I went DEEP into the deserts of Utah a few weeks ago. My buddy, SLIG, was in search of the old whale-urchin juice and the monkey pie. We made camp on the Creol River, south of Gobo, where they used to hunt whiskey-rhino and the lost cougar bats of S’compton. It was like magic.
Have you had the PASTE? You have to find an old hooker named Rita, she lives 20 minutes from Vernal, in a small fracking village where the oil workers do too much meth. She makes it from her own female power broth, and it’s a powerful mixture that can excite your private zone.
all genders are SKREEGLIX-TYPE-3 now. all holes will be sealed up with boating standard cement glue. all the regions will create plunket-centers, where all types can have hot pokers shoved some place … and in this we shall heal and find totalistic peace and love jumbalaya, kay? The issuance of derivative financial products for the purpose of building specialized “help” centers, whereby ones holes are sealed or closed using a combination of arc welders and industrial glues … this is big man … GET GOLDMAN ON THE PHONE … money, and success, in tow.
It is in moments of fickle tragedy that we find our way back to the wholesomeness of crack cocaine …
U can’t take your weird red tide dreams and make a world, you can’t stop the WOOKIE people from taking their due. A time of great cleansing, when the hairy beasts will run, streaming, from the mountains, is coming and your .300 WIN MAG ain’t gonna do shit, even explosive bullets.
I knew this stripper in SLC. She had blue eyes and black-colored fingernails. Her arms, covered in needle marks, trembled as I touched her flesh. And when she kissed?- it was like kissing a garbage can. But she saved me from the gumptick-folk of Provo, so I had to bring her home.
I knew this DOCTOR in Seattle. He worked out of Pike Place and did street-style Italian surgeries and was willing to remove a kidney for 3 bucks. I asked him “how can I feel that way of youth?”, and he said “seek out the hobo shaman of UTAH .. seek out their ancient oils, grease … not far from where they killed all those orphans and then lied about it.
I was nearly beaten to death by 4 Mormon missionaries 5 miles east of S’compton Utah … and when I awoke, concussed, covered in piss and shit, I could see the great EYE GLOW of the TOTAL MIND looking down upon us as if were we scarab beetles or just monkey children with herpes …
ZINGO CASES work the docks near LA harbor. They pick up boxes marked “KAG” and decide to make sure a few “fall off” the trucks. When they get back to their sewer hideouts in Malibu, they discover a glowing orbis of dung and tryg and whale wax. And the Lord looks down in shame.
Skreeg gangs scour Grinken Town, while the old tiger-girls wear their short skirts and rub trouble-juice on their legs. They give you a wink, and you will be marked for the scoundrel sauce, poor women luring men back to their shanties, in order to feed the cats.
I found the old hag wandering near the median. She had a copy of Hillary’s biography, in her bag, along with the bloody condoms and crack. She spent her days wandering the truck stops, and now her time is done- and no one will know or care. A shadow of a life, gone.
12 generals vie for the EAST. 18 generals wrestle the poor. And the KING? – he talks to the ancient ones, using laser-tubes and glass-wheels. His mind is confused and his hands shake. His women look for skittle-fish, while the high priestess rubs her oily boovula.
I saw an orange, brown and black sky, when I sojourned, briefly, among the swamp people. Their tongues were like jelly-snakes, they drank the mead of hard-death, from cups carved of human bone. No one spent the day questioning the butt poisons, they lived the lie.
I had several whore wives – and they massaged the part of my broken spirit where the roaches laid eggs and the screaming never stopped. They would bring me their tizzle-juice, and I would ungoogliate their boovula with my man pipe. It was dangerous loving, angry.
When I lived among the GROBON-LEAGUE I would spend my days at the pier, looking WEST, towards the sectors and regions and zones that had fewer STDs and crabs. I would ride the ships to Dip Island, and ride the monkey-turtles and drink honey wine. Can we ENDURE?
Schrodinger’s Healthcare Plan Motto: “Leave that shit alone …”
WOMEN in CAGES
There’s something lurid about this story … greasy. It appeals to the ID and the UNCONSCIOUS and to that mixture of Eros and Thanatos that MODERN PEOPLE find so enjoyable.
Throughout history, people in power have used doppelgangers or lookalikes to provide a public “presence”, while avoiding the dangers of being stabbed …
It’s said FDR employed this, as did Hitler and Stalin …
What if there is no BILL GATES, at least not any longer?
What if Elon Musk and George Soros and Biden, and many others, are really just body doubles?
Could there be “real” versions of them? – maybe …
Could it be that those who exist among the elite decide that the best course of action is NOT to go out in public, especially now?
How sure are you that any of these are real people OR, as interesting, that they might be their body doubles at this point …
Want the trip to Antarctica, you can:
fake your death
or … hire a body double ….
(that’s it)
Thanksgiving …
MON – 11/21/22 – SLC to Seattle
I got to SCRUMBO’S GROCERY where I picked up the Utah Shuttle to SLC. The driver asked us to verify our identities by pulling out our butt pipes and taking a smoke … I got to SLC Airport, and immediately I could see the demon folk were taking over … I decided to start smoking again, tired of putting off my goals and WAITING for SOME SIGN. A Jingo-Freak by the name of “Theresa” was muttering about covid shots and grandmas and how they say there will be honey-cox for EVERYONE this year.
I know the grombolite folk are watching me. I sit here, at the airport bar, waiting for some kind of next level super understanding, but the blood leaking into my underwear says otherwise. Scrimbo queens? – they seek my gumbah flesh, and old Irish maidens prepare their boovula, ungoogliating before the demon throng.
Sure … I’m at Roosters … drinking some kind of IPA and dreaming of SHRUMPKIN QUEENS off of Aurora AVE. I can’t wait to drink the nectar of sadness, as the 65 hookers hold vigil over my melting corpse. And if I could determine which hooker gave me crabs? – I’d hire a lawyer, that specializes in crabs. Seattle is a freak zone.
TUE – 11/22/22 – Groblon Lords Rule Sector 4
I heard the SCHLEBUS-HOR talking to Baal. Her voice spoke of yoobrian whore grease, and she couldn’t stop saying nice things about Warren Buffet. “He says nugget oil is the key, you must turn off your ability to hear pain.”
SHURGON would rule this realm if it wasn’t a swamp casket and filled with the impurities of vroom-juice and the commie cougar oils they use to make it work out.
I heard the scream of an ORCA whale covered in tumors …
I heard her scream out for fresh salmon, and life, and a future for her children …
The Seattle funken-folk were too busy at the new GREEN-GREEN noogan-shit bar. The chief scumptous whore was like “did you hear what Bill Gates said?”. And then the 3 sects declare that festule closed.
WED – 11/23/22 – LOST
When I travel, rarely, these days … I tend to need a background white-noise soundtrack to drown out the wailing and the pain and the madness of most places, most cities, Seattle as it happens. “Lost” was this show, 15 years ago, where a bunch of frunctic horders find themselves “lost” on a Mysterious Island, an island that seems a lot like that game Myst from the 1990’s. Confused, grief stricken, but seemingly well fed – the “lost ones” struggle with their memories and their confusion and the infinity of their “bad takes”.
Yesterday one of the yoogan-tribesman was working on the ceremonial pit, where I’m staying, off of Zulu AVE in Seattle. He spent time talking to his girlfriend about suicides, and white people, and how “it’s okay” if we want to die, because of what the white people have done. I sit here in the darkness, and I ponder the existentially meek figure, being pulled by his nose, by his woman, and treated as if he were nothing … I wanted to say: “I’ve been there bro, I’ve been ‘LOST’ … you know … married.”
Waking up, I decided to get supplies …
SCRUGG, at the 7/11, looked at me … “Our systems … they don’t … work”, he angrily took my money and I got my hoodle-soda and my cigarettes. They sold old style bog-sausage and hooker-coffee. As I walked out the door, OLD SCRUGG looked at me and said “you’re gonna die Charlie …”
When I got back to the groove-cave, the xortan-bricklayer was using his high speed drill to remove the sins and other gromulan from the liver-side delay tube, next to the toilet …
At night, late night, I can find calm …
I can stand outside, in that place, not far from SEATAC – I can hear the planes coming in for a landing. It’s about 2:30 AM, PST, and every once in a while I think “maybe that one … it’s not some 737 filled with fat/drunk travelers … maybe it’s a Chinese or Russian strategic bomber, coming in, to drop its load.
I sense the screaming of souls, as if it’s an orchestra, and I’m the conductor, but I know that no such conductor is needed. This river of pain, called Seattle, is only pending demise, destruction. And the errant screwballs might want to pretend that some amount of bitcoin or internet services or NEXT LEVEL WEB 3 bullshit will have any impact or provide any relief. But the scum herders of REDMOND know the deal, and their mouths stink of halitosis and artisanal fried arugula …
KLIG-KLOG freaks live here … they eat muskrat soup and roodle-pie. They care not for the travelers stuck at Cloud City, drinking over priced coffee and listening to under-IQ discourse from the commie slave mooks, stuck in the old world quorg-feast and shoving potatoes up their butts to make a point. It just takes time to charge up their electric clown cars, and to put on their clown makeup.
Slag people are the night whisperers …
Slag people chant and grope for their METRO token and their American made mage-oils. Their eyes are green and jaundiced, they have the spice of turbulent failure. The slags do their work, get back home and night and head to Pike Place. They buy their tumor clams and their diesel crabs, they purchase some CHINESE ancient cures to stop the anal bleeding and to find meaning again.
These lost ones … they are stumbling from one herpes infection to another crabs outbreak. Their bodies are filled with blymph, and their minds are hot wired for brain jacking.
“How many shitty holidays have I had with family? – an easier question would be: how many good holidays with family? Small number, easier to remember.” – Dr. Freckles
… and for all hobo shaman who seek to know that place called “home”, remember this:
“Never let your curiosity exceed your pocketbook.” – Dr. Freckles
One last thing …
If you are a listener and provided funds for me to make it back home? – it was a piss poor investment, and I’m sorry.
“Thanksgiving is for THANKING THE LORD when it’s over.” – Dr. Freckles
My Last Will and Testament …
Nobody lives forever, did no one tell you this when you were 12? – sure, as a Christian, your spirit lives on … but the stuff of this Earth turns to dust and shit.
Do I know I’m dying soon? – no …
Is this a cry for help? – no …
I am simply taking care of business …
THE ARMY will burn my body for free … they’ve burned me before
Build a trebuchet, load my body onto it …
Launch my ashes into a pit west of VERNAL
Shoot a freeze ray at the pit, seal it up for good – let the skin walkers melt it with the fiery red eyes
I give the EASTERN ZONE to my friend in Florida …
I give the WESTERN ZONE to my friend in Seattle …
I give the CENTRAL ZONE to my friend in Utah …
Seattle Mike can tell you who these three men are, cuz he’s one of them.
You must rule these zones with a fist of glowing titanium, you must wear a codpiece made of lead to protect your junk …
All of my online properties, websites, podcasts, are for these THREE MEN (described above) to use – they know who they are, and none of this matters … but I love you.
Tell all the scrumbo freaks in SEATTLE and elsewhere, YOU ARE FORGIVEN … but that helps me, not you …
Tell the people of that SUPER CITY SEATTLE, that they should ask: “how many times has Rome been destroyed, do you know?” (are you fucking stupid)
Tell Boomer I hope there’s Heaven for dogs, that I make it there, but who knows …
Tell the roaming sasquatch that the TIME IS NOW … strike while the iron is HOT …
Tell the Troblin-Hordes who worship real estate jesus, that if the “kingdom came” in your head, did have an O-FACE?
Tell the BANKERS to count their pennies … as the tumors eat their flesh, and the families starve and turn mad with rage …
Tell the GROMBO SECT leaders that the age of RESUPPLICANCE is HERE, and ghetto-lords will rise up …
Tell the politicians that their time is over and beware the coming throng …
Tell the pope that the ROMAN APOSTATE CHURCH is simply a zombie, that rose up, when the western empire fell …
Tell the grifter freaks who have plagued me since 2016 – your time is coming …
Tell the crypto scams and the FED plants and the crombo-nerds spying on their neighbors – your time is coming, it won’t be nice …
TELL the NASA freaks it’s weird, you know, that humans last left low Earth orbit in 1972 …
TELL SCROMBO HERDS, living off protein combos, that “going back to the Moon” in 2024 is a marker … a delineation … an OMEN of rapid change …
TELL ALL GLIMPTICK FOLK of SEATTLE: you are living in fullness of bread, soon it will lose its flavor …
Ensure that all care is taken to distribute my belongings to those that I love – and the RULER of the CENTRAL ZONE knows what this means …
Let the OLD TIME’Y hobos know, I’m getting my due …
Let the hookers of Scompton know, I was your jingus-lover …
Let the credit card companies know – you will get nothing.
Let the student loan company know – the university told lies, and the value of that is ZERO … actually … less than zero … someone owes me money.
Cities …
“Cities have ALWAYS been FEMA camps.” – Dr. Freckles
Until rates get above 15%? — we are still just chasing inflation.
If they pivot now? – inflation goes sideways, and a whole bunch of folks dump treasuries and other dollar denominated assets.
If you think the “pivot” would be good for crypto? – yes and no. Short term lemmings will chase yield, long term lemmings will realize they can’t afford to keep the nonsense going … not with blackouts, shortages, etc.
I don’t have a phone, for a few months … this doesn’t apply to all of you, but I have been in communication with some of you, by phone, for podcasts. I will get a new phone, I think, before GRINKEN TIME ends and FINAL BOBLIMPTOCK begins … I dunno. What happened to my phone? – could have been wookies, could have been TSA, could have been DAN with a POCKET KNIFE in the basement: CLUE …
Snowbird Man: looked irradiated, saw my t-shirt, kept wanting to talk about Artemis
Forgiveness – what it is, what it is NOT.
Prophecy – how much of the bible, and what happens when you spiritualize it away …
Beans is still alive …
Parents … kids … wearing coffee filters
The poor guy and the air conditioner … (and leaving out the silent part)
Sodom and Seattle: it’s gotten a LOT worse, since I left 1.5 years ago. Giant dark pit of shit hole.
What I do: I won’t talk about your bullshit after today, I simply won’t talk to or about you, ever again. Fun fact: I said bad things, and many more good … I wonder if the good was heard.
They are going to be putting homeless people on McNeil Island soon … right in the dead sea.
We’re not there yet … but the wookie people have been seen by the dogs, in the hills, by their camp fires, sharpening sticks, that’s why Boomer is so crazy … that’s why Kia is growling … the orca look differently at the kayak dude … be careful. We’re not there … yet … but we’re getting there … BOBLIMPTOCK … but the orcas will go insane, with hunger and rage, overriding their empathy chip, looking for man flesh to eat …
BTW: if you haven’t read “Too Much Magic” by James Howard Kunstler, I highly recommend it … seems like Seattle is on the OTHER SIDE of OZ now …
The pay is less …
“Sometimes you need a job that pays less, but provides more.” – Dr. Freckles
Consider minimalism …
Consider the value of your time, healthy more youthful time, VERSUS the big payoff when you’re 72 …
Below is a short book I wrote, in 2015, related to this topic of “time” vs “money”.
I’ve just created a new occupation: pharmaceutical sales rep AND flight attendant.
Getting treatments for my splinctus, preparing for my own unraveling … the groglion-zone is filled with blymph … my thyroid-degenerator-tone is off kilter … it’s bad
I’m back to wrestling coyotes for 50 cents a day … I live in a complex near Vernal, called the Grinken Arms … my girlfriend, Jadie, has crabs …
I was contacted by Zim, the 3rd Resupplicant Gunt-Herder, and he let me know it was my job to form a temple, at the burial ground in Scompton, and to charge people fees for salvation … no money? – no heaven … like the “wealth and abundance” preachers …
A few weeks ago I was hiking in the Uinta Mountains. I came across the scat or sign of a wookie creature. I tracked that smelly mongrel beast to the edge of the Dingy Forest, not far from Shligdon, which is where the Mormons killed them other Mormons to cover up the truth about the death of Joseph Smith.
I’m researching that PHIL DONAHUE EPISODE that was DESTROYED back in the 1980’s concerning Procter and Gamble and their corporate satanism.
I wander the fields, dreaming of wanderers, wandering fields …
Sit down in your quiet space, in a comfortable chair, and imagine a world: a world full of magic and life and consciousness and people … of lands, fields, cities … of all possibility.
In that world, there is a person, in a quiet room, imagining a world … and in their world there is a person, imagining worlds …
MIND BREAKS
Weird …
“Trust: something a hooker uses to clean our her boovula.” – Dr. Freckles … do you know me? Do I know you? This idea of 3rd parties verifying relationships? – it was never going to work. Problem with crypto: it pretends it supports peer-to-peer transactions, but in reality it is a 3rd party trust platform … and sorry … no amount of tech fixes the asshole problem.
not FUCK, but fuh-luh-luh-luh … YOU
“Every city has a strip club.” – Dr. Freckles
There’s 100K tons of gold in the mountains of NE Utah …
Reality is only real because there is a God that makes it so …
Please donate money to my Seattle-Cocaine-Fund … or SCF … I also need to renew my Bluehost sub … fuh-luh-luh-luh’ker …
“If you are still worried about the debt, inflation, muh oil? – you are not remotely prepared for what is coming.” – Dr. Freckles
New product “seems just like a pandemic” … JUST LIKE A PANDEMIC, as seen on TV … available NOW at WALMART … just in time for CHRISTMAS …
I don’t expect anyone to contribute to my poorly planned and self injurious behaviors …
However …
I am heading back to Seattle soon and I need to raise money for cocaine. I will not drive a vehicle or operate heavy equipment. I will, maybe, podcast … who knows … but I NEED IT!
So, if you’re “cool”, get me some cocaine money …
You don’t have to …
But it would be great to do a little coke before this world is broke, for good.
HOW:
get some cash, about $1,000 bucks my man
go down to Pioneer Square, in Seattle
find Scrumbly-Bear, the NO. 1 dealer down there …
ask Scrumbly for 2 or 3 8 balls of HIGH QUALITY COKE …
take coke home and just start snorting that shit
maybe I start dialing numbers of old high school friends … I’m 52.
(but maybe I’ll just use the money for food and beer and weed, amirite?)
Very close to calling BULLSHIT …
I’m not that far from calling bullshit on the UKRAINE WAR. It seems the main purpose of this “war” is to block arctic researchers from reporting on the true state of the arctic ocean, specifically the ice extent and the monitoring of methane release.
The best move, as of YESTERDAY, for Russia is to first strike NATO forces. Longer Putin waits, the closer he gets to the same fate as Khadaffi …
MAD or Mutual Assured Destruction does NOT apply to scenarios where:
multiple and separate conflict zones with belligerents possessing nuclear weapons.
where more than one belligerent can be considered mentally incompetent or insane.
China/Russia would be best served by a strategic first strike, no notice, against key command and control in the USA. Using swarm EMP attacks to take out civilian command and control. They wouldn’t invade, they would simply wait for the “next asshole” in line to begin a process of rational conversation.
In this scenario? – WA DC is toast. Probably NORAD in Colorado as well, and many other command and control bunkers. Perhaps they will selectively NOT target certain bunkers, thereby “selecting” who they will negotiate with.
THE BIG SPACE FUCK! (from 3/13/2021)
I do not believe we EVER LANDED ONE FUCKING PERSON on the Moon.
The last time a human left low Earth orbit? – 1972 … I was a couple years old … with all the techno-babble optimism being ladled on me since the 1990’s? – seems like Moore’s Law does NOT apply here … need not apply, amirite?
The total number of people who have been to “space”? – about 600. About 116 billion people have EVER LIVED. That means that the naive likelihood of “space” for any given human is the tiniest fraction of a percent. See image below. Even if you restrict it to the number of people since 1945? – the percent is still very very small … so small a chance, that a rational person applying the rules of betting might say … it never happened or happens.
I believe there’s a good chance that when they say “people by 2024”, they are telegraphing that the “show” will be over long before then … whatever is coming? – we will be too busy trying to survive, best case scenario, to care about this bullshit.
“Something that rarely happens according to data, and seems absurdly impossible? – might be impossible.” – Dr. Freckles
Starting out in Roosevelt, Utah. Being fed some story about lost Mormon gold some place up there, in them there Uintas Mountains … An old drunk named Nathan, who lives off of Main Street in an old trailer, tells ya “I’ll give you the map to Brigham Young’s lost gold if you buy me a pack of cigarettes …”, and you buy that nasty old bum some cigs …
I walked with the bum, back to his trailer, after I got him some cigs at CHEVRON. He started telling me about his ex-wife, and her pimp boyfriend, and her hooker-crabs … it was sad … all I wanted was the gold.
“You know that gold is guarded by the wookie people, and the indians, and the skin walkers and aliens … that gold is special … no one gets it, unless they want death”, the creepy old drunk left me with these prescient words and morbid thoughts.
That old hobo said I needed to start “here in Roosevelt”, for some wicked and sublime reason that he wouldn’t even describe for fear of being possessed by the skin walker demons at city hall. “The whole government of Roosevelt, Duchesne, Vernal, ALL FUCKING SKIN WALKERS … all of them …” But I was undeterred.
I packed up the necessary items into backpack, and loaded up my truck. The following was a recommended packing list:
12 gauge, semi-auto, 7 in 1, Mossberg tactical shotgun
200 rounds of buckshot, 200 rounds of slug ammo …
12 days of food, rice, turmeric, onions and eggs … potatoes and scroblin-protein
Munctis Oil from hooker avenue in SLC …
Cold weather gear, high altitude oxygen climbing equipment, masks …
Proper hiking shoes with crampons available for rock climbing and descending into caves …
A hooker girlfriend, you lie to her, you say you’ll pay her $1,200 a night for mongo-sex, instead you were taking her up there for other reasons …
All the equipment the hooker girlfriend needs …
3 cases of WHISKEY …
9 cases of cheap Mexican beer
23 boxes of CAMEL cigarettes
A portable espresso machine
Cocaine, a lot of cocaine …
LSD and SHROOMS …
A tent and a bed and maybe some condoms …
A portable shortwave transceiver, with antenna system … for emergency contacts …
12 guage semi-auto shot gun, with 20 rounds of buckshot and 10 rounds of slug …
I went to Vernal to pick up a hooker, “Sheila”, and then made my way to the first way point on the journey: Uinta Canyon Road and the Uinta River as it flows down from them there mountains …
“I thought we were heading to SLC”, Sheila commented as we parked the truck and hit the trails … we loaded up a cart to carry extra equipment and Sheila wore a harness to pull the cart. Sheila was strung out on METH and HEROIN so I needed to give her some cocaine, as a reward for her labor, about every 2 miles of the hike.
Nearing next way point, a saddle off of Mt. Emmons near the peak, Sheila spotted a hot spring … the woods were deserted and it was late Autumn. The streets had been hard on Sheila, but she was comely, and had nice boobs. She took the straps off, and left the cart by the trail. I simply stood there and watched as Sheila went down to the hot spring and began undressing. She pulled glimpset-oil from her backpack, and began rubbing her orbs and caressing her boovula. She did this for 30 minutes, and I sat nearby and drank whiskey.
We got back on the trail, and after 45 more minutes of hiking we found a nice spot to set up camp. We set up our tents, and laid out our sleeping bags. We made munsket-meat and grumble stew by the fire, we cooked Cajun style beast-bread and then the heavy petting began. She demanded I use tent spikes and 5-50 cord, I demanded she shut up … I wasn’t interested in her opinion.
The next morning we woke with the crack of dawn, orange light breaking through the tent and illuminating Sheila’s half naked body – her torso and head sticking out of the sleeping bag, her breasts firm and supple, her nipples hard and protruding. I woke up and my man tube was “ready for action”, so we spent some more time in that tent, playing little games, lathering each other in love greases and spunk-flesh …
At around noon, we were back on the trail … we needed to make our way to a spot near King’s Peak, but the hike would be over broken country, and the carts would be harder to pull. Sheila was smiling, and seemed like she’d forgotten she was a hooker, just a week ago servicing some “elders” from Park City. She was seeing something new, something fresh. She’d lived in Utah her whole life, and NEVER spent any time in the mountains, camping. She could pretend she was a different person, and this was liberating.
We came across an abandoned cabin near Lake Atwood, and that’s where we decided to cache some of our gear, extra water, and some other emergency equipment plus the carts. For the next leg of the journey we would only take essentials: one tent, one extra-large sleeping bag, condoms and sexual oils, food, high altitude breathing equipment, rock climbing gear … and of course, whiskey, 2 bottles.
We were able to make camp on the side of King’s Peak, and planned out our next leg. We were getting close to that place where “the great riches” will be made plain. I didn’t know if that old drunk was crazy, but I knew I wanted to believe the story …
At the campsite that night, Sheila and I ungroobulated ourselves in the woods – wandering the nearby brush naked, making love like wolf-eagles and coyote-bears.
We fell asleep, in each other’s arms, in that cold weather sleeping bag near the fire.
We woke a few times, early in the morning, to the noise of WOOKIES and other injun spirits approaching our campsite. Sheila heard the noises, and clung to me, her naked body pressed up against mine – I had the shotgun in arms reach, so I was ready for action.
The next day we made an early start. I’d brought some eggs with me, and was saving them for that morning. I made a scramble of eggs and potatoes and bacon, we mixed the last remaining whiskey into our coffee and rested by the fire, pondering what was to come …
“My mom … she read palms …”
“What?”
“My mother, she was a Mexican gypsy and she would read your palms and use tarot cards and make predictions using tea leaves …”
“So what …”
“I feel like something bad is gonna happen …”
“Nah … we’re a day away from being rich …”
Sheila shook her head, smiled, and flipped me off …
We were heading to our next stop, a couple of lakes near Red Castle. The ground was rocky and the air was filled with geoengineering gumptous and flavor crystals. The Wookies howled, as the sky hawks and border beasts screamed, howled. A blizzard was closing in, not a real one mind you – something brought to you by Raytheon. But the fake blizzards were more unpredictable, more dangerous, so many dying, freezing to death, in the grips of a chemical ice nucleation bombing run.
“It’s getting cold and hard to breathe”, Sheila looked at me, anoxic, lips blue. I took the breathing equipment from my pack and put it on her. I saving my unit for later, and I didn’t care …. as I told my friends at the Hilltop Bar last week in Ballard: “we’re all dying, the world is dying … nothing we can do … but at least I can buy my ranch, get my cabin, and live out my days in peace.” I was pretty drunk, and my friends were drunker – they didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.
We made it to a spot near Red Castle Lake, and set up camp. Sheila undressed herself and bathed in those frigid waters, washing her body, shivering and writing with soap dripping off her breasts. I made a big fire, and we placed the tent close – but not too close.
The next day would decide everything …
The next day we would have a reckoning …
The next morning we took only our short range hiking gear. We left our backpacks and other equipment hanging from some trees and then set off on the trail. We hung up our spare equipment to avoid bear encounters and to dissuade the wookies from stealing from us. Big Foot, Sasquatch, wookie? – they go by many names, but all are filthy thieves.
We walked along the trail, to the spot indicated on the map by the old bum …
He scribbled something there, and I had ignored it until now – “shamanic gateway”. I had ignored it for the same reason I mocked Sheila when she was talking about her mom – I don’t buy into that crap, the supernatural, the occult, the hidden world? – fuck that. I believe in things I can see and things that will give me cancer, I believe in sex with a hooker, but that doesn’t mean I believe in a hooker surprise. No “Pretty Woman” Julia Roberts for me … I wasn’t dumb, I was simply jaded.
The hike should have been complete in 2 hours, but by the 4th hour the sun was rising high in the sky and our water was running low …
“Do you think there’s a stream or sumthin … up there?”, Sheila wondered. She was thirsty and hungry and tired. I had rode her hard each night, and she’d had barely any sleep at all. It was a wonder she was doing so well, but then I had a magic trick: cocaine. I brought enough cocaine to keep her straight, enough to keep her going. She lived her live like a lit cigarette, and she didn’t care when that light went out as long as SHE was smoking it …
My watch read 7 PM, but the sun seemed like it was in the sky and indicated just after noon, maybe 2 PM. The sun should be going down, but instead it kept getting warmer, and the air became easier to breathe … as if we’d descended to sea level.
“I’m really thirsty man”, Sheila complained. I knew she was nearing her breaking point.
“We’ll hike for another hour and then turn back.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, we can try again in the morning …”
Continuing on the trail for 25 minutes, we saw something …
“What’s that?”
“I dunno …”
It was a bright red light, brighter than the sun that was still above despite the time being 10 PM on my watch.
We inched our ways closer and then we both stopped … because the light kept coming …
Within seconds the light was in front of us, and it wasn’t a light at all …
From the light a body emanated, and a voice spoke out:
“I am Yoron, the nephite, the last of trungis-sklurgs … I stand guard at this portal to prevent the destruction of the NEW JERUSALEM … when the tribes of Joseph Smith made it here, they split into different groups: some went to SLC to establish a ‘proper church’ … some went into the desert to practice eldritch sexual rituals and other kinds of blood magic and abuse … but a third group, led by Nathan Daggs, followed a map … a map given to Nathan by Joseph Smith, before Smith was assassinated by Brigham Young … I stand guard and prevent the evil ones, the outsiders, the whores and vagabonds and other land-volk, from getting to the NEW JERUSALEM within the portal … you must go …”
I just stood there … gobsmacked … dumbstruck …
Sheila sat down, and just looked, stared, at the rocks … She’d wanted to make a few bucks, maybe have a good time. I’d given her the rest of the cocaine, and she’d put most of it up her nose. But it seemed, in her crestfallen state, no amount of cocaine would help.
After a few minutes, I decided to take action …
I pulled out my shotgun and began shooting at Yoron. Yoron, using special BRUCE LEE style moves, deflected my buckshot and slugs … Yoron grabbed the shotgun and broke it in half …
“YOU HAVE TEMPTED THE ANCIENT CHERUBS OF ALL CELESTIAL REALMS”, Yoran, with arm outstretched, sent a fiery pulse of energy my way … it bounced off of some obsidian stone and ended up hitting Sheila … she quickly caught fire, it was at least brutally swift and she didn’t apparently suffer … but still … he burnt her to a crisp … this was also sad.
He shot a light beam at my head … and I didn’t catch fire, but I did lose consciousness. I might have been dead … I might never know.
I don’t know what happened, I awoke, with a headache, back at my truck. Sheila was gone. She’d lived that life and burnt for it, but why did that nephite spare me? I was the scum … I was the man going to them there hills to steal their fucking gold … I wondered why he killed Sheila …
I drove back to the Hilltop Tavern, I told “Old Buck” at the bar the story …
Some rough notes on Bruce Willis, Aphasia and Weather Control …
So I now have a plausible explanation for the last decade of Bruce Willis films, most notably: BREACH (which was terrible). It seems that Mr. Willis may have a degenerative brain disorder called aphasia, if so this would make being in film rather difficult – except in a highly managed and compartmentalized way. That would mean controlled scenes, a lot of edit-in work, and frankly turning what would be, normally, cameo appearances into feature roles.
But … I must caution you.
I don’t know how much of ANY OF THIS is true – it’s possible it’s all true, it’s possible that it’s cover for something else. We live in an age of lies, deception … so do your own thinking regarding this story …
The cause of the aphasia, in Bruce’s case, has not been revealed yet.
Theory (not totally original):
Increasing rates of degenerative tissue and specifically degenerative brain disorders may be connected to the use of certain chemical compounds, aluminum-oxide being one, that are currently being used to impact climactic patterns and the weather.
I believe, based upon what I was taught as an air defense officer in the US Army, and based upon my own observations, that whatever is causing the patterns that are observable, in the sky, prior to a significant weather change, are not contrails. I cannot be certain what they are …
My view is not original, but is one of many perspectives – probably the best documented source for this topic is GeoEngineeringWatch.org. Dane Wigington runs the site, and has been an activist, trying to raise awareness, for about 2 decades. I don’t know if he is real or not, I don’t know if he’s a “sheep dog” in PSYOP/propaganda terms. He seems to be sincere and well documented in his position – but these days, it’s hard to know. Hard to know who is really who they say they are …
Here is a good article to read, but I will leave it up to you to do further research … Bottom line: if the US government is involved in covert climate/weather control, it is unlikely they would show any more concern or be more circumspect than they have been regarding other activities – like covertly exposing US citizens to radiological and biological hazards, on purpose, during the Cold War, in order to study their effects.
I have an uncle who recently died of dementia, and as with cancer: I’m knowing more and more people at younger ages who exhibit brain deterioration symptoms.
Bruce was/is a traveler, jet setter. My uncle traveled a lot. According to one theory, the male brain is less able to effectively prevent toxic exposure than the female brain, so you’d expect to see more of this in men than women.
But another impact of this poisoning from the sky is increased cancer rates … so every gender gets something …
One more thing: if the US government is covertly using nano-scale substances to impact climate and weather, then there is a high likelihood that this material is in EVERYTHING … food, water, in addition to air … it would accumulate in the body over time, flying frequently would only increase and concentrate exposure, since the air you are breathing on the plane is coming from the outside, where the spraying is happening … and planes fly through this polluted air, continuously.
And another final thought: what if the separate “systems” operating on planet Earth are not disconnected, but rather integrated. Which means: if the US government is “messing with the climate”, is it possible they are also impacting geological activity? Perhaps the same technology, like HAARP, which is being used (supposedly) for weather/climate control has other purposes, like directing waves of radio energy to key tectonic regions, causing earthquakes, eruptions, tsunamis.
And a super dooper final thought: there’s been some references to “Dark Winter”, and it makes me wonder if in the final stages of geoengineering, will they use so much material that they trigger immediate toxic reactions, like some old man or woman walking down the streets of Wuhan, and just falling over, dead … China has had a recent history of weather engineering mishaps, what if they used “too much” in 2019/2020 and the “Monkey Herpes” psyop was designed to cover this and other nation’s increasing geoengineering activities.
– Time vs Money: why I do what I do …. and why crypto turned me off early … I also believe that crypto is NOT the canary … more like the “swan song” … so precious time you could use to do actual things to protect your friends/family? – that’s wasted time … and the lights go out.
– BREAKING NEWS: BINANCE IS CONVINCING OTHER ASPERGERS CRYPTO FREAKS TO JUMP AT THE LAST MINUTE BEFORE THE CAREENING ELEVATOR CAR HITS THE GROUND … (and the chart reflects it)
– in 2017 when I worked on a crypto project, it became obvious to me that: a) the blockchain, mathematically, cannot scale and b) that most of the crypto freaks were really just looking for fast money …
– I remember attending the Startup-Societies Conference in 2017, and a LOT of crypto-barons were there … do you know what they spent most of their time talking about? – which one of their magical tokens would be chosen …. by the central banks … they always had an intention to fold into a CBDC regime, from the beginning
– when I tested bitcoin, I found that transactions less than$100 had non-deterministic behaviors in terms of both delivery AND the value delivered …
– very early on, after writing my own “white paper”, I realized the “coin” was not the first class citizen of commerce … it is the TRANSACTION … gold, corn, silver, oil, all of these are OBJECTS of the transaction … which also means: if your transactions are slow and non-deterministic? – no one will adopt. It also means that Bitcoin was ALWAYS focused on the wrong thing, ETHER as well and all the mutants.
– it’s clear that the blockchain is a forever ledger: only the IRS could love this
– when I confronted a crypto-evangelist about the behaviors of crypto, he said “well, you need to conduct business in exchanges …” … kind of like the twitter nurses in 2020 telling me to get on a ventilator because I had a cold
– who is this Satoshi? – when do they wheel out this freak?
– bitcoin was always a deep state scam
– the “blockchain” is a furnace designed to burn excess fiat
– the “crypto boom” was neo-Keynesian broken windows economics gone mad
– in order to solve some inherent flaws in crypto, “experts” in 2017 were telling people “well, you should use a network” or “use an exchange”, and then I asked them about the claims of no counterparty risk or third party dependencies? – and then their eyes glaze over
– USABLE … you want to sell something? Get people involved in something? YOU HAVE TO MAKE IT USABLE … it’s 2022 … what’s the excuse? … the reason why I refunded money for the RAD projects this year? – simple … the more I dug into JS8 Call, the more I tested it, the more bugs/problems I found … and the radios being used ARE NOT $50 subsidized “smart” phones … they are radios, the cheapest of which will cost you $200, and it’s up from there …
– is there some mysterious class of people “living their lives” with crypto? – sure … and I think Biosphere 2 was a success for a couple months too …
– history, as of right now, is ON cryptos side: as James Howard Kunstler pointed out in “Too Much Magic”, people need to believe these schemes, these technologies, will somehow, magically save “normality” … normal is over …. but crypto preys on this desire
Smart people …
“Let me tell you about ‘smart’ people: they get to the wrong answer faster.” – Dr. Freckles
What’s up with Bruce Willis?
A lot of films, in the last 10 years, have had Bruce Willis in them – but few of these films were any good …
A great example is “Breach”, which came out a couple of years ago …
I just watched “Reprisal”, and this movie seems to show case a slightly drunk Willis drawing on a white board … taking part half heartedly in some action scenes …
Robots took over at DAVIS … I know, it’s 2022 BOBLIMPTOCK … but they’re here now … and the staff are all “whatever” …
The drivers of those trucks want to kill you sometimes when you’re crossing the street …
I was thinking about a DAHMER network … all DAHMER movies or in the style of … there’ve been a few actors to play DAHMER so far, so get them in the lineup … Maybe get Ann Heche to do some promo work at the COMICON shit … but then I was thinking about this commercial for the MIKO robot, but how most kids the first thing they’re going to do is hack it so it says really racist crap like “that’s an n-word over there” … but then it was like, why not have a reality TV show where you have this remote controlled robot that goes around different neighborhoods and says really vile and racist crap … of course people will destroy it … that’s part of the fun … maybe you give it stink bombs … dog shit catapults … AND then … it’s like RINVOQ for ulcerative collitis … I don’t know if I have it, but I’m asking my doctor.
I was out for a walk with the dogs, as the sky-hawks sprayed their celestial poop upon us … and I could feel the graphene tendrils dig deeper into my soul and my skin crawled and the dog whispered bad thoughts into my head … “those people … over there … they don’t look quite right”, Boomer would say, and then lick his butt.
“Today I’m using Batiste …” … a couple hookers in Vegas, been there 6 months … used up and burnt out at 22 … the BATISTE keeps their whore lifestyle going … they will burn themselves out …
When I’m home for Thanksgiving, I’m going to tell them that I got into a fight at a bar in S’compton, and it’s because this weird guy didn’t look at me so good … and that made me angry and such … and it was “I’LL KILL YOU!” the way a Texas desperado says it, with emphasis … I killed him with a knife, I told the SOB I’d take his life.
Bryb (old english): the part of the goat, once slaughtered, that is LEAST desired … can be used as a noun or as a verb … To bryb is to re-boovulate a woman’s boovula, post coitus, using the Lentango-method and then to consume her inter-coital skunk juice …
Superannuated: obsolete through age or new technological or intellectual developments
Election Night Results: FL “Catastrophic” For Dems, Vance Takes OH, Fetterman Tops Oz … The Democrats declared VICTORY … yay … yay for victory. GOP took Florida? – but why …
Beer halls, cranes, airplanes, red squirrel gone bad, break the old man’s back …
Mark Zuckerberg To Fire 11,000 Meta Employees … he suggested they learn how to dig through dumpsters and wrestle coyotes for 50 cents a day … he suggested the women make themselves up and get ready to HOOK … to head for the streets and sell their stale pussy to JIMBO REAMS near the Tenderloin. He suggested the men become gay hookers and pimps as well, that they sell krokodil and heroin to school children … and to make sure that they hand out apples with razor blades in them … because ALL OF THIS would help.
STRONGO maidens are handing out flowers to the dustrin-teams.
Labour MP Diane Abbott Says Rape Of Teenage Boy At Refugee Hotel “Is What Happens When You Demonize Migrants” …
Janet Mange, carrier of dreebus-5-crabs, moves from bar to bar picking up men. She wears hot red lipstick and high heels and a pretty little baby doll dress that lets you see her panties … She’s HOT and ready … if she’s at the bar? – you better be ready …
You left your home for work. Your car was almost out of gas so you stop at the Union station to buy some … you grab a coke and a soup-grizzler and one of those hotdogs that sits there all day and marinates in the infinite pain … you get to work and Sarah calls you out in a meeting … you decide to kidnap her and sell her to the Albanians …
Swamp monkey ZED is almost dead, his people are hungry his world is RED, his mind is corroded, his wife is a skank, he drives to buy whiskey in a Sherman Tank. He keeps good hours, and waters the flowers, BUT DUGAN-ESQUE urinal tribes hunt after him and his kin .. what shall he do? – lose or win?
Hide and seek, dimension SILVER opens up, and the jordan-path for General TROG is no longer viable. Move slug-throw mungit whores to sector-78, while maintaining guard over the tribblin-droves.
Jewel thief is riding high near the 4th sphere …
Crystal realm music festival, the boobly dancers are on stage …
I need to imagineer my place a ZONE of total wellness, a nice cabin by a stream, somewhere not far from my true love, in a land of calm and peace and bacon and LOVE …
So I said to myself …
Go into a quiet room in your home, maybe bring a music player. Sit in the room quietly, listening to music or not, and imagine a world …
Imagine a world of mountains and trees …(3)
Imagine a world of oceans and space ships and planets far away … (2)
Imagine in that world there is a planet on the edge of the universe, and on that planet there is a man, in a room, imagining a world … and in his world there are cities and deserts and wide ranging plains … in one of those cities, in that new world, there is a person, in a room, imagining a world …
Go to the stream, the stream goes to the river, the river to the sea …
Go down to the stream, the one near your house … make a toy boat out of a single sheet of paper, place the boat in the stream, watch it float away. The boat will go to the river, and on the river the boat will learn patience and witchcraft. The boat will go down the river to the sea, and at the mouth of the river, the boat will fall in love and raise a family. The boat will make it to the sea, and on the waters of the GREAT SEA the boat will see the shore, the shore that touches the river, the river that touches the stream, the stream that flows home.
I have this 1975 FORD Galaxga in Jet Black, with a Driscoll-style floating cam and a 900 hp turbocharger with octo-nitrous injection … I’m selling it for 30 one ounce gold coins, we can meet, after midnight, over by the dump. The dump is not far from the old haunted cemetery, and this is not far from the Indian burial ground … This steed requires a true heart.
They’re launching missiles form out of Georgia over the Krasnodar into Ukraine …
Do you think if you’re living in Utah that the Mormons would turn-on the non-Mormons (like me) and toss us out into the streets? Maybe have us shipped to the Nalley’s Tamales factory near Cheyenne? (maybe …)
Mapleton, Arkansas, Silly Sauce Pizza …
You are the planet hurl, you are the cheese whiz girl … you are the female blink, I am the gorilla heap, you are my needle sheep, I am your broken Greek …
“You could use a helper”, that fucking lady said to the checkout girl, the one that is banging her husband … pregnant with that nasty woman’s husband’s checkout-girl baby …
The old man drove into the parking lot and wanted to kill me, the lady in the red car wanted me dead …
She was a cinnamon roll baby, looking for a coke-head man – her name was Krystal. She had dazzle and wazzle and lived down by the Catholic Church on 7th and Chestnut. A hungry troll named Bob would visit her, from time to time … he usually had fifty bucks for a “fast time charlie”, but Krystal could see he wanted something uglier, meaner … She lived on those streets for 20 years, ever since her parents sold her to gypsies. She would be the man’s 23rd victim, sometime in 2024.
Color: gold … find the golden path to the golden shower …
There are these dudes, these dudes that lived, in upper jab-man-stan, not far from tab-bli-stan …
George W. Bush had the answer … he was drinking with John Ritter in 2001 and told that GUY the “secret” … John Ritter told Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Phillip told Robin Williams, Robin told Anthony Bourdain … what was the secret? What were they told?
I went to see Dr. Chingles. He gave me a compress and a salve. He told me the eel pudding would clear up my sklink-sores, and that the worms in my heart were going to fart … the worms in my soul would come out in the bowl … but the three tumors in my EYE were going to fry.
CRAB NIGHT is the SOFT WIND NIGHT … without getting too gooey … CRAB NIGHT is when the butter flows, and the sumptuous anal minx seeks wayward ways in the curbside bar … She stuffs zucchini as far as it will go, she stretches it out, and is cursed by the blood moon.
The Keffleton Grizzly folk lived according to their wildlife ways, winter life, summer chode, and the grambling times when their loin greases flow and the icy hearts melt before a springtime jumblin-jo flower party.
Vietnam Gas Stations Start To Close Due To Widespread Shortages … old momma CHO has nowhere to go … old uncle HO will die in the snow, cocaine elephants moving their wares from one greasy hotel to the next … a ship, set sail from Hong Kong, sinks in the Yellow Sea, 8 people are lost, 77 people drown, the rest are saved by the wild elk of JAPAN.
Lemon spice wolf-poop ice cakes, tasty and healthy, for 6.95 … Cinnamon spice wolf-poop, lemon spice ice cakes, covered in pus, covered in scabs … coming from the labs, made for your grandma, ready for Christmas, ready for love …
A sexy monkey army is heading for TEXAS. The women are hairy conundrums, covered in lice and turnip scent. Their eyes are glassy and jaundiced and there was a certain forlorn and disturbed affect to it all … They were FIRST LEVEL priestesses, and their duty was to unguzzlelate themselves on the Golden Gate Bridge, as they writhe in their busty nakedness and the drivers going by toss onion rings and pizza sauce at them … It will be a March, and the Chinese satellite will crash near Hawaii.
Cathedral open for the groundskeeper and his family. Fire stoked for 34 days, and the hawk sits vigil waiting for the snail prince. Gundus, the mild-slog, washes out the sacred urn, and prepares the burnt offerings … all sins are forgiven, once the lamb cuts loose …
A fight will break out in Paris, France, between two clans. 76 will be injured, 23 killed … The patriarch of one family will use dynamite and molotov cocktails to set fire and destroy the family of his daughters lover … greed, revenge, race, love, God, all mixed up in this drama of great sadness and tragic loss … some of the bodies will be discovered in a river.
Dragon’s Mist, when the plane crosses the border and two bombs are released on the King. 2 generals are lost, and the 5th King of DOOMBAH is left to struggle against the fire eel people and the lost penguins of sector 901. And in the time of DROOSH, a scarlet curse is cast upon the elf mistress, and weedle-bugs feed on unburied corpses and a callous fog floats over the land …
Hooker-Silence is a new kind of space-juice. We simmer brown dwarf love piss until it boils at 9,000 times the temperature of the Sun’s core. We then add tachyon spice and the herb of lost black hole love gumptis … As the old monster-planet said, “the gas giant is a beast of destruction, the gases burn your private parts …”
A mother and her two sons are walking along a path in a woodland park. The sun is low, it is late afternoon on a January day. A sick man is tracking her, and her children. His name is Jonesy and his eyes are blue. He was recently released from prison and his hands shake. He will take the woman and her children, he will dump them in the canal.
Unicorn started from JORD, on its way it met the maiden Dora, she had 3 eyes and she guarded the water-features of K’LEB, where the wizards and goblins made their bets and wagered on the whiskey harlots and the spade-kings … All CHING-CHONG generals are accounted for, as the WAR of HOOX begins and the cancer spreads through S’compton.
Dinosaurs have been found on MARS … they drive electric cars, they vote for hookers to rule their lands, they build their castles upon the red sand … they grow fat and angry, looking towards the stars … in time they will visit their bellicose nature upon us, and tear up our lands with their dinosaur technology … FUCK: https://weeklyworldnews.com/topstory/56694/dinosaurs-found-on-mars-2/
“People Are Fed Up”: Soaring Electricity Bills Become New Pain Point For Biden … they are ANGRY and MAD and seeking gas-station style revenge. They are arming themselves with bats and chain … they are going insane, looking for a fast-way-out of this hell hole nightmare of old style grizzly-gus pizza and jello-soup pie …
Chezzler owned the corner store. He sold greaser-pies and snake eyes and pickled cat’s feet. He swindled and swirled, passing off crushed caffeine pills as cocaine. Some kids came in looking for food, they were hungry and angry – Chezzler lured them into his basement, and trapped them. What will he do?
Red, road, train, toy, fire, crystal, lake, missile, open water, large reservoir, a damn will break, a world will shake, the chemical plant will catch fire and the land will be poisoned.
All of my negativity is now yours, I give it to you … my burdens … my shit … my fears and regrets are all now YOURS … I transfer them to you using ancient shamanic practices and cheaply manufactured crack cocaine … but my stuff is now in your basement, it lurks there … it feeds on your dried beans and your rice … it nibbles on your MREs … all of my dark self is now yours, you own it … all of my demons chase you in the night.
Dog’s have built a cargo cult around sausage and bacon
Some kind of weird vibe is setting off the dogs
Munctus settled upon the basin, drinkus, like there will “snow” soon
Debris of Halloween still on the ground
Shoreline
Kelp forest
Black Sea
Cold Deep
Submarine battle
Space Cannon
Sector 3 is in trouble from LORD DUGAH
Chambers are closed to the stink ghost
Shaggy has this OCD thing about knowing where everyone is in the house … and then he mutters his shit …
Beethoven – Symphony No.7 in A major op.92 – II, Allegretto … if you want a good soundtrack for these days, these hours …
A ditch in Duchesne, where a body was found
Plane crash, 4 people die, 9 survive, somewhere in the mountains
Kettle Falls
The hunter is looking west to see the tribes, the elk and caribou and other land-crabs are hunting there meals for the suppertime feast
Ape space man coming with golden cures, earth woman readies her root cellar …
Turkey is something else, be careful
Read MICAH 5:2, and know the truth of the ancient times …
NING-GO is ruler of REALM-90, his D.J. skills are renown, his guards carry sky lasers
THRIGGIN HAWK flourish in the time of gumbo-grease and hooker-yeast. Make some spring rolls from that crap you find in the gutter near the whorehouse or the strip club … make some breakfast of pain.
Seattle lightning squad, carriers of herpes and pox, spreading their joy this holiday season, making merry down by the docks after work, drinking everclear and rubbing onions and butter on their junk …
A blue ring, with lights dancing around it, carrying power crystals to the FOUNTAIN, to drink the purest wine and squeeze the Charmin …
A dog is barking, he knows if he barks too much … CHARLES BARKELY appears and will kidnap the dog to the under-dog-underworld …
In the sky they paint these words, “in the breaking dawn, you will die”. and I mark the seconds till the coming morning, and think about the hookers I will FUCK … when the time of cocaine comes
NOD, the monk king, owner of all porno, led his swarthy men on a quest for SKY LOVE and kingsly brinkmanship and sword fights and black-knight style shivings … with hatchet, and hammer, he made love … ask PAUL … fucker.
Some weird people about, perhaps more witches from SLC
A dozen eggs is about $5.00 … for basic eggs … up to $7.00 for premium
If you can afford to donate, please do: I need to buy a lot of cocaine for my trip back to Seattle
Poison …
Are you feeling tired, distressed?
Do you have chest pains and bloody stool?
Do you leave a puddle of drool on your bed, a shame pond that haunts you in the morning time?
Is your wife or husband cheating on you?
Do you have terrible kids and dogs that do stupid shit and this infuriates you?
A lot of people have seen positive results trying POISON (xl).
It’s an extended release poison designed to help you deal with these common health and psychological problems caused from consuming too much POISON …
Disclaimer tho:
Don’t use poison if you are pregnant, trying to get pregnant, or while having sex in a car going 200 MPH.
If you have heart disease, cancer, liver disease, scabies, autoimmune, diabetes, COPD, or any other rudding issue that is rotting your insides and driving you crazy? – then poison might not be right for you.
If you are taking any other kinds of poison, you might not want to take poison.
Stop using poison if your eyes turn green or you get an uncontrollable twitch in your left eye.
If you are over 50 and are at risk for common over 50 shit? – you can take poison.
Poison is best taken while drinking or getting high on cocaine …
If poison isn’t working, you can try taking more poison …
Fuck you and eat your poison.
“What if there is no hammer?” – a potential, from The Matrix
I’m close to calling BS on two things:
– that Paul was injured at all
and linked
– that he had any “brain surgery”
This all looks like a COPS episode that never gets aired.
(same thing you’d find at any trailer park on Friday night)
The “hammer” part of this story is becoming progressively harder to believe … Depending on what kind of hammer, one whack would have knocked out Paul … probably killed him … So what? – limp wristed swing? (perhaps) Or, as stated, there was no “hammer” at all …
Here’s what MIGHT have happened:
someone who was part of the Pelosi security team OR security for a nearby residence believed something untoward was happening at the Pelosi residence. Could have been a private detective hired by Nancy or some other operative.
The cops show up, Paul is in his underwear, Depape is in his underwear, and they’re NOT cooking meth … so something weird is happening.
Cops manufacture story about a “hammer” and an injury … perhaps there was some kind of blood, on the scene, that could be used to do this.
The “brain surgery” was more bullshit to garner sympathy/support.
And MAYBE there was a “hammer”, but its purpose was as a prop, to be used in case the cops showed up to a Paul-Party and Paul needed a good alibi … “hey, that dude attacked me with a hammer …”
Depape, being a transient type gay hobo, will likely end up dead soon.
This is looking more and more like “The Jussie Smolett Story, Part 2: Old Dude Gay Sex” ..(and why not release the camera footage?)
“Let a liar talk long enough, he’ll speak the truth.” – Dr. Freckles
Sted Master Gurgen … (a lord of Boblimptock)
Following the 5th Atomic War, Fuer-Master Gurgen lay stricken on the battlefield. His urine was bloody and cold, his heart filled with monkey-mold. His mind a parasite village, a “head full of bees” as the old folks would say … he was dying of brostimpus-deels disorder, and a new FUER-MASTER would need to be chosen …
In the time of the black moon and the wolf-squirrel …
A young lad good with a spike and a whip and a steel chain, he would hurl himself at the inside-out bears and achieve total victory during the GREAT CONFLICT of YAB.
A young brute, with silvery hair and greenish skin, armed only with his wit and the muskul oils of Thwarntoz, where the high priestess women massage themselves with joob-bile and cundrom-sauce.
His name was STED … but he would soon be the NEW FUER-MASTER …
When STED was 8, 4 dingus-merchants visited his parents. They had gold and spices and hookers and cocaine … they offered to buy young STED for 5 pounds of gold, and his parents, being poor and addicted to crack, took the gold.
The merchants took STED to the EASTERN PROVINCE, where the GURU STEVE lived. Steve made knives out of old chainsaw chain … he was a blacksmith and a farmer and a hunter and a lover … he had wives in every crevice of the world, anywhere he fell there was some young busty maiden to rub oils on his wounds and yank is zuby-pipe.
STED grew bold and strong. STED learned the ways of CHIEF DIGGLER and joined the ranks of the hobo-shaman. He cast spells and sold bogus lottery tickets to the Mexican-Irish in TEXAS. His masters feared him, so they let him follow the jaded and jagged side roads, they let him feast upon the monkey-paste and dine with the queens of V’ygsoon.
STED was 17 when he met the witch of VAROOM. She told him he was the NEW FUER-MASTER to replace FEUR-MASTER GURGEN. “The lands have been without a FUER-MASTER for too long, the soil grows hard again, the water glows with radiological fury, the children do not read or write good, and the women have given in to HARLOTRY!”, the witch told STED he needed to choose the throne, if only for the lifetime supply of cocaine.
The ceremony was complete, and STED became FUER-MASTER STED and the guardian of the last Nalley’s Tamale factory that still supplied this nutritious treat to all the scrumbly folk and wandering tramps …
STED would reveal prophecies while drinking and smoking crack:
“There’s a 200 gigaton bomb being launched from the moon, it will be here real soon, it will go kaboom …”
“Freeze-dried elephant monkey poop pie, it’s on sale at SAFEWAY, we’re all gonna die …”
“She drives a GM truck, she’s a country girl she’ll take for a whirl …”
“We all love corrugated monkey meat, it gives our lives a special treat, it’s always on sale.”
weird paranoid thought: is there less oxygen in the air than there used to be
I need money for my trip back to Seattle to buy emergency cocaine
The site is becoming unstable the way the site did a year ago at GoDaddy before those fucks ripped me off
Tried to create an account on Twitter, it remained stable and unlocked for 45 minutes
Denmark …
If you MUST hate some people and some place …
“Denmark is a shitty place, with crappy people living in it.” – Shakespeare (revised)
Prophecy concerning WW3 …
When it begins …
Ching-Chong forces under the command of General CHANG-CHING will invade Alaska, WA and CA …
They will sneak in using container ships … and pour out into the port cities, hunting the street wench, eating roaches and rats, ravaging the countryside, opening new Panda Express locations …
Russian forces will invade from Canada …
Biden will wonder what kind of ice cream they’re serving that day …
When it begins …
Claivan-volk will arm themselves with tooglin-swords and mug-grease. They will wear uniforms made from dead cats and carry baseball bats with large carpentry nails driven through them. The younger ones will carry pillow cases filled with rocks and nuts and bolts and other rusty pieces of metal they can find near the old abandoned library …
Nurg-tergler, the STENIC PRINCE, will form an army of castro-wenches. They will roam the countryside near Scompton, not far from where those nuns were murdered by the CIA last year …
There will be another crispy chicken sandwich war … KFC will lose bigly.
Psychotherapy over the INTERNET: nope …
“Don’t ever do therapy over the internet.” – Dr. Freckles
JINGHIZ-LOHR … (a lesser known LORD of BOBLIMPTOCK)
He walked in the sunshine with the 44 gods, when the world was new and the earth was still fresh. He hunted skylark-pony on the plains of T’ybek, and among the FRUNG people he led a revolution of total satisfaction, spreading dingo-crabs to every hooker and having an 8-ball of cocaine ready at EVERY party …
Jinghiz-Lohr ruled the 21 realms following the atomic wars … his lands were vast and filled with dead. He would ride his shark-eagle across the territories of YOD – and nothing could stop his throng. He fed on whale-perch and wore a codpiece made of iron and pain. In the age of BOBLIMPTOCK, he was the RADIOACTIVE COMMANDER ELITE and women sought his man juice.
Jinghiz-LOHR took the lands east of GRINKEN. He managed to topple governments and take their hookers as his wives … following the 12th Atomic War, all the scunglin-folk were covered in keester-oil sores. They would drain these sores and put the pus and munctus into a large pot … they would add crickets and rat parts and old style Nalley’s Tamales … Jinghiz would look upon this as a man with an appetite to swallow a landfill. Ching-Chong warriors dug their tunnels, and the world prepared for the 13th Atomic War.
Jinghiz once pondered … “how many more atomic wars will there be?”
And the Demon X’inder said in response: “as many are as necessary for you monkeys to learn …”
Jinghiz or “Jing” as his friends called him, had 3 mothers and 9 fathers. Their gumbo-grease was mixed into a great vat, and they would spoon out gobs of this stuff with an old rusty soup ladle and pour it into the mother’s xig-caves, where the mixture incooblerated and festered and formed strange long compounds, minerals, vitamins and formed a breeding matrix for the clap. The women then de-cloaked their busty bodies and wrestled each other, in the busty sauces of TOR, where meagen-priests made sacrifices and the priestess-guardians grew hungry for the flesh … After 5 months, the child would spring forth, randomly, from one of the 3 women’s mester-pools, and at that moment they would scream and wail and welcome the next LOHR, or ruler of the NUGGEN-VOLK.
Jing could build a home out of sand and blood. He could transfer his thoughts, into a bat, and then have that bat do some wild shit …
Jing had the power of Ourox, his hands glowed white hot, and his fists were made of titanium. With every karate chop, he could split a man in half – he didn’t cry … his sadness took the form of knives.
Jing journeyed, when he was young, to the land of Vod, where the mad monk of S’compton lived, among coyote strippers and old frail harlots. He learned to scoop and move, he learned the way of CLOG. The mad monk taught Jing the power of 9 perceptions, and the middle world between the paint and the wall. This was Jing’s new style destiny, and he could sense a weird feeling in his man-rod.
… the 9 perceptions or SOUL-LEVELS are as follows …
T’lib: this happens upon awaking into the MEAT-WORLD. You feel a tingle in your dinctus, and your butt quivers. Your body demands the EXPULSION of waste – but analyzes this experience, determining HARD-SOFT conditions for poo and the kinds of Indian vindaloo that produce the most satisfying body screams, or bowel movements. To be in harmony with your sphincter is to achieve LEVEL ONE perception or T’lib.
Aagen: … it’s like you’re up late watching PornHub videos, mainly Ava Adams. And you feel as if you know her, that you’re connected. You massage your own booge-horg and feel and great power-pull into the region of love-grease and oil expansion. And at that moment you are with Ava Adams, and she is rubbing coconut grease on her ample orbs, and groaning and moaning your name … and as she groans and moans you notice a substance dripping from her underwear, and this is golden and buttery so you make popcorn and collect the stuff and put it ON the popcorn. You finish the popcorn and awaken, realizing it WAS ALL a DREAM … and then Kurt Cobain’s ghost shows up, and you play a set.
Turino: this is the sensation of soul-oneness with small furry animals, cats, dogs, sometimes hamsters. Your minds are synchronized: if they feel pain, you feel pain. If they are sad, the sadness grows in you … if they feel like pooping on the neighbor’s lawn? – you see where this is going.
Zipzomatic: this is the feeling you get when you look at your paycheck and think “fuck, I don’t get paid enough”. This usually results in visiting some bar after work and developing some kind of unhealthy relationship with the bartender there, with visible herpes. You end up leaving your wife and kids and moving in with the herpes woman and life seems grand … until a random stranger offers you a map to a goldmine in UTAH, not far from VERNAL, near that mass grave where the Mormons killed them injuns in 1896 … you can’t find your way home, and that’s the KEY.
Xoog-Roy: once you have an ONLY-FANS account, you can tap into this juice. There’s an electric connection between yourself and some rando-stranger peaking at your johnson from across the WWW. You sense the frustration and anger, from some bogo-freak living in a basement, eating dongo-fries and breathing lyre-fumes. And when the strungis becomes peaked and firm, the coop-gas gets released and the freaks stop paying their credit card bills. This is the sensation of total bleakness, Xoog-Roy.
Playidas: Yoog-hounds can trace their way home, no matter how far away they are abandoned. They can find their owners, asleep in their beds, and visit upon them great abuses and harm … as if loneliness is manifest in all consciousness and these dogs feel it all and the worst parts of being left alone, in the dark, no food, no love. This is Playidas …
Wey-hor: it’s the FRINGE-CONNECT on your email account that sifts through player minds-sets and finds true ONE-SHIP … when you are one with the other and the other is connected to your loorg-pipe or man-tube. That moment she decides to pull a knife out from under the pillow and cut off your cock? – that’s when you can perceive Wey-hor and the great GROIN agony.
Lurg: after the age of DOOM, when COL SANDERS 6 armies are beaten at the Battle of Denver? – there comes an APE-GURU connected to all chimps and gorillas. His name will be Brogas the Immense. He would tower over his contemporaries, never revealing to them the horrible truth … that he was WOOKIE … MAN BEAST … BIG FOOT … SWAMP APE … he was the thing that screamed in the Louisiana bayou demanding justice for the dolphin. In the fragile vibration of this life, you can connect to toads … this is LURG …
Codaroomaboomalapa: Once you achieved the 8 corner stone perceptions, and mastered oneness with small furry animals, you are ready for SOUL TRIUMPH vis-a-vis MIND WORTHYNESS … and this is exemplar of CHRONIC-SUNDRY moog-viss or dingus of Saab. In the time of Grinken, the whale-beasts will roam the old town and the mistress will inguzzlelate herself with cister-wine and troog-worms. As if all this undulating sin were not enough, there is the tremor of TROOG … and when you’ve incorporated all of this, you can state definitely you are ready to split people in half with one karate chop, and then do some coke.
“WHERE ARE THE HARBINGERS?!?”, Jing yelled at the great mountain, the cliffs, the rocks and the river.
He was seeking the balance of ZINDER-REALM, and his own codpiece was covered in fire ants … and this was uncomfortable.
“WHY HAVE YOU ABANDONED THE SWAMP APES AND THE NUGGEN-VOLK?”, but only silence followed, as Jing laid down his head and the sun dipped behind the great mountain.
As night fell, so Jing fell into a deep sleep …
He went to a dream world, where frog-sailors built ships of weed and old time’y town squares were inhabited by rat-soldiers and dusty old munge-whores.
He dreamed he was SLUNGIS, the MAN-LORD, the one of many hooker wives …
He dreamed his hooker wives were all laid out on a gigantic bed, a bed that shook and shake’d and sprayed sexual greases all over the place, ancient oils of lusty boovulus.
He dreamed of battling the old dragon of D’ig, where COONDRAK the FIRE RAIDER held sway, and the several armies of Wug stood fast against the ORCA ZONE and the coming raccoon storm …
And as the sun rose, and dawn broke upon the plains of G’OGGEN … Jing himself awoke with new insights and a vision to lead his tribe …
Life’s strange dynamic …
“Don’t be afraid to stand your ground, don’t be afraid to pack your bags, because life has this strange dynamic.” – Dr. Freckles
They were playing “banksy”, as they shoved newspaper up each other’s butts and then lit the stuff on fire …
They had a third unidentified guy, eating chili in the corner, who would get up periodically and fart and pee on them …
And it just went sideways.
Paul and his twink may have been doing “MC HAMMER” or “hammer time” …
Take the handle of the hammer and shove it up the twink’s butt, you then give him oral highway or British tiramisu … all of which can lead to head injury, especially if you’re doing it MEXICAN STYLE …
His sexual partner pushed it too far …
Paul and his lover Levi Ballz were playing “village people” …
Paul was dressed as a NAVY admiral, Levi was the “carpenter” …
And it just got crazy …
it’s known as “making french fries” in the gay community …
sometimes “steak fries” … or playing “sweet potato”
Interestingly enough: when you play “sweet potato” in LA, you usually use zucchini …
… he and his sex-slave were doing poppers, and using penile-digglers and rasp-wazzles …. and shoving potatoes up each other’s butts … stuff got out of control.
And NANCY … ?????
He married her BECAUSE she’s a nasty drunk …
He can have his SIDE SHOW, and things got messy …
He ordered off the local menu, Nancy caught them, and she flew into an alcoholic rage …
This will get buried, some black-mexican will be blamed.
But the real story man …
Depape and PAUL were playing “two bag boys for Miss Gibonsy …”
It’s a dangerous game involving WD-40 and PVC tubing and large charge capacitors that you charge up and then insert into your yurgen-tunnel. And one of the dudes dresses like a bird and poops on your head … and then you kum in some biscuit sauce and get wasted off crack cocaine …
And surprisingly … something went wrong.
The “SISTEEEN CHAPEL” is a common trope in Castro, SF. You pay some poor dude money and crack and you buy him a tunic … you hand him some kind of carpenter hammer and say “now, build upon this rock” … as you arch your back, the young greaser twink inserts a volcanic stone into your sphincter, and then begins bashing it in with his hammer …
And maybe … this was too much …
“october surprise” is also very popular in San Fran …
You start with a “denver omelette”, that’s great but you need about 3 pounds of metal shavings mixed with wood chips and diesel fuel …
After you’re done massaging the junctus … you relieve pressure for the man-wand …
And something terrible occurred …
And if they were making a “denver omelette”, then something was haywire …
BTW: I believe the “brain surgery” is Smolett style sympathy-mining …
It’s kind of tragic, because PAUL was probably wanting play “Sister Mary”, while Depape was in the mood for “Old Man and the Pee” …
SOME DUDE ON ZH:
Ok let me get this story straight: the “intruder” breaks into the house, finds Paul in his underwear, the intruder slips off his clothing, the cops show up, the intruder rips a hammer out of Paul’s hands and then beats him with it in front of cops. Nice story.
Yes – every real life porn film starts that way
Me?
I think they were playing “Dirty Hairy”, and Depape, who was supposed to be the bungo-freak, brought too much nitrous … they probably overloaded and then Paul shot his load into the fondue set, and that’s when things got rough …
It’s possible they were playing “Mormon night out”, and the third guy didn’t show up or showed up late. They were in a kind of special love-nest-rope-trap, and it got bad …
The Mormon showed up and started pouring chocolate sauce all over the place … and this was the TRIGGER.
They were playing “Shelly Long”, and Nancy’s gape got filled with popcorn butter but the electrical outlet was way too close to the reverberating-anal-spreader … it was bad.
I think Paul was hoping for the “Tennessee Cowboy”, but instead he ended up with the “old fashioned Kentucky ass kicking” …
That’s $2,000/hour …
They used to call it the “San Francisco Treat”, but it’s where the top and his twink tie telephone wire around their glinctus, while they’re wearing adult diapers and tossing lumps of rotten horse meat at each other. This is done in preparation for the coup de grace of playing anal sculptor and then lighting off fire crackers in each other’s dinctus holes.
Of course they could have been playing “Queen of England”. This is dangerous, and does involve hammers and hatchets and lumps of coal. You have to have a keen eye for detail, because the rope play is intricate and if you pull on the wrong knot you can cause bodily harm.
Some freaks in SF think the old queen was playing “hot and moist”, while Depape was likely the “old squire boy from the village” and Paul was the brown dragon.
Sometimes things get messy … and a gay couple will try something really dangerous … like “the chunnel”. Sure, it seems exciting, but there are so many risks and so much KY jelly is used up in the process. “The Chunnel” is often followed up with “Al Pacino’s Secret” and then some kind of lazy reach around …
The “jungle book” is when things get really bad. Usually the twink brings the ants, hamsters, and other birds. These animals are coerced into entering the elder gay man’s mangina which is being held open by some surgical spreaders …
The hammer is typically used when playing “Ken Doll’s Surprise”, but I think Depape was wanting to play “lazy lumberjack” and Paul was confused.
I heard about this couple from Boy’s Town in Chicago that used to play “hide the penny”, but you need pliers for this … and maybe motor oil … but you would never use a hammer, would you?
People are asking what Nancy was up to …
But I heard Paul and Depape were on the “swing sets” and Nancy was on the “lazy susan”. They might have been doing “Cougar’s Revenge” when Depape failed to remove the shlig-pipe from Nancy’s nungis-hole. Nancy began convulsing, and that’s when the hammer slipped and hurled towards Paul’s anus-wax covered head.
This is probably what happened …
Paul was at the Blue Oyster tavern, drinking alone. Nancy was out with her friends, buying ice cream and anal swabs. Paul was at the bar, waiting for that special somebody.
Depape shows up and Paul can’t get stop looking at his package.
“Want to come back to my place?”, Paul asked.
Depape nodded, and they headed to the Uber …
Back at Paul’s, they began by playing “My Dear Uncle Jibbly”, but this quickly became a variant of “London Bridge” mixed with “Gin Rummy”. After about 45 minutes, Paul and Depape did a couple lines of coke and then got into the tool boxes in the garage.
Paul proposed the game of “find the robin’s hatch”, but Depape wanted to play “This Old House”, and that’s when things took a turn …. and stuff got real.
I think Paul wanted to play a game called “George Clooney”, and Depape was supposed to dress up like a woman and pull his C0CK back between his legs. Things got clinched up nearing the climax, and Paul grabbed the brazing torch while Depape took the crab leg crusher and smacked Paul across the face.
All of this happened so fast …
… Depape was going to dress up like “Patricia Anne Swallows”, and Paul was going to play “Lord Reardon”.
They stopped at Bartel’s to buy scotch tape and krazy glue and clam chowder.
After about 45 minutes of “Tim has the twitches”, Depape wanted to be on top and Paul said no. Depape saw a crab-shuck hammer on the floor next to Nancy’s heroin kit, and he just went for it …
Lifetime Movie coming out in 2023 …
“Secret Carpenter: the Paul Pelosi story”
It will be poignant and daring and magical … like some sleazy version of Brokeback Mountain …
(sleazier I mean)
There’s a good chance Paul was playing the “Island of Dr. Moreau” and Depape had dressed up like a crab, but then Paul set fire to the fondue set and spilled chocolate sex grease all over the french bulldog …
1 in every 3 accidents with a tool or appliance involves a gay sex act gone awry …
It used to be you couldn’t talk about gay sex …
It was secret MAN LOVE involving electrical wiring and broken glass and black nylon ropes and chuzzle-grease …
And you wouldn’t DARE ASK what two men in underwear were doing and why …
THEY WOULD INSKUZZLELATE THEMSELVES at every bathhouse, selling tinglies to the twink-lords and remembering the old times when all they had were the sewers and the rest areas and bowling alleys …
These lost dark loves, so fragile in the moonlight, trembling with fear as you insert the handle of the hammer into the goop-hole.
And this is love.
“circular saw”
“utility belt”
“dremel”
“sanding”
These all have different meanings in the gay man community …
“midnight basketball” also means something different in the gay-man community …
Paul wanted a cool-time Charley, but what he got was a wired twink looking for some dangerous action … Paul bought joob-oil and crisco and a frumbly-wand …
But Depape was wanting something darker …
They began, as Paul always did, with the “General’s Firing Squad”, but this quickly devolved into “Sarah’s Bunt Cake” and went further …
This was inevitable.
I think Paul believed they were playing “Ann Margaret’s Debut”, but Depape was really playing “BILLY the Skid”.
Paul went into that place looking for something dangerous …
He’d been trolling Castro for a while, but he ended up near Haight/Ashbury with a broomstick handle shoved up his a-zone and a hangover from drinking ever clear with the mayor …
A young lad, covered in street grease, came up to him … “hey man, you wanna party …”
Paul took him home … but first they had to stop at Home Depot …
They bought plastic tubing and drop cloth and fire extinguishers and roofing hammers …
They bought jimbo-style cook grease and one of those plastic swimming pools for dogs …
Neither one understood how crazy this would get …
Paul thought he was playing “The King’s Knight”, but Depape was playing “Texas Oil Strike” …
And there will be blood.
Fun fact:
All Home Depot stores in the San Francisco area are required by STATUTE to have pamphlets and handouts on how to safely use gardening equipment in gay style man sex.
“garden weasel” …
In San Fran, this means something different …
Paul thought they were going to play a game called “The Graduate”, but Depape was “Good Will Hunting” and had all the maple syrup and rock salt …
The bottom or “twink” in this case would run maple syrup and rock salt on their splingus …
The TOP or ELITE SIM would tie rubber bands on his balls and shove three turnips up his yincter …
They would break dance and toss chocolate scrunge at each other …
They would laugh and kiss and feel the embrace of their disgrace …
Eventually, Depape would say … “can you shove THAT up my butt?”
And Paul said “the hammer”, which end?
In the time of gleemptus, Paul rode a hawk.
Paul said to Depape, “will you be my sparrow-prince?”
And Depape said to Paul, “only if you’ll be my queer-dear and we can live all special like in the clouds far away from the evil witch …”
Paul looked around the room …
He saw the marks of his evil wife, and her scribble-oils …
He could no longer look into her fetid gape …
But what to do, how do gay men in San Fran escape from such as Nancy?
What if this was a REALLY convoluted and coke fueled gay escape plan?
I mean: those old queens … it’s all 007 and shit with them … going to the park late at night …
So maybe in their coke fiend states they thought “shit, what if we get into some gay man mash up and embarrass the F out of Nancy … she’ll have to set us free to have gay man sex in Barbados …”
Just a slight variation on a theme …
GAY ESCAPE PLAN – the common “heroes journey” for most queers.
Gay men dream of GAY MAN ISLAND …
A place they can go to and have gay-man style sex, with no limits …
This is where they were trying to go …
(the hammer was their pink slipper)
These types of gay hookups gone bad are often referred to as “A night at the Roxbury” …
Usually, the top instigates by using too much windex on the twinks tool box, but then the chimpanzee is let outside and the kangaroo coke is over and done with …
There’s a lot of whiskey and farting and object insertion …
Pledges of love and regret …
As the last whiskey bottle is inserted into the buntis pipe …
And the dogs scream in the night.
We now know they were probably playing a game called “two apples for Miss America” …
They got tired and the amal nitrate poppers were running low …
Nancy injected KROKODIL into Paul’s vein, and Depape was in the corner, playing the role of “Little Bimbo” …
But the cables got all screwed up and they ended up doing a “Borgnine” instead of a “McQueen” …
And then Depape grabbed the hammer and that was it.
Nancy let him in, as she always did. She wore a vorg-suit made of tin and anguish …
She led the poor sap up to the master bedroom, where Paul, spread eagle, had his “unit” inserted into ROOMBA and was playing the game “Terminator” … or … maybe it was the “Forbin Project” …
Depape, stripped down and Nancy doused him in gumble-grease and ointment pus and then tied him up and tossed him on the bed with Paul …
After Nancy finished off a case of wine, she began burning them with a cigarette …
It got bad, real bad ….
She placed DePape’s rod in a metal clasp and tied this to a french bulldog nearby …
And Depape broke …
He picked up the silver hammer for shucking King Crab, mashed up Paul and went running for the door …
(and the cops were waiting, already paid off with hookers and get-out-of-jail rape cards)
Food …
“Food was NEVER supposed to be cheap.” – Dr. Freckles
(that thing about inferior goods)
The State Withering Away …
“The Marxists talk talk talk about the state withering away, but the anarchists KNOW HOW we get there.” – Dr. Freckles
Alienation …
“The real alienation was never from the means of production. The real alienation was from nature, by steps, by slices, until we became untetherered, separate from any healthy ecology.” – Dr. Freckles
From here …
“I wish I had a t-shirt that said ‘FROM HERE: IT GETS WORSE’.” – Dr. Freckles
People will eat “bologna surprise” for Thanks-Christmas … yeah, they merge the holiday into Thanks-Christmas … the two holidays were too expensive. They will add in BLACK FRIDAY and call it “BUY MONGO SHIT DAY … and maybe beat up some folks …” … It will be AWESOME.
And you eat a mongo-feast of gumbo-grease and other holy offerings. You find old dead cats and you hang them from the gambrels … and the old harlot demons sing songs of SMART TVs and CD-ROM chargers and cancer-cubes flavored with bacon and dingus …
On THANKS-CHRISTMAS DAY, following BUY MONGO SHIT? – Jolly-Jorgles the Clown goes around … delivering gifts … and sometimes having sex with your mom. He fucks your mom … he doesn’t care if she’s dead.
By the year 2029 …
The 8 scroblin clans of region-3 will form a Traagen-Army …
The TURKEY will be used as QUAG-FUEL for the brogglen-tanks and to feed the kepler-wolves.
Black Friday was replaced with Red Thursday … a time of burning and yearning.
Radioactivity will be everywhere …
(even in your crotch …)
By the year 2030 …
You will get a letter from an old friend about a metal tube and an alien race. You will be invited to an “old fashioned” Thanksgiving in New England, at some abandoned farm where a bunch of hookers were murdered during the Great Depression.
When you arrive, your friend cannot be found – there is simply a metal cylinder sitting on a kitchen table next to an intercom with a note next to it … “PRESS TO TALK” …
You press the button and speak, “hey man, where you at?” …
Out of the tinny speaker comes a crackling voice … “yo bud, my brain has been put into this old whiskey can by them there aliens called the FUNGI people … they are really nice, from Pluto, and want to put you and your family in Folgers cans ….”
And this is not the worst Thanksgiving that year, believe you me …
By the year 2035 ….
We will celebrate THANK-YOU-TUMORS day … a special day when you take a razor and cut the tumors and lesions from your body … you mix them into an iron pot or dutch oven … you add whatever stringoh-sauce or jergis-salt or other spice you can buy from the witch that lives in the old abandoned reactor.
You make a kind of burrito out of fiberglass and metal shavings, and you jam that infernal thing with as much of the special STEW defined above … and you shove that JOY-TACO into your shriveled and pain ridden mouth, covered in sores and open wounds and dripping with pus that you then use as a salsa …
TUMORs will be seen as gifts from the great fireball, the liberator, the POXY-CLIPSE …
By the year 2050 …
It’s gonna get nice an cozy. We’ll all sit around that Thanksgiving drinking pumpkin spice coffee and shoving potatoes up our butts. We’ll make meat soup and have troglan-parties. People will smile and slap each other and play grab ass … they’ll bleed into their urine.
HARVEST TIME will be the beginning the season, when the freaks and nerds and greasers and geeks form various unholy gangs of street fighters. They go out to gather up the street protein and the farmland boob milk. Women will make human cheese and sell these cheese sandwiches … and they’ll drink more pumpkin spice coffee.
Prayers …
“Sometimes the Lord answers prayers, sometimes he’s just there to listen.” – Dr. Freckles
I might visit Seattle for Thanksgiving … big maybe. Could happen.
Two votes …
“In a just world, you would have 2 votes in every democracy: the first one gets you elected, the second one is taken AFTER your term is complete and this one is about whether you get to live.” – Dr. Freckles
FROM: MRS BOHDANA ALEKSANDER
URGENT REPLY NEEDED AND CONFIDENTIAL
Am Mrs Bohdana Aleksander the wife of Mr.Danilo Aleksander (Ukraine sunflower oil & wheat,maize farmer ) my husband was murdered by the Russian Army troop because of the war between Russian& Ukraine it was so very terrible. .
He was a sunflower oil & wheat and maize farmer who have invested much in agriculture political opponents.
I acknowledge very well that my Husband deposited the sum of US$10.7M (TEN MILLION SEVEN HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS) with a security and financial company here in Johannesburg South -Africa with the intention of using it for the purchase of new farm machinaries and chemical for Agricultural purpose as well as purchasing hectares of land in South Africa for his investment. I got your contact through chamber of commerce .With the high risk of staying in my country we are now on political asylum. (Refugee) me and my son we are here in South Africa, my position does not allow me to open an account or to normalize this fund to any meaningful business transaction, I want you to understand that this is purely family fund not money laundering affair.
I solicit for your honest assistance as I want this fund to be transferred to your account in oversea with your partnership, I will want to invest this fund in your country.
We can invest the fund as a family investment together with you in your country be assured that all the necessary document backing this fund has been arranged with one of the Attorney I meet here in Johannesburg South Africa, feel free to ask any question regarding this transaction.
Hoping to hear from you soonest, kindly contact me through this my private email For Confidential: [email protected]
I need your urgent and confidential response towards this transaction.
Thanks you and regards
MRS BOHDANA ALEKSANDER
My name is Timothy Loh LLP. I am a leading Hong Kong attorney specialize in corporate and litigation law private equity, hedge funds, investment funds, financial services, banking, and bankruptcy practices l am internationally recognized.
It may surprise you to receive this letter from me, since there has been no previous correspondence between us. I will also like to make it clear here that l know that the internet has been grossly abused by criminal minded people making it difficult for people with genuine intention to correspond and exchange views without skepticism.
There is an unclaimed “Permanent Life Insurance Policy” held by our deceased client.
The transaction pertains to an unclaimed “Payable-On-Death” (POD) savings monetary deposit in the sum of Sixteen Million, Nine Hundred Thousand US Dollars ($16,900,000) with one of the prime global insurers. The policy holder was one of our clients. Her name is Lucia Bosè. who was a film actress who died on March 23 of pneumonia after contracting COVID-19. . Since Her death no one has come forward for the claim and all our efforts to locate his relatives have proved unsuccessful. The insurance company policy stipulates that “Insured Permanent Policies" not claimed must be turned over to the abandoned property division of the state treasury after the deadline.
Therefore, I ask for your consent to be in partnership with me for the claim of this policy benefit, If you permit me to add your name to the policy, all proceeds will be processed on your behalf. I wish to point out that I want 10% of this money to be shared among charity organizations while the remaining 90% will be shared between us.
This is 100% risk free and 100% legal. I do have all necessary documentation to expedite the process in a highly professional and confidential manner. I will provide all the relevant documents to substantiate your claim as the beneficiary. This claim requires a high level of confidentiality and it may take up to Ten (10) business days, from the date of receipt of your consent.
Your earliest response to this matter would be highly appreciated
Best Regards,
Timothy Loh.
X’inder or Xyndur or Zindour … (a demon that chased me, followed me, from Seattle)
X’inder would tap on my window, when I was living in Little Saigon. He’d tap and stare, with his burning red eyes, looking deep into my troubled spirit. He offered the salve of forever time and relinquished his alley kingdom to me, I stared bleakly at his weird eyes and wondered how many kinds of cocaine he knew …
I tried talking to the freaks on the other side of DORGEN TOWN, they’d sell me the flounder-mist and I’d shoot up across from the CASCADE HUSTLER, and new bullet train that takes weary travelers from Seattle to the stripper corridor in Kent. Terry Michaels, the Mayor of Grinken Town, stood up for the convenience asking the STREEH-GLUN Klan to ferry mope fuckers from Queen Anne to Guemes Island.
X’inder was the great whisperer …
He drew in the phantom Carlos types, the ones all greasy from S’compton, bringing their frizzle clap and weird existentialist STDs. X’inder was the WIND FURY, he could keep watch on all his parrots all day long, he handed out favors across from the BIG BURGER on Aurora – the hooker parlors would empty out at midnight, just to seek counsel with X’inder, a hopeless wanting for exit strategies.
X’inder whispered through that window in Little Saigon, telling me of sights and smells and things to come … Telling me of weird Japanese sex crews and old time’y racist thugs who scour the streets of failure looking for their boxes of regrets …
“I am the WARLORD KING …”, X’inder screamed at his gronklin-style street armies …
Already, there are dringus armies forming up in the east – they seek the cloven flesh of midnight, they hunt wearing seersucker suits and wingtips … And you think you’ll flee to some caves? Buy some guns at Cabela’s? – nah my friend. GRINKEN TIME is near, and all the Hoglan VOLK will arm themselves with machetes and chain and look for the nearest TORG BEAST to harvest.
X’inder owns the beasts …
X’inder owns the sewers and the toilets …
X’inder is the window washer, X’inder is that old greasy janitor that seems to live in the closet that smells like bleach and vomit and tragedy …
You need it the way you need a wet lover on Saturday night. The lights are dim, always, because of those fucking LED street lights – the lights were brighter not so long ago. Now the race of humans crawls from one mishap to the next, in the twilight of these lights, in the shadow of an Al Gore toilet you need to flush 60 times. You need that diesel fuel to power your VOLKSWAGEN JETTA … and you don’t give a fuck if it kills some old whale in California, as long as the grizzle grease touches you and your witch wife steals the dolby buttons.
YOU NEED THAT DIESEL like you need to EAT. The food, the gombo-grease, the wheel chicklet sandwiches and burnt our frosting pies. You need the diesel so you heart can SOAR on lighting figs and scrumbo-wine.
… the time when the hippies were settling into their Clinton-Bush style American exceptional BDSM parties? Back then hooker kings ran the hooker trade just over the tracks in S’compton, near the Golden Corral that got shut down last year because someone found a dolphin tattoo on their steak … and a fingernail in the meatloaf.
It was crazy back then …
Half of all parents would put razor blades in the kids chocolate … mainly Butterfingers … because the next door neighbor’s dog told them to.
(it was awesome)
When I was a kid …
A lot of parents would put broken glass in their lemonade … they would serve it in ice cubes, in the hot sun … you’d crunch on that ice and your lips would be bleeding and the parents would laugh and laugh and laugh … because it was so fucking funny to see them damn kids lips bleeding … and crying for their mommas …
(it was beyond imagination)
wild dogs covered in leopard moss
going fishing off of the old wharf near that titty bar that burnt down
ski trip, in the mountains, where the old springs of D’Alok flow and the ancient ones do cocaine
hand out flame throwers
build little guillotines for squirrels
DEF CON 4 (1985)
One of the better post nuclear war films …
Paints a more accurate picture, reminiscent of the Aussie apocalypse flicks (Mad Max, etc) …
Has a decent plot to it …
Also a story about NOT giving up …
(full movie free on Youtube)
Damnation Alley (1977)
Not really great … but corny enough that it can make you laugh about nuclear holocaust …
“The only escape from the complexity trap is pain.” – Dr. Freckles
“The cringe’iest kind of bargaining is the bargaining for lesser catastrophes.” – Dr. Freckles
Financial debt is NOT the worst kind – though the central bankers and bitcoin fanatics and government will never tell you this.
The great DEBT problem is complexity: too much complexity, and the resource costs for maintenance, let alone expansion, become non-linear.
It’s not so much that you “run out of oil”, it’s more like there’s NO AMOUNT of ANYTHING to keep up with the complexity generated by … ding, ding, ding: government.
You want a way out of this mess? – you have to de-complexity and refactor society.
(adding complexity, like adding “87,000 IRS agents”, only makes the problem worse in a non-linear way)
And in terms of military command and control? – complexity is horrific … and it doesn’t matter how “advanced” your special weapon is … it’s an “eggs in one basket” strategy … like the death star and its ONE WEAKNESS … (that blows it up)
Something from 11/9/2020:
Warmth and Light …
“Sometimes I think that brief moment of light and heat from the nuclear weapon going off will feel kind of nice.” – Dr. Freckles
Spinning our wheels …
Biding time …
In the waiting room …
Going through the motions …
Waiting for the next shoe to drop …
It’s like the APE QUEEN, bringing her throng to Dooglinville, and not reminding herself that the undulation of her brunctis-zone where scabby beasts lurk and tuzzlelate her boovula. She swings with the WOOKIE FOLK and eats cream of cats. There were many who judged her, and were surprised when she fled the lands … and now they wait, for whatever …
It’s like that dude FRANK you knew in high school. He had firecrackers and fire ants and an aquarium with a piranha … He had porno magazines and a switchblade. He would brag about having sex with the English Comp teacher, he would tell stories of diddling little Jenny Moog in the bathroom. He smelled like bleach and cigarettes, you didn’t know if anything you were told was true. He said “I’m leaving on a spaceship and heading to MARS”, and he took off in that van that day … and now we wait, for him and his spaceship, and the cocaine …
What are we waiting for?
No exit …
Waiting for Godot …
Haunting the Jingus-Realm … living off poop soup.
Failure …
“I’m not embarrassed by my failures … I’m ashamed of the things I didn’t even try to do, because I was too afraid.” – Dr. Freckles
“They did all sex and all the drugs and they left us with their moldy rugs.” – Dr. Freckles
(cum soaked rugs)
“As history turns, the elderly are either revered or reviled.” – Dr. Freckles
Chicago …
SHEGLIN-KLAN, blood drenched fury, their eyes moving from one busty conquest to the next. Armed with bats and chain, going insane from the parasites in their food, water, rain. Jenctis-feasts being held now, where old people, old white people, are burned alive and savored by the dusky, dusty, swarthy conclave. And our own children watch as the fires glow, and Chicago becomes a graveyard, and a Bedlam …
CORBIS-ROO, the dirt-flurgur, last of the the wrench-hawks and lifetime CRIP. He has a posse of street warriors ready for action, they are armed with glock-19 designed to fire all cockeyed, the way a gangsta does when he’s high on crack and he just got done raping some white girl at the school. MIDNIGHT BASKETBALL? – hell yeah, that’s where he learned his trade, dealing, stealing, murdering and general mayhem. On those courts built by Clinton, he learned the OG way … and that’s just so Chicago.
Riviera Gomez Jones was the SOUTH SIDE sector leader for the new style AZTECS and their various Peruvian gods and INCA mud-water KINGS. A great fire eagle screamed as these mean street’r types rode their steeds down the MAG MILE, hunting gondo-flesh where the hookers clean out their boovula at Mayor Lightfoot’s street douche kiosk. “Everyone deserves a douche …”, Lori’s motto. Uugen-group hustlers break out of BOY’S TOWN, bringing their turbo crabs and their fire-herpes and their Oak Park style CLAP, all of it dripping the way Lori Lightfoot’s mouth drips drool during a long one … Chicago has NEVER been better!
We can dance around it, but Chicago is the Devil’s now. The streets are covered in a residue of evil and the people have sunken eyes and cocaine lips. They worship BAAL in the form of some frenchie living on the balcony along the gold coast. They cover themselves in GOOG-RAGS and hangout at Old Ted’s Martini bar, where they take swigs of magic-cone and then revel in their own loin grease. These traders of commodities? – trade in dreeg-flesh and human trafficking and little kids stolen from their families in the Ukraine. They will be the pall bearers for Chicago.
WAKANDA? … that’s a crack-pipe dream. WAKANDA the JUST? … just in case you were wondering, these people will eat bat and tiger and monkey. They will pickle the eyeballs of their enemies and use them in eldritch rituals involving puppies and gerbils. Their women wear nothing but one tight string, and the men wear a codpiece made of crocodile skin. WAKANDA FOREVER? – screams some hooker dying of herpes and crabs, as 9 gorillas take her for a ride. CHICAGO, Wakanda, Uganda … Idi Amin? Chicago is a love palace.
I married a girl from Chicago …
She was a skunk-wench and a whiskey-whore, she wore a hair shirt made of cats and was always late. She’d brag on Chicago, as she slurped her kale shake and talked about how many times she’s been mugged … almost like physical violation were a right of passage there, and then you realize: Chicago is Sodom … the Whore of Babylon. Dingus freaks officiated our wedding as the porn loop gave way to driggen-dancing. And those home spun walnut birds sang their songs of underwhelming light. Along the way, we forgot how to listen – so this is why we have GLOCKS.
99 sector armies are forming up near Aurora. The last of the heebus-traders sold his tiny hat to old shlomo, and now he moves gold to Haifa for the Queen. Chicago has become that black void that only Jung understood and Freud was driven by – that ugly hole of nothing rapped in pain rapped in emptiness. The people there cannot be helped, they are the bug feast of history, and soon their bones will be collected, for “bone day”, as the dogs rule the streets and the humans moan and mope and wail and slouch their way to Gomorrah … and the sun turned black for 12 days …. and all that was left was a broken landscape of morbid dreams and wild nightmares. Want to visit Chicago, amirite?
another full on PSYOP and it’s is not really happening.
partially real, partially fake – all sides conspiring.
the conflict between an empire in decline ($USD petro empire) and emergent multi-polar power blocks … some call this the Thucydides trap … whatever
But what if it is something else …
Rapture of the believers, end times and free will …
I would like to more properly explain what I was talking about in my last podcast about the Tribulation being unavoidable …
What if the Devil threw a picnic and no one showed up …
Rapture of all believers results in almost everyone being gone …
Boblimptock … revisited …
Screigling-TOG, the last elf-man of Trympton, he rode strong on the back of his battle hippo, as careless cigarette fiends lie wasted on the streets and old timey GILF hookers clean out their boovulum. Hairless toad freaks sell their pies made of nuclear waste and fear, and some wrong-time-charley finds lost love near the Tavern of Guilt. Glumpy days for the Haglin tribes, joggers all about, people looting and not shooting. A cavern lovers dream where aliens go to knock up hoes.
This is BOBLIMPTOCK …
GRINKEN TOWN wanderers own half the city, “and it’s not gonna change and we got the banks too”, screamed Haggen-Lo, the Vietnamese princess and owner of JORBEL’S FINE MEATS. Their place was for NEW KINDS of commie people, living in jingus-jars and selling their protein paste to unsuspecting Amish refugees. Never did they stop to remark on the beauty of the day, they kept time using bats and cats and rats strung up like strange fruit working their way to heaven on a thread. And the people spat at their feet … and the lords of the hills wasted, with the Wookie People, for their chance to RAVAGE and STEAL.
… and yeah … this SHIT is Boblimptock.
“INFLATION!”, screamed Queen Messtus, as her ladies in waiting massaged her body with ancient toovis-oils and whale grease. The Central Bank of Grinken, or CBG, is issuing wallet money to the harlot classes, allowing them to buy their blood turnips and their cricket flour. Voorg, the inclusive one, spoke on and on about “dropping cash from planes”, so that people can buy more planes. And the ROCKET JOOG kept complaining about strange princes from stranger lands.
… such is BOBLIMPTOCK …
When kelp warriors wear their gold, and the seal is excused from monkey-meat meals, the new angels of future stuff will spread the butter across the chasm and leave the women of GRINKEN TOWN quivering in ecstasy. Singlet wine, yurg-soup and tiger-stew are on their menu, with waiters wearing leather and diamonds and carrying bandy-bats with carpentry nails driven through them. Scared fishermen make way to safe harbor as the weather turns and the leviathan chases – flesh eating seaweed covers their bodies and blood drips from their eyes.
… and it’s fun during BOBLIMPTOCK brother …
Xyg, the tor-lord, craven and angry and hunting his cocaine juice down by the wharf … he seeks the golden stream and will convert a 1968 Pontiac GTO into a time machine, and a pocket fisherman into a dildo, and Ron Popeil into JESUS … TV jesus. Nestor hawks hunt their quarry where the greasy tricks look for young flesh. Skoog took control of sectors 4 and 33, his mind was filled with broken glass and metal shavings and rage. His fists were tough and scabbed over … his women lived in the caves.
… what mysteries lay with Boblimptock …
HAGAR tribesmen cover their bodies in tattoos and mutilations, CHEESE-MASKS are handed out to the old women so they can hear the wolf men and prepare their boovula for tantalizing exultation and moaning. Old teach with his nasty old books draws designs on the blackboard, teaches 5th grade to 8th graders who need to repeat 1st grade. Chiglin Ranz sought the crystal mallet of HORT so that the 17 witches might be punished and the armies of the EAST might rage south toward Armageddon. And the DEVIL laughed at midnight, and the babies were born under a dark star.
Can you handle BOBLIMPTOCK?
Keb? – he flew a plane for the allied armies. His jet was fast and nasty and casted from crystalline titanium, and all these weapons are controlled by his thoughts. Rockets, capable of destroying buildings and poodles, are fired while he travels at MACH 300 … so very fast. And his hooker wife? – she waits at home, watching TV, yelling at “PUTIN, PUTIN, PUTIN”, eating her hot pocket WHILE the contractor working on her kitchen eats her hot pocket. There’s no more chardonnay to drink, and the pill box is empty. Chariots of iron and wood creak their way to BOBLIMPTOCK.
Can they run?
A SKLEEG-CANNON is used when you’re fighting coober-bears. These bears wear an armor with a CLASS-8 rating, they can fling time spells and incantations. They are the guardians of lost swamps where cannibals hangout and make pizza. They are the wanderers, the broken records, the one shoe. They are the mailbox that is full, but full of what? – “Those pictures you have been looking for?” … but were you looking SCRO? His deception is full and the bread of the past is moldy. The wine of madness is still being sold at 7/11 …
Ready for convenient shopping during BOBLIMPTOCK?
Cat herders from S’compton leave the bones for the dogs, their hand cannons blazing with jergin-fury and their women rubbing their strimbo to achieve total oneness. West side and east side rappers keep the fire blazing, as angry cops beat their suspects and dump them off of Muscle Beach and Medina and near the old pier where the LA PD beat that old lady to death two years ago. And VENICE BEACH? – her queenly ways will bewilder and beguile, and the whale merchants will suckle upon fried grizzle.
… want to know more about BOBLIMPTOCK?
“MALIBU LIGHTING”, demanded a jogger. It was day 33 of the police strike, and the hookers were all in chains. Wild and mean dogs chase the hookers down the street, as their pimps rule each corner and the pill merchants rule the ether space. Cocaine cougars, lonely in the Brentwood Hills, touch and rub their nuggy-dingle and imagine bare chested dusky and dusty and swarthy types breaking down her door and managing her arousal, 6 on 1. And that burger joint? – they’re beyond meat now. Dead rat and cat are for closers, the mystery meat tacos are for the kangus warriors and the crips and the bloods.
… and you can be a hip hop king?
I knew he was cleaven-beast when I saw that scrumbo. He was hanging down by the CHEVRON off of Drimpton Street, not far from where those crips got slaughtered six years ago after those nuns went missing … we don’t talk about it. HOOGER-CROW? HOOGER-CROW our scroglon lord stepped out of the darkness wearing a codpiece of silver and steel. He smiled his crooked smile as he swung his ax and kilt my friend Junctis. He declared the age of BOBLIMPTOCK when he saw the fire eaters doing their dance, and the men of DORBOH finding poison eels in the sewer. HOOGER was the first warlord of boblimptock, he road a wolf into battle …
.. boblimptock the great?
“The tisker-rat is fine eating”, declared LORD BOBLIMPTOCK. “I feed on this as I feed on souls, and my own heart becomes stonier, my fingers caked in blood …” It was the age of GROTON, when young ladies would form lines just to get a piece of his sluggle-oil. The GREAT LORD, as he was called, would bathe in drinktus and muskrat flesh and the sauce of Fue-Master-Gurgen. And in this solace he would imagine the coming wars against MARS and the LAST HOOKER REPUBLIC of MARS … and what that would mean to his 50 wives and 432 childrens … maybe 434 …
… is he not magnificent? Is he not BOBLIMPTOCK?
Messengers of the future are telling you to caste out your rage and replace it with broken glass, and metal shavings, and sawdust, and diesel. You have the oyster of success, your hooker wife awaits you, 66 floors up from 6th AVE, somewhere near the DREGEN CLANS where pear mist sundaes are served to heroin addicts and their funken-folk. TREGLEN, the UNDULATING? – his own posse hunts flesh down there, those loose women in high skirts, being chased by wild dogs at the park. TREGLEN has his fill of that booty, and the world turns grey and red.
… but LORD BOBLIMPTOCK will rule, and all the skugglin-feeders will be his serfs.
HOOGER-CROW has seen the signs. He has collected his own skungo army and is readying his sword. He has PILES of silver, stacked at warehouses, in the Catskills … and he’s ready to pull out his pistol of deflationary oblivion as long as the hookers take VISA …
He has the heart of the newstyle clown-king, and his name will be known among the 8,000 tribes of NYC.
I met HOOGER in San Francisco back in 1987. He was one of those YOUNG PUNKS making his way, going from one cocaine snake pit to the next. We shared hookers and heroin, we drove a Lambo out to Munkton Point. He showed me his plan, and I knew he was the one. He said “we’ll be KINGS of the new realm, and all the lands will be ours, all the bodies will be buried, all the sparrow hawks will kneel before us”, and then he passed out, started convulsing, I had to wipe the vomit out of his throat so he wouldn’t die.
8 Regling-armies are forming outside of S’compton … the grinken hordes are massaging their sklib, sharpening their swords, staring deeply into the abyss of soul pain. SCRANKTON, the CHANG-CHONG LEADER, built his own abattoir of drinkton speed freaks and old style groglon monkey women. And when the scarlet whore spreads her legs, you know her kumm is made of honey wine.
