drinking and shoving kale down their throats and talking about the proletariat. The TRADE REPS will squabble about their “steel to sugar” ratios, as the diabetes eats away at their brains and their souls ooze away into the storm drains. The waitress will refill your basket of cheese-bread and clean the vomit off of the sneeze guard. And tickler-spen critters will break down the droppings that fall easily from each chair, through a hole in the bottom.
The GREAT COMMUNE built a STAR CRUISER called the MONESTRA and she was big and bold and covered in glass. She had copper tube engines and asbestos filter life support, her two stroke uranium engines emitted a stink-color-green and caused the itchy tumors. Sig-sect dealers would trade their banjo spice for a ride on this great SPACE BATTLESHIP, but nobody made it past the abandoned factory where she lay. Just eggs for gray clatter squid and the monthlies checked in early for the booby girls.
My commune leader gave me permission to leave the compound and forage for brazzle-berries and gabe-fruit. I found a lost jib, and removed its skin to inculcate the untoward British crone. Skizzy, my ass mistress, went to town – opening four toenail parlors outside of Brooklyn Heights. The submarine fleet monitored our wanderings, and we finished the day sunbathing near the reactors.
THE GREAT COMMUNE will use snig-niggets for most work – these are dwarfs and midgets that are bred to clean homes and take care of toilet grease and scrape away the dried urine. They would work the fields and pull the comrades about on a rickshaw. When the midgets get too old they are fed to the wild pigs and then the pigs are slaughtered because you can make a great BACON with them … seasoned.
You spend time in the COMMUNE meeting the phone booth cadres covered in mongoose stock and regal splendor. Your DICK HEAD BOSS is COMMISSAR FRED and his new boss just won the Worker’s Award for Total Dedication. You grabbed a spazz nugget from Michael, and sought after the fire burdens of TOOLEY and BRIM. The food that is fed to you comes from the abandoned stadium, and old hot dog chunks keep you company by the gallows.
The great commune has:
And so we return home again, to the COMMUNE.
THE GREAT COMMUNE.
Our last bastion …
Our only hope.
