CRINKLE-CREVICES …

Your crevice brings pain …

Dingle-berry super heroes line up their SITES to find your CRINKLE-ZONE, and you hide it, even in those YOGA PANTS you wear to STARBUCKS. We see the oils, and the drips, we can sense your baby clock is reading HIGH NOON and it’s high time you had some Spluncton style snake magic.

Snake magic is a special kind of GOOF. You won’t know your own sploof-fig after the rine has been removed and the seagrass blooms. Your HERO SLAVE is done setting up the chains in the woodshed, and your missile-jackson style lover is waiting in the shower, for some “Kelly Clarkson” style love dancing.

I could hold on to your crinkle zone, bearing upon it the great weight of my lead pipe. But your heart is too free pretty bird, and your mind is fit for apes.

My own sklebick-energy could not compare to your HOLE SPECTACLE … Your power juice weaved its ways into my broken hear, and sealed the cracks, releasing CREVICE SORCERY and anal magic.

I could have been a master of THROG-DOORS …

But your whorish ways led me astray, and I found nothing but pills and swamps and lost cowboy fondlers, wanting back into your pants … your crevice gold.

Cantor?

With your infinite sets?

I don’t need your pseudo mathematical bullshit, when here grease river flows, like turtle gravy – and there’s no HOE STOP for granny town types and hicksters from Memphis.

MARK MY WORDS: your hole is for the skeeg-mice.

Puddle flower …

Your purple eyes spoke volumes, as your body sunk beneath the surface of those love-oils. You would take your luxurious bath, as the swans sang songs of bad ice. And NOWHERE is your lover SWAYNE … and nowhere is his herpes.

Most of you are mungit beasts, you will feed upon tripe with the ghost priests.

Total Sexual Mastery

I know 7 techniques that will allow you to achieve total sexual mastery.

I’m not going to share them … not for free.

There’s this part of a woman’s spleegus-area that exudes a greasy black mineral, you bite into that, you gain insight into your own madness.

I can show you how to ungudoolate a woman so that she reaches a 9 on the soob-nah scale of female juices.

Women hunt after my jewel-sauce.

I got 6 kinds of woman for 12 kinds of love making.

I can sense your orgasm, smell it, taste it.

I’ve been making a lot of headway with my 4 primary systems of SEX POWER and PUSSY GREED: a) cup her dinglies, b) embrace her horns, c) crush her with rod passion, d) spew on cue … follow these steps, and you too will have complete love mastery.

“Ladies … want some flesh pie?”

I have love potions baby …

I’m out there in the night, ready to tuck you in.

I can fill your cup, butterfly dearest.

That’s right baby – I have my eye on your booty.

I see your love dreams and can envision you, running through the jungle, scantily clad, being hounded by sweaty prison guards …

I saw you dancing last night, to that new song.

I saw you touch yourself, and you know I was there … watching.

I love you baby.

I’ll give you a salad mixer, if you toss my salad.

Your blood boils as your lust builds,

and your window sill hooker waits,

the metal grates clink as you sink into her chasm.

She screams: “That’s not ice cream!”

And you say: “Nah, that’s NICE CREAM.”

I can teach you about STOOB-JENKINS MAGIC …

Your woman will never know what hit her, as she moans in pleasure-agony, and her sprinctal-zone ignites with juice power.

Is she looking for an old style “beefeater”, but what she says she wants is the “English Navy”?

I was your Steve McQueen style lover, and your body shivered under my great escape …

I shattered your G SPOT with my “sunny day dandy”, and you screamed as though a million suns were burning in pleasure.

You called me your “shimmy McDoogle”, and I said “keep shining river squirrel” …

Your kestrel arc, as you slid my meat pipe into your cubby, slew me baby … and that “twice chewed pork” routine? – damn girl, damn

I’ve seen you – demon lord.

Master of that newer scene, one so mean and lean that no body will stop your witch’s bosom … and such green tips, and lips that shine and rhyme with that moan you make, you know baby …

Can I be your Canadian monkey, if you will be my Monte Cristo Woman?

Is there a greasy place for us?

When I die …

When I die?

Chuck me out of a moving car, as you drive recklessly through the hell zone of San Francisco.

Make sure I’m RIPE and READY and so dissolved that my body splatters and explodes, as you toss it out on the street going 55 MPH.

Let the rat and the pigeon feed upon me.

When I die …

Take me up in a CESSNA to about 7,000 feet and drop me on WA DC. Have a streamer attached to my body that reads: TAXES PAID IN FULL! Try to hit the WA monument, so that my body explodes on the tip, just the tip …

When I die …

I want all my parts harvested, and dried out, turned into a powder, and sold in China Town.

(I don’t care how racist that sounds)

(I’m dead)

When I am no longer here …

I’ll drink beer with Gabriel and smoke weed with Jeremiah.

I’ll spend all day reading the ancient texts, and then “show up” and SCARE YOU, like a ghost … but I’ll have the most joy when you’re naked in the bathroom, lathering your boobies.

We had Fantasy Island …

What about FENTANYL ISLAND?

The Time of Atomic Warlords …

I am going to be an ATOMIC WARLORD during the time after.

I’m going to slink out in the night for a tough fight, with razors in both hands – I’ll make my stand against the raiders from region-NOVEMBER. Our careless use of gasoline will set the world ablaze, as we raise hell chasing down slunk-flesh and renting out whores … in the time of Atomic Warlords.

If my bones creak from the freak wrestling on Saturday nights, I’ll just drink ol’ Doc Grunkis’ tasty “horse cider” and I’ll be fine by morning, leaking blood and pus from all the holes.

I was never supposed to leave the nursery, bare chested and filled with spunk! But my old granddaddy said “boy, get going, no soup here” – there wasn’t, all the loygan-soup had been consumed, and all that was left was YMCA shower fermented foot debris and residue … and this wasn’t great either. I fled the dworg-folk and made my way to Splunkton, where the women are hearty and the men sing songs.

I was beaten by the HOG FARMERS of Tacoma, when the razzle-dazzles rose up in fury and they shook their fists at KING EARL. There were fires set in nearby towns, and the hetzel-knights rode forth to chop off the heads of pimps and carousing nerdowells … But there were tender moments with Mistress Jenny and her mud style fisting and the “tango and cash” routine she did with her boovula.

She said: “You are my stone prince.”

I said: “You are my tornado flower.”

As our bodies became moist and greasy, we enravaged each other’s stink flesh, while she grabbed my “Howdy Doody”, and I massaged her “Lucy, I’m Home!” … she moaned, as the shaft dove deeper into the cave of wonder. And there was a moment of trembling, as love flashes expanded across her shivering bosom, but the smoky butt writhing soothed our haughty stink.

But I grew tired of her, so I left her in the glass pits of Grobb’s Town.

In those days I rode a tumor ridden brown bear named Rudy. Rudy and I made our way around the peninsula and all the way to Canada. We had chieftains bowing to us, as I lanced their finest and spat blood upon their sacred urns. Nothing was left but for me to RATTLE THE CAGES of the ancient ones, and see if old MINGUS JONES wants to battle with the apes of Seattle for the last cans of chili.

My time would come …

A time of taking out the old garbage, and dumping it some place.

A time of dancing and song, when the lullaby birds sing of newborn floss and the old rotting corpses smell less bad.

You can make your life there, when the sun cracks through …

A special place for me and for you …

You would see that white goo, and say “honey, fertilize my skigg-bag”, and I’d say “baby, I will jelly all over your dover-sack” … and that’s love.

And this was a story of love.

Did you?

Did you take the garbage out?

I told you to, but did you?

Did you call your mom?

Your mom has been calling all day and she wants to know if you’re okay …

So did you call her? Shit head?

When you left your woman in bed this morning, as she languidly lay there, inconspicuously rubbing her “target zone”, did you consider that Robby the Repairman is coming later – to fix the pipes?

Robby knows where the clitoris is … do you?

Did you think that your life would be over, so soon?

Did you think your love would be darkness and ruin?

Think about her and Robby.

Did you make money on BITCOIN?

MILLIONS!

Are you living in a nice home not far from Fuegas?

FUEGAS CITY?

But your mind is an empty plastic trap, and your mouth festers with halitosis …

You have every STAR WARS action figure, but no love, nothing real …

Your hooker women are not real …

Did you wear a condom?

Did you find a way home?

A way back to that land of JOY and SORROW?

Is there some green pasture you might walk upon, as your bare feet capture soil and grass?

There’s a log cabin, with an old lady making supper … m’yeah …

There’s a woman in a wool dress, picking up mushrooms and chestnuts and elderberry …

There’s a dog, chasing squirrels … isn’t that nice?

And then you smell the lie – and the sky turns RED and the land is dead …

Did you pray?

Did you ever think about going to SPACE?

Riding in space ships, and chasing aliens, and having sex with green women that have large jugs?

Did you?

You could sign up with SPACEX, and travel to Mars and drive fast cars – hang out with Elon at that new Oxygen Bar on Olympus Mons or you could retrace the steps of Admiral Tagus, the first gondo-lord of Mars.

Did you think you would ever do any of that?

(you sad fuck)

Pick Up Lines …

“Baby, wanna sample my cheese whiz?”

“Oh, Colby Jack …”

“I really love your tits and ass …”

“Oh My Colby … stop”

I’m going to go to a bar, next Friday, and walk up to some woman and say “baby, wanna sample my steak sauce?”

And she’ll say “sure”, and we’ll make love in the bathroom at the CHEVRON.

Colby Jack?

He’s got a 9 inch cock and knows how to use hit …

He massages a woman’s happy-zone so she squeeze out some squish-juice and your pushing it up inside, eh, Colby …

And after? – he buys her boob oils.

When I find my woman on the bed?

All greasy and ready and pouting with her tucked lower lips?

And her valley is on fire?

I press my minktus-pipe up to her, and whisper c# API commands into her ear, and then she turns on … literally … because I bought her, a sex doll, from a Korean dude.

Pickup Line:

“Hey baby … wanna give me a hand job in your car so I can blow my load … I don’t have a car … nice tooth, btw.”

Pickup line:

“a woman’s flower is a petal mystery”

I say this to you and your legs split open and your arms grow limp, as I slam my pork sword into your egg-hole. And we fall in love and get married at Shakey’s …

I need a woman …

A woman of iron and brass …

A woman of knives and glass …

A woman made of tissue and chess …

She might be named Bess.

Not some lukewarm velveteen,

but a woman that shakes her fist at God, with passion.

She’s okay with pizza, but doesn’t want you to hear her fart.

She walks with pride,

a sexy stride,

and if she lies about her former lovers? – she does so to protect your pride.

I need a woman that can outshoot me,

and out love me.

Her body is shaped like some beautiful ocean,

islands and eddies …

Shoreline from the mountains of her busty-ness,

to the hidden valley ranch.

I want the cave-girl vibes,

with a job that pays …

I want to take care of her,

but she doesn’t need it.

She’ll build a cabin, just for us …

We’ll grow crops and harvest the beast …

Our love will run deep.

She won’t sell her juice for yeast.

SHE will be demure,

but with fists to match her passion.

She will be dignified,

with a .357 for any man that tries to TAKE from her.

She will be smart, but not a showoff …

And when she sees pain, she’ll be the healer.

I need a woman who knows the Lord in Heaven rules,

but she’s not afraid to be my whimsical lover.

I want a woman who is NOT afraid to be slutty,

in private,

when the doors are closed.

I need a woman who is NOT afraid to be fierce,

in public, in the wilderness,

where the monster lurk.

I need a woman who will wear jeans and boots,

and stand watch on the tower,

and wear a flower,

for love.

Salma’s new movie …

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20231025_Salmas_New_Movie.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

Secrets and lies: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=9788

Some organs for sale: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=9790

Can I have some breast milk?: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=9797

Salma’s new movie …

Salma Hayek is coming out with a new movie …

Really sexy, she’s gonna take it up the rear from Magic Mike.

There will be scenes of bondage and jerk-chicken and squab grease, rubbed all over the nads and the boovula. She’ll be wearing a strap on made of roughly hewn cedar and burlap and coarse rope. Her screen name is Deluxe Interior, and Magic Mike is just … you know … Magic Mike. There will be a scene, in the middle of the movie, when Matthew McConaughey comes struggling into the bedroom, wrestling a robot anaconda, and complaining about butt sores and Fukushima style “crabs”.

It’s supposed to be a big movie – Oscar winner …

Perhaps the crowning achievement of Salma’s career.

Matt’s character, “Dwayne Rebar”, has a kind of platonic dialogue with Salma about “vaginal dryness” and the “blue pill” – of course, the secret guest star is Taylor Swift. Taylor’s character is named “Cheese Ramen”, and she smells like cat pee and slaughtered pigs. Taylor and Matt go at it, after Matt’s character injects himself with concentrated ROD STIFFENER, but it’s too much and he almost has a stroke … while blowing his load in Taylor’s ass. Taylor quivers, as Matt looks stoically into the distance … towards the cabinet … where he stashed his coke.

It all goes south when Dwayne proposes a “California taco”, but Salma’s character is like “I’m in the mood for an ‘eskimo pie’ …”

At one point in the film, Sylvester Stallone shows up …

Sly plays “Drexler Harley”, the evil metal-style biker dude who owns all the flesh trade on Sunset Boulevard …

Drexler pulls Taylor off of Matt, while Salma allows both Matt and Magic Mike to perform a “west side style chili cook off”, which in Ohio is called a “double salamander bbq”.

It gets weird …

At about the 90-minute mark, when you think the film is almost over? – when stuff gets VERY HOT. Salma’s character lay on her bed, exhausted and covered in sweat and splizz; she’s taken too much, and needs a break – but Drexler convinces the others, to include Taylor, to set Salma up for a “Tennessee slide show”, a very dangerous maneuver for anyone over 50 (spoiler alert). Their bodies are stretched and contorted, Drexler lets out a hideous scream … Taylor’s character is covered in torg-pudding and bleecher wax … It all gets worse, as the orgiastic pyramid is slathered with whipped cream and raccoon spice; Kortan-Raiders arrive to shove cucumbers and zucchini up the butts of Magic Mike and Salma …

Salma is tied to the bed, and marbles are placed in her butthole. She writhes in agony, and pleasure, as Drexler declares himself “Train Engineer” and starts lining up the players, Taylor first, with her “double eagle butt scratcher” style strap on … and Salma moans, heroically, as her thighs tighten, and she bites her bottom lip.

Near the end of the movie, as the players put on their clothes and apply BEN GAY, Salma walks with dignity towards a sliding glass door; she opens the door and stands outside, looking at a nuclear reactor melting down, in the distance.

“We were the dark selves, our juices are raw”, she comments to Drexler – but Drexler is having a stroke, he smells toast …

Matt’s character is passed out on the bathroom floor, covered in vomit …

Taylor Swift is snorting meth and dancing nakedly near the coffee table …

And Magic Mike? – he has crabs now.

Because they all learned a lesson, about love.

DANOMETRY: towards a new theory of thoughts concerning ideas

FTD: fundamental theorem of danometry – you get circles and lines … if you’re a dick about danometry? – we take away the lines.

Axiom 1: the interior angles of all triangles add up to 7 hippos and 5 million dollars.

Axiom 2: there are NOT 360 degrees on a circle, nope; there are 219.6 degrees – this flaw is WHY we’ve not been back to the MOON, with humans, in 50 plus years.

Axiom 3: the only way to become COMPETENT in mathematics is to donate $500 a month to my podcast.

Theorem 1: given AXIOM 1 and AXIOM 3, no two hookers can occupy the same HONEY BUCKET at the same time, unless PIMP FUEL is used. Pimp fuel is created using snow-cone machine residue and the dorg flesh of a nearly dead politician.

Theorem 2: if you assume AXIOM 3 is true, then you can derive the following simpliciter via the generalized rules of thought developed by Yugan the “Sky Farmer” and according to his ancient thoughts – “you have to give Dan at least 500 bucks a month, or he’ll hangout back … behind your house … and do something, something bad”. You can see how this is true.

Axiom 4: parallelograms don’t exist … shut UP about them … or there will be trouble.

Axiom 5: IF any two functions allow you to get to the same answer – then the functions exist within the general fabric of equivalent functions, and such functions will create spheres … and with those spheres we will endure, and love each other.

Axiom 6: conic sections can only be created using stainless steel, Teflon coated, KNIVES. If you live in England, you are not allowed to create these sections, but you can still buy them on the black market.

Axiom 7: numbers are possessed by demons.

Axiom 8: if you are able to solve a complicated problem involving many linear equations? – then you’re a nerd, and we’re going to see YOU … in the bathroom … during the break between classes. And you’ll learn a new “shape” … the swirly.

Theorem 3: Given AXIOM 6 and AXIOM 4, you can derive a general rule for making QUICK CASH with my BRAND NEW synchronously available multi-level cash-flow scheme … you just have send me $2,000 ASAP, or I’ll send some polygons to destroy you … and math problems involving factoring quadratics, you fuck.

Theorem 4: A corollary to AXIOM 7 is that your ex-wife was a whore … she dumped you for Neal … what the fuck kind of name is “Neal”. You live in a camper and eat cold beans and soggy remorse. Your dog ran off to join the wolves nearby, and they’re all working out HOW they get “steak dinner”. You can always change careers, but that means you slide deeper into the abyss they call the American Dream, so why not just do crack … it’s logic.

Axiom 9: You can have triangles … if you pay us $200 a month and are willing to let us visit, and hangout in your backyard, and do stuff … we’ll talk about what kind of stuff. But you can’t have ISOSCELES triangles, not unless you pay more money … and provide hookers.

Axiom 10: Right triangles are WRONG. They just don’t help anyone.

Axiom 11: Equilateral triangles really love cubes, but they are feeling like cubes aren’t growing as people and so they want to see other people.

Theorem 5: Women will break your heart and there ain’t NOTHING you can do about it, not if you want to pass this class and achieve total victory against the SLUG KNIGHTS of region-21-ZEBRA.

Axiom 12: Screaming loudly increases a student’s ability to do math, totally.

Axiom 13: There are 4 things that you think you know about perpendicular lines … and a 5th thing you’ll never guess.

Axiom 14: 90% of all food consumed by high school students contains dead rabbit bones, old fish scales and nuclear waste from various NRC regulated “nuke-2-food” programs run by the AG department. If you sample 2/3 of the waste generated? – you’ll find that is glows in the dark, and is rich in vitamin C.

Axiom 15: There’s no way to square the circle – it is futile and depressing. Better to live in a cave, like Pythagoras, and avoid eating beans. After several years of this, your heart will crystallize and your income level will increase by 700%.

Axiom 16: Danometry is based … based on 4 numbers … 1, 2, 3, 4 … if I get to 5? – bad things happen. Don’t ask for any number greater than 5 or less than 1 … but remember: there are an infinite number of REAL numbers between 1 and 4 … So am I not generous?

I came from the forest …

I came from the forest, when the herald brought the message, and the wizard burned the virgins.

I lived in the woods till I was three, no man saw my fire and no woman sought my glance …

I ate worms and dead raccoons and droppings from hester-hawks, and got lost in it.

STAR CAPTAIN KRIZ

I could be STAR CAPTAIN KRIZ …

I could be the TRIDENT LEADER of the LAST STAR FLEET of GORGIZ-TRULL; our forces are being chased by the evil lesbian galaxy beastress – Wodanda. Her body vibrates with the joy of combat, and she seeks the grease-energy of swampy-love and female inmates, scantily clad, escaping from some misogynistic prison in the Everglades.

Her main forces are rendezvousing near TIGRIS-PRIME, where the squid-merchants sell blue-spice to the tiglin-slaves and whores. They carry shaft-swords and pingo-guns, they rant and rave and scale the walls – using super powers and suction … if you know what I mean. I could battle her, and defeat her, and maybe marry her … except she’s lesbian.

I might find my true love on the planet EER, where NAZI salamander armies wage war with the frog people. And no one knows why, and no one cares; for caring is for the weak stones, and the gravel.

We could move our last platoon to the edge of nowhere, the event horizon of meaningless plunder.

My ship would use old style fission drives, and our workers would manually adjust the control rods – and sometimes things go wrong … and that’s why we have space … to dump bodies.

Sure, our craft, the “ZEEBRAMO”, moves at a fast clip, but them there lesbian ships are faster.

Lesbian star ships have access to pure splizz-oil. It is the lubricant of hyper-light travel. Some say, with pure splizz, you can reach 77 times the speed of light – and along the way, you get a happy ending.

Sure – it could be lies, but if I were STAR CAPTAIN KRIZ, I’d know …

They’d sing songs of Captain Kriz …

They’d sing of my victories over the Pirates of Glym.

They’d sing of my heroic efforts saving the goobie people of Dlob-33.

Yes – they’d sing songs of amazingness and cool time fun.

If I were CAPTAIN KRIZ!

If I were STAR CAPTAIN KRIZ? – I’d settle worlds in region-43ZED, and find myself embroiled in the conflicts of the 4th SKLEBEN WAR. They’d holler mean things at me, and kick me in the nads, and set fire to my spaceship; this was the price of being a VORG-MINION. I could have left the caste and cast my line deep into the dark of the galaxy, but my rod was soft and my heart enlarged.

And maybe WODANDA’S friend DURILLA, the BOOB-QUEEN, is interested in me. And we end up having babies … and they carry on the journey.

If I were President …

If I were President, I’d have NASA come up with a plan to destroy the Moon … and then Mars.

If I were President, I’d sell waffles at the White House, and make 40 bucks a plate.

If I were President, I’d eat pastry bread and cover it in cheese and pickle brine … and then add the sardines.

If I were President, I’d build shrunket-tanks and arm all sides with them … these tanks would be made of old steel and dead elk and smell of stripper snatches, cigarettes and stale beer …

And you’ll buy them, armed with vulcan canon that fire 12 gauge mixed rounds.

If I was President of the USA?

I’d sponsor a national stripper day …

We’d have strippers, up and DOWN WA DC …

Covered in hooker grease and spizz oil, with their boovulas torgating …

(and then I’d realize)

“This is like any other day …”

YURGEN TIME: THE MOON MUST BE DESTROYED!

“ALL HAIL THE YURGEN TIME!”, said Torwald the Bludgeoner …

He’d carry his bats and chain and inject himself with human growth hormone just to find a way to EXCITEMENT and NEW STYLE condo living. His parents were lost ones, and his wife left him for the turtle wax master. They said YURGEN TIME would end when the Sky Hawk Shaman declared BOBLIMPTOCK OVER …

“But it’s never over”, decried the mistress Dorsella. She spared no expense covering up her body with pasty green dresses and high heel shoes. Dark red lipstick and cursed eye gleams …

SKEEVIS KINGS hide from the yellow light and build onyx chapels for the coming of STAARN …

“STAARN the MASTER FORGER! STAARN the OBLIVIOUS! STAARN the SCARRED CAPTAIN … we know him”, muttered Dorsella, invoking “STAARN” as a curse upon the land, as a song to the wild sea, as an ode to lost cowboys and arrant knights looking for EASY HOOKUPS. The women folk were gathering fruits and nuts and oils for the celebration; the easy-going hustlers were setting up their tables for 3 card monte.

“When STAARN comes, the seas will turn to gravel and the mountains will melt away like gravy”, HEEBUS, Dorsella’s ex-boyfriend, pondered this undoing – this new age of chilled spirits and hot nights with greasy women.

It was foreboding, the shape of the clouds …

It was an omen, the noise of the crow.

It was near, the fire, the reshaping, the rebuilding of gangster worlds and pirate realms and the outlasting sense of flower and spice.

Torwald had returned from the SCOBE-WARS and was sitting with Dorsella and Heebus and a few others at the Rooksom Public House. He had a leather jacket with patches from around the world – if the world is defined in terms of Sturgis, SD. He kept an eye on his Harley parked outside, and another eye on Dorsella’s cleavage … and with his THIRD EYE, Torwald was digging deep into Heebus’ mind, soul space, tunneling deep into the hidden parts of Torwald’s brain.

Heebus groaned as the mountain tops began to sing.

Heebus had hidden, deep within the mind-space, stories and paths and means to great gold, adventure and diamonds. Heebus would defeat STAARN with LASER WINGS and common pizza herding.

Heebus spoke: “The moon is the guevous-cream in our monkey-steam … it’s a slab of hooker crabs, it’s the dent in our celestial rent … it must be destroyed …”

THE MOON MUST BE BURNED TO THE GROUND! – this was the zeitgeist.

Heebus and Dorsella and Torwald knew the MOON was to blame for ALL OF IT …

The MOON is the DIRK-NIGGLIN and CAPER MONK.

The MOON is a wine darling and a street alley minstrel.

The MOON spreads disease, crabs and STARBUCKS.

In YURGEN TIME, the clone denizens wander aimlessly and the wizards of Cleveland spin their jenny, looking deep into the highway garbage and the lost tire squirrels.

In YURGEN TIME, the OOG-MINES are laid across the bridge to reunion and redemption. No one is considered without fault, no one is clean. The swamp killers drive the streets, in firetrucks … they take the hoses and spray the hobos as they drive by, leaving them cold and shivering in the streets.

“I live in a camper … I am friends with the raccoon and the hawk … I am friends with the wolf and the owl … I GROWL at the MOON, cuz real soon … We gonna TAKE THAT MOON DOWN … The MOON must GO, or we can’t grow”, Dorsella said, as RED the FIRE-STURGEN burped and cried and vomited his ale.

Yurgen-wine is what Dorsella knows …

Dorsella spoke:

“There were 9 threegous wars, before the time of undoing. There were 12 elven kings, upon the arrival of TOR the MASCOT STEALER. And if we can forget, would we not FORGET the UPHEAVAL of DEB – when her lesbian forces stormed the island chain of Nubilinia?”

Her words resonated with Torwald.

Torwald remembered these times …

THE AGE OF HAGEN-TOOK.

Hagen-took, the FORG-MASTER, rode horse and shot canon and built trebuchet made out of steel and stone. he hunted the meercat and fed upon the loins of dwarves. His army wore codpieces made of codpieces, and his own codpiece was made of silver codpieces. And none were worse.

TORWALD WAS MAD!

He had loved Dorsella, and her heaving bosom. He inglomoolated her boovula multiple times, and left spizz oil as residue of passion.

His essence covered her like the golden shower of a hundred musk-maidens, and it was unto the rabbit lord that she was to be given – but Torwald would not have it.

“But the MOON MUST BE DESTROYED!” screamed Heebus …

And this too was agreed upon, it was merely the means by which the Moon will be destroyed that was up for debate.

It might involved building a 500 gigaton nuclear device using cobalt derived radiological materials and some type of crystalline tritium encasement.

We might have to build a super laser, powered by nog-sauce from the hooker sector. We’ll have this laser “manned” by prostitutes and strippers wearing nothing. And their own juices will power the laser … so even if that doesn’t work … cuz it’s as plausible as the MATRIX plot … you still have strippers and hookers. This made Heebus smile.

“THERE IS NO PEACE AS LONG AS THE MOON SHINES!”

At this the crew laughed …

They knew their task was “impossible”, but they also knew they had the GRIT and KNOWHOW to try … and try well.

Sure – the monks of GASTIA would try to stop them. Their sacred oath is to the VATICAN and Shirley Temple’s ghost …

Yeah – the BUSTY NUNS of DOOG TOWN will use their powers to persuade them to halt their journey and join the nuns, nakedly, in the sacred oil pools. They will say NO … surely … but nonetheless, they must gird their loins.

… and I sing their song …

… and I dream of destroying the MOON …

Every time some shit head says “you can’t destroy the Moon”, I will point ironically, and yet cryptically, at a portrait the lunar lander, on the Moon, I bought from NASA’s website.

They won’t know what I mean.

A few hundred megatons of nukes in the right spot, exploded on the dark side of the Moon, would send the Moon into a slowly degrading orbit, and in a matter of MONTHS … the Moon would be destroyed.

(along with the Earth)

The MOON is a death STAR …

The MOON is a death STAR …

The MOON is a death STAR …

I should run for president in 2024.

“Dan, what’s your platform?”

“MY PLATFORM? … fuck … fuck you.”

“Come on Dan, tell us what you will do as President?”

“I WILL DESTROY THE MOON!”

“Okay … strong position.”

The cost of destroying the Moon?

(pennies a day)

SKEZ?

I was meant to be REGION LORD,
to be married to a SCARLETT DINGER named SALLY.

We’d rest on summer days,
smoking crack and washing our crotch,
smelling the sticky love emanating from the grove,
becoming NORDIC DEATH MARES …

And left behind in the land of BOBLIMPTOCK,
sadly.

I was the GORGON that struck fear into the hearts of the dimblies and the gorbs.

I ate monkey stew with the kings and led the armies against the last onslaught of the TOOB GANG.

I suckled on breast wine, as the mistress held the whip; so many broken souls left in boblimptock.

Maybe Tomorrow

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20231011_Maybe_Tomorrow.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

FRANKENSTEIN: an existentialist novel

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein as an exploration of self in the world.

I haven’t been doing my work as a disciple recently … and I said “no news” … fuck

Link: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/oct/07/hamas-and-israel-at-war-what-we-know-so-far

  1. thief in the night
  2. He’s better than ant man
  3. we should be ready at any time

*** Hamas or Hezbollah, paragliding into a music festival, abducting and killing … yeah … this is all too real.

Spider Webs

Link: https://nypost.com/2023/10/06/creepy-spiders-are-falling-from-the-sky-in-california-in-nightmare-scenario/

Disillusioned at your own rate …

“Everyone has a right to become disillusioned at their own pace.” – Dr. Freckles

Maybe tomorrow …

Maybe tomorrow I will learn to fly, so high in the sky that I multiply and become like whiskey …

Maybe tomorrow I find a hidden tunnel to that magical beyond place, where frolicking monkeys sell you cigarettes and hookers … maybe …

Maybe tomorrow I invent love-sauce, and become like Ron Jeremy, as if I had the super power of total bone control and access … and maybe I marry a porn star wife … and maybe the marriage ends in divorce.

Maybe tomorrow I eat brisket with an old friend, and we talk about pistol nuts and french fry cream and albino elk. And maybe it’s important.

Maybe I will soon find the love of my life, and marry her in a meadow, and bury her next to the others, maybe? Maybe if I’m bad, right?

Maybe we get the FRANKLIN STYLE merge-tune in the coming weeks, when harmonic energy attains 5 levels of scale … and there’s pie. Maybe.

Maybe next week we will see new kinds of crispy chicken sandwiches, and this will trigger further crispy chicken wars and riots … and from this will be born a new sense of respect … maybe.

Maybe the oceans are dying …

Maybe I shambled out of apedom yesterday …

Maybe every Charlton Heston movie was true …

Why didn’t we build an ARMY of Charlton Heston robots? – we could have … we SHOULD have … maybe.

Maybe we did land on the Moon a few times, and then we forgot how we did it for half a century, as we spun tales of “singularity” and “super tech” … except when it comes to Space bro … less than 1000 have been there … think. Maybe “space” is bullshit.

Maybe my woman cheated on me with Dennis, and maybe Dennis is younger and hotter … but Krystal, you said you LOVED ME forever … forever is longer than 3 years Krystal. I love you … come back to me baby.

Maybe soon, perhaps within a year, I will travel to the mountains of Dysteria, and feed upon cumpus bread and tiggly wine. My garments will be made of silk and showered and poured upon by the gentle rains of spring, as the figures of disdainful regret hunt me and haunt me to the end, to push me onward to the blue star of destiny … perhaps THEN I will find my true love, hidden in the shadows. She will have crabs.

Maybe in an hour or two I’ll find the lost charms of DELMORDOS … and my male strug-levels will go through the ROOF … which means I have to move to the Jersey Shore and become a ja-brony … eat corn nuggets filled with anabolic steroids … power boost my blood with unknown things we dare not speak of … I think soon.

Maybe in about 2 weeks aliens will arrive from planet TOOBA, and with them will come the great discoveries of the galactic elite – carbonated fear drinks and used cigarette butts will be their bounty. I will gaze upon their sleek and greasy style, as the mileage provides hag energy, and the elf was to trod nowhere, and the heralds of chaos warn of coming storms and other crappy stuff … maybe. Maybe some kind of JRR TOLKIEN bullshit …

Maybe when the sun turns black and the clouds become acrid and sorrowful, I will GO to the Stingo Priests who sojourn near Sequim. They will share stories of adventure and piracy and lost pimps from Vancouver Island who do not understand the desire for “Thai food and craft beer”. Their generous offerings of thought are rejected, and I cast upon their visage a gaze of dynamite fury – and their lost memories are regained, as a lead pipe hits them on the back of their nasty heads. Very soon this will happen.

Maybe I’ll start lifting weights … get really fit and have those washboard abs … find myself a brunette kind of baby and marry her and move to the woods to have our fill of carnal bliss. She leaves me for Yurg the Archer, and they hunt beaver near the swamps of Krelm … and that would make me sad, probably really sad.

Maybe the STAR WARRIORS of Hollywood have x-wing fighters and millennium falcons and large imperial walkers … they shall reign in infamy as the LA tigers seek diesel fumes, and the ingenue rioters have nothing for them waiting, and no new livery apparel to wear to the cowboy weddings and vampire funerals … sure.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop doing crack … I’ll stop walking the street, looking for land-wax and opening up to random prostitutes and totally self aware alley thugs …

Maybe I’ll make ape-pudding for dinner, and I’ll sit in my cubby and meditate on camper style life changes and various forms of worms that will dig into my brain and infect me with pain … and the heat-chills from the weird residuals left over from other dying flesh … sure.

Maybe you can pack a wound with broken glass and sand and metal shavings and vodka … maybe it gets infected and you end up with some monstrous thing growing on you, with greedy eyes and lustful spirit. In days you are covered in boils and roiling with the fevers of a million diseases … but you don’t die, nature will not allow it. Maybe you get better and learn to surf … and this would be nice.

Maybe in a few days I’ll start fishing for something … I’ll grab a pole and some line and a lure … I’ll stand frozen upon the pier, looking out upon the rustic seas, imagining great creatures that luck down below and are so saddled with their own contentious dismay … I am aggrieved to know that twilight life still swims there, and feeds off the poison of the world. And I can stand and breathe … and drink jug slurry … maybe.

Maybe they’ll find the groodol soon – it will be tasty and sweet and neat and come from the bottom of the Pacific … seen post Fukushima … it’s happy and nice, our new style crab meat … one big red eye, it cannot die.

Maybe I build lasers designed to save whales …

Maybe I take that trip to Toledo, the one I’ve been putting off …

Maybe I join the GRONKIS LORDS or the WEST SIDE HOOLIES and do the jig with REBAR and pillow cases filled with d-cell batteries … sure.

Maybe I do this tomorrow.

I was born …

Link: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=9633

They sell those here.

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20231001_THEY_SELL_THOSE_HERE.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

They do sell those here …

  1. Watermelon and pastry filler …
  2. Radios … for talking or listening … or hearing and understanding …
  3. Cars
  4. cocaine
  5. meth
  6. riddlin
  7. cough syrup
  8. vaccines, lots of kinds of vaccines …
  9. death fluid
  10. scorgon chips
  11. frenchie nibblets
  12. cardigans
  13. sweat pants with elastic bands
  14. beer and liquor and sadness and wine
  15. corn nuggets
  16. chicken blocks – popular in Denmark, a whole square can of chicken, defenestration, in goop sauce
  17. ocean beef: a new thing in the deep
  18. green yoog stew
  19. chili
  20. pensy-trog chops
  21. kayaks
  22. body bags
  23. sand bags
  24. concertina wire
  25. used sanitary napkins
  26. sushi
  27. horse or unicorn
  28. tiger meat
  29. wendy-spice
  30. light bulbs
  31. adrenochrome, now at walmart
  32. nuclear war
  33. Christmas cheer
  34. hawking spheres
  35. thanksgiving love … doesn’t last
  36. halloween costumes
  37. prostitute jelly
  38. tinder gems
  39. hookers
  40. clothes and underwear and condoms
  41. lubricants – for the car (dirty bird)
  42. carpenter hammers
  43. baseball bats
  44. metal pipes and chains
  45. welding supplies
  46. dynamite
  47. fishing poles
  48. archery kit
  49. bb guns
  50. tents
  51. water
  52. cake mix
  53. flour and rice
  54. orange juice
  55. bacon
  56. gasoline
  57. ammo
  58. bottle rockets
  59. pianos