“The only thing dumber than ‘cops in space’, is the IRS after total thermonuclear war.” – Dr. Freckles
How big of a statist mind fuck is it when a science fiction TV show about a Moon lost in the depths of space, OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING NOWHERE, still have aliens show up, flashing their “business license” … WTF …
It’s like Fire Fly – the one thing about that show I found implausible, and this applies to STAR WARS as well … “cops and business licenses in deep space” …
(what the actual fuck)
In that controversial TV movie from the 80’s: “The Day After”
The IRS shows up, post nuclear war, to explain how folks who are dying in multiple ways still need to pay their taxes …
This is implausible, but it is the narrative the state wants you to believe.
Charles butts in on peoples lives, like a 19th Century Captain Kirk, violating the “prime directive” every hour. And sometimes he gets punched … or he accidentally gets shot … or gets shot by bad buys with wonky shotgun rounds … but hey, he’s Charles.
Then there’s this episode where Nels is looking astray … and he wants Charles’ advice. The SAME MOTHER FUCKING CHARLES who can’t pass up any opportunity to denigrate or ridicule his wife, Harriet Oleson. So Nel’s probably thought: “this fucker mocks and disrespects my wife in front of me, why won’t he listen to my woes concerning Molly?”
BUT NO …
CHARLES then switches to JUDGE DREAD mode and says cold and off putting shit …
Fuck you … Nels just wanted to talk … mother fucker.
He goes to the fucking Mine, and kills some Chinese, almost kills himself …
He goes to move nitro glycerin, with Louis Gosset Jr., and he takes credit for beating on a MICK …
He goes to Mankato, to save some random shit head, gets into a fight, and he still lives …
A woman is a power-beast with sick claws and ranger faces. She walks down by the old coolie shack and preaches breast expansion and buttocks convexity. Her mind is a flutter with batty nonsense and crooked murder schemes. Women will dump your soul and feed it drano and then cry and then yell at you for not listening. Women will watch closely, for their chance, to poison you – be on guard.
Women are of the THREEG-CASTE, and are forced to wear red in public. They are meant to clean the grease-grizzle from off the BBQ and they are tasked to keep well in times of greed, but they’ll still sue you for child support and tell you that damn Korean kid is yours. Mine? – no way … he’d be in his twenties, besides … 24 …
WOMEN keep the clocks sharp and wound … it’s their job to frame a table and place fried potatoes on a plate. IF they spend too much time bitching about lipstick and vacuum cleaners, then it’s time to spin up that dance club and set her right. A woman is meant to be your foam princess, and she’ll gather in the “sheaves”, place them in jars, and save them … sell them to Japanese women who are really lonely.
A woman will march through 8 deserts and hunt the hairy ape alone. She’ll sell twinkle-sauce to her sister-brides, while riding high on KROKODIL and diet coke. She has an answer to every question, and wears her pride as POWER. She’ll hate men, but she’ll always hate her sisters more – a Woman cannot bear to give the sun more than her, and all others are whores. Women are whores.
The FEMALE organism is a complex mixture of sand and charcoal and raccoon blood and kerosene. Her boobs are composed of popcorn and butter and wax and taffy – if rubbed correctly, they yield schnapps and cinnamon rum. That woman’s body is a map of the city, every alley, every lost cul-de-sac, every hovel in the dreary land, and you know you can see scars of where someone put out a cigarette … and you don’t care. You found your angel love in her, and her scars are her dowry …
The women folks wrestle with their chocolate desires, looking for frisky logs and friendly cable guys, while their man is out working in some mine, being buried alive. That girl spends her day clutching on some large onyx beast, whose power is manifest in those features of volcanic stone and mocha madness. The cuckolds die slowly, of cancer and sadness, as their women make love to any stranger – and this is just what they are.
A REAL WOMAN is a TORNADO made of dynamite, steak, and champagne. She flies in this world, relieved to know that nothing can stop her rise. Her men are mere consorts, for she is the queen and she has the honey. She’ll tie you down to a domestic life, and pick at you, and remind you of that “other guy” she could have had – but she knows about your hooker girlfriend at the Denny’s, and about the hotel, and all those dried condoms you’ve been collecting. She knows – because she’s a woman.
A woman has a boovula, this is her POWER CREVICE. She shoves all kinds of stuff into this place … old rocks, squirrels, fish heads and used hair spray cans. From a woman’s pulse, you can tell if she’s “ready for freddy” – her heart beats faster, and she gives off the zoob-mist which emanates, once again, from her boovula. She reaches peak sexual excitement, while rubbing her stwig, and spending YOUR MONEY. If she could, she would connect some apparatus to her hand and to her mind and to her boovula, to unify the one love experience of shopping … even if online.
A real woman is an unstoppable harlot, bent on the destruction of all that is good and well. She bursts on the scene, leaning in, providing INPUT – and tipping everything over. She insists on POWER POSITIONS, but then is unwilling to wear the rubber cock. Her voice is the voice of many tiny voices all arising from her secret erogenous zones that are only known to the Devil and John Stamos. She seeks to tie herself to a large oak framed bed, nearly naked, covered in chocolate and rose pedals … but her lover is the old grey monk, and her shame is on display every night at the strip club.
A woman is a lighthouse, bringing her lover to shore …
A woman is a missile, targeting your T-ZONE …
A woman is a joker, and the joke is on YOU.
Be careful, dear Sir or Mam, around this beast called “WOMAN” …
(she will tear you apart and feast on your pain)
A woman should never address or speak to a man at an IKEA … the woman should know enough to use the credit card and spend the man into massive debt.
Also – women should walk a few steps behind the men folk, and should not be allowed in the men’s study …
I screwed up a podcast today, mixed up some names from the Bible. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, especially given I was reading JAMES just before – and he ADMONISHES US to be CAUTIOUS in seeking the role of teacher. And here I am, BOLO, shit head, fuck up. Jesus is not happy with me.
I wonder about trying to make money … I dunno.
Been watching this old show that had been unavailable, online, for a long time … and it looks like they digitally remastered it, editing the background, to add geoengineering spraying … as if the clouds it might have shown, the ones from my youth, would be to fucking shocking to see … better to hide this, forever.
I could use a hooker, and take a trip to the movies with this slut. We would share a large popcorn, covered in butter, and then slip off to the men’s room to find that swift harmony of the grease zone. She’d yeez all over my pants as I left my mark on her shoes, and then we’d get chased off by the theater manager, and then what? ROB THE DRUG STORE? … I dunno.
I was a scrub racer once … I was a jaundiced-owl and a hair dresser and the last of the 3 armed Shimbly’s … I could wrestle crocodile and snort coke and find love on the edge. I lived in a box outside of Grinken Town, where the noodle people eat their ramen and then vomit up their rat slurry to sell to weirdos from Paris. They can eat their own flesh to soften the blow from Heaven.
I wonder about my madness, and whether it’s a super power. Maybe my insane rage will be my ticket to FAME. I’ll grow an army of dingus-freaks and we’ll wear leather and steel and hunt the squirrel and live off of old time hooker soup. WE WOULD BE HUGE and unstoppable, if I cared.
My madness is my laser beam love. I can sky glide in raspberry make believe, while GERDY and BIRDY fondle the ruckus prince in my study. We will have musket parties, and drink spiced rum from some trendy blender. Our silk hide servants will grow stygian grub for our pies.
Sometimes I stare at the holes between the holes. I see the fragmentary alliance between disarray and entropy and their queer love pact. The particle streams reverse themselves and Ron Jeremy starts selling enhancers late at night. Your Mexican lover is none other than Rolanda.
I knew this guy from Sheffield, in the UK.
He was a triple toker and gasoline smoker and he had an MG and would drive real fast …
His girlfriend was named Jacey, and she had red hair and pale pimply skin …
doesn’t mean people aren’t dying – great USA psyops are also snuff flicks
doesn’t mean it’s “okay” – could be the pretext for using nuclear war to “cleanse the Earth” of the excess hoi polloi
Imagine a statement like this during any other war? Vietnam? War on Terror? Korea or WW2?
Broke …
“If it’s broke, use coke.” – Dr. Freckles
My THOTS …
“My dumbest thots are my best hookers.” – Dr. Freckles
How I broke my arm?
Back in December I was involved with a girl named Debra. She had green eyes and a clean body, she smoked snail-mix and loved the Bee Gees. We were at Nick’s off of Hallor Street, when we encountered her ex-husband, Neil. Neil was an oil worker and a line worker and a tree cutter and a speed freak, he spent his days near the train station, looking for spare parts the railroad dumps, and other things. His face turned red with pure anger, and he ran at me – tossing me on the floor and beating me senseless. Luckily, my dog Boomer pulled him off and bit off his nuts, but not before this shit head took brick from the door jam and split my humerus in half … for-realsies … this sucked.
I was drifting through space … lost to all I love. My ship, the “Yulia”, was headed to Zeta-Prime-Alpha-67-Charlie in the BRAVO Quadrant of sector-33, in the “cautious zone” … not a forbidden zone mind you … you just need to be cautious. My main fusion drive was overheating, after having finished chasing the pirates of Zelton around the dark star called Glyb. I went down to the engine room to help repair the magnetic bottle armature and super conducting magnet array. My Chief Engineer, Klevon, was a Jabronian. He was from the Newark Star System and he grew up on the galactic shores of East Philly. I noticed that Klevon was unconscious on the deck and the main coolant spindle was reverberating at an incredible rate. I grabbed my Leatherman, and pulled out the Phillips bit, and began torque’ing down the strumulator, which is connected to the whammy bar. At that moment, there was a burst of orgolion radiation, and it through me across the engineering deck. When I came to in the med bay, my nurse/girlfriend/hooker/accountant was massaging my “fuel seam” in order to excite my tinkle zone … but yeah … I’d completely busted my left humerus in two and fuck all about the pirates!
Hunting Grizzly … I encountered a pack of cougars being led by a mangy, out of control, wookie woman named Michelle. She was pungent and hairy, her breath smelled like cigarettes and Clairol and stale beer and popcorn. She had a bunch of cougars she’d rounded up and cornered in a cave near Mt. Gabriel, not far from the Gable Woods where the human footprints were discovered near the dinosaur footprints. I was hunting grizzly bear, and had just finished washing my svelte body in a hot spring – I was naked when I left that pool, as the wookie woman stood 40 feet above on the trail. She sent her cougars after me, busty and frothing, and ingunjulating their boovulas. It was a swampy spot, and we wrestled, nakedly, in such a itchy and burny way … after wrestling several cougars, I grew weary and ran for my camp and my 900 Winchester Magnum X-Ray lever action rifle. I was a mean cannon and hit hard. I fired two rounds at that terrible wookie, but she overtook me and tossed me into a ravine. Days later, a busty 34 year old female park ranger found me, there, naked, and brought me back to her cabin – she nursed me back to health, even setting my broken left humerus in a cast. And we spent the winter together … RIGHT?
There was a GRAND submarine battle … and I was a lowly navigator. Our sub was fighting the Russians near Dallas, Texas, and we were overtaken by a “Mexican Style Harley” which is a lot like a “Chinese Mix Chopper” and it was BAD. It could move at 120 knots under water, and carried the Epsis-3000 super torpedo. The Russians had a mean admiral in charge, Chirgov. He was a legend in the submarine races, the ones at the lake, where you were conceived … anywho. Chirgov fired 9 of these fucking torpedoes at our boat, and this caused a rupture in our hull that I helped repair. While working on that hole, a piece of stray reinforcing steel came lose and hit my left arm, breaking my humerus IN TWO. We won the battle against those fucking Russians, but I spent many months recovering from that injury.
The caves and tunnels of S’compton … a dangerous place to meet a hooker. I was lonely one Monday night, December 19th 2022 to be exact, I was watching dumb ass NETFLIX documentaries about white people killing white people but feeling bad about it … but … I was really wanting a warm body next to mine on that cold winter’s night. So I went to Craig’s List and typed into the search box “hot butt boobie style action Vernal Utah”, and you’d be SURPRISED the results I got back. I scanned them, looking at their pics, imaging the scenarios of our encounters, greasy, nasty, rough, brutal, real, sex. The kind of lovemaking where your bodies melt together at the end, and your kisses are sugar drop masterpieces. “Gerdy” said she’d meet you, near S’compton Caves, but only after midnight. Okay … I sent her a message on Snap Chat, we interacted a little and negotiated a standard price. I arranged to meet her at midnight, and I stole an old Chevy to get there. At the caves, Gerdy was already undressed … her sultry body glistening in the icy cold, her breasts fully aroused and stiffened. We made love like desert hounds, next to that roaring fire of pine and pain. At daybreak, her pimp Joel showed up with his 4 Mormon brothers, and I didn’t have money to pay for Gerdy, and they proceeded to break my left humerus over a rock … so here I am. Lesson learned? – you betcha … don’t go to Vernal.
Making love to a super advanced robot woman … this is the path to madness baby. I was reading Boy’s Life, and in the back, next to the advertisement for the “build your own hovercraft kit” was an entry for something AMAZING: “Build Your Own Robot Lover”. As we should accept, I’m a lonely burnt out code monkey mother fucker … and no one is going to warm my bed unless it’s to torch it with gasoline, but I digress … The advertisement was for plans to build the robot, not the actual robot – and it claimed you could do this for $500, if you lived near a Home Depot. I bought the plans, they arrived, and I began building Regina, my robot style lover. It took weeks, and pvc tubing, and rebar, and small motors and pistons and pulleys and lots of rubber cement. By December of 2022 I was done, and on the 19th of that month I turned that bitch on … there was smoke and sparks and weird arcs of electricity, her eyes, made of LED cameras, flickered and came to life. I began massaging her boovulex, and she conjoined with my stleevtous. After a few minutes, she kind of went crazy, asked for my credit card, and then broke my left humerus … fuck … fuck that robot.
Walking to the grocery store to get potato chips … but Lay’s Wavy plain? On December the 19th of last year, it was a Monday and I was in a really shitty mood. I woke up, got a donation, tried to transfer it to my bank from Paypal, and it didn’t work and it made me wonder if TODAY was the DAY I would be financially cancelled. I called the bank to resolve the issue and borrowed twenty bucks from my friend to go get some beer to drink and to lose myself. When I was done drinking the temperature outside was around zero degrees Fahrenheit, and it was kinda breezy, if not windy. I wanted to get a small bag of Lay’s Wavy (plain) chips, because they’d been really pixelated, unreliable, lately – some weeks the grocery store has them, some weeks they don’t. But darn it, no matter how cold it was or icy or windy, I was going to get some fucking potato chips. About a quarter of a mile from my home I hit a very slippery patch, near a street’s metal walled curb, and fell just perfectly, on that ice, that my left humerus hit the curb, as if some neo-Nazi stomper demon had done this on purpose. It was a lucky shot. My left humerus broken in two …
