Category: Planetary Status Reports

Here is what I believe is true:

THEY, whoever THEY are, are lying.

They are lying about the nature of space.

They are lying about the climate, on ALL SIDES, to include your favorite OIL corps.

They are not going to tell you the truth.

They don’t care if you die.

THEY want you scared of drag queens and black clad freaks and Putin and TRUMP …

They want you confused about the world …

They PIXELATED your dollar store pleasure palace, and left ALICE the hornet skid looking for woop-sauce and cranberry junk. They rubbed one out to OLD SMOOTY as your family ate sand maggots and fed on upholstery stew. Carter sent his corn cob your way, and your momma gave it love …

THEY LEAVE your heart broken and filled with trouble. Promises of vengeance and glory and GREATNESS, but what you have is the CHEETO BANDITO staring down the glassy fox strugglers, combing the beach for bits of Fukushima reactor and dockside poetry is read the feddle-fish.

They BUY THE WORLD for a pittance, and hand you the door grangler expecting pus to fulfill your meat wishes …

They sell burgers to the FANCY FLINGERS and other BOOMER FINKS out there cruising in their EASY RIDER electric scooters, looking for the VILLAGES entrance, but getting stuck and eaten by gators instead … They said they’d call …

I’m gonna start rhoiding out … taking HGH and other stale intoxicants that will reshape my midsection and lead to GREATER LIVES through science …

I’m gonna start eating vegetables, and clean fresh mountain sprites. I’ll live off of the dirt magnets and steal the spark from Chem, the gardener. I’d see my six pack abs breakout, ass a woman’s boovula bursts like a blood blister. And ain’t NOBODY gonna stop me, ain’t no one gonna care.

I’m gonna start time traveling again. I’ll go back to 1833 and make love to Duchess Shiva, as I ingroobulate her boovula and stroke her strinct. Clever forgers will make me guardian fists and glowing gauntlets, and I’ll have the eel pie after the old lady dies.

I’m gonna, dude.

I’m gonna find my kids. I got kids sprayed all over S. Korea, and Indiana, and Tennessee, and WA state.

I’ve got so many kids all over the place, stuck to walls, dried on to some bit of paper towel, or old sock.

My kids scream in the night for their papa, for their COZY LAND.

I’m gonna WIN BIG.

I’ll head to WALL STREET and open up a trading account with Block and Streakly. I’ll trade pork bellies for lemon juice, I’ll do a smoothie arbitrage as I drink my Orange Julius and marvel at my brand new suit.

Next year my underwear model wife will love me.

I’m gonna become a pirate.

My air ship dirigible will patrol the skies in search of easy prey. I’ll grab an 747 filled with fat boomers headed to VEGAS, and chop up their gold teeth, and toss the fregen-droogs from that commie altitude understood by Pinochet.

Eat their steak!

I’m gonna get abducted by ALIENS …

I’ll camp out at SKIN WALKER RANCH and summon CHARLO the REGAL SPUNK and await my reaming. They’ll come down in laser ships, armed with wharf bundles and hammer sklid.

Those aliens will anally rape me, for hours, and then wipe my memory.

I’m gonna heal the black community.

I’m gonna get on in there with my WHITE GINGER WAYS and teach them celtic love magic. I’ll caress the true hearts of African American power, and bring greater joy to Wakana and S. Chicago.

The street warriors will bow to me as HAG LORD RULER!