Category: Planetary Status Reports

[Decoded/deciphered war-orders/WARNORDS from the year 2027 … possibly 2037 … these bastards have no hope and their only peace lay in the blood soot that covers the land and their dank beds filled with viscera, garlic salt and gunpowder …]

Sector 9 war-hawks need to get ready, General PAZ has declared the Wii-whonk People to be cursed and “filled with daisy-brine and scrimbo and there ain’t no reasoning with them, because Lord JIB owns their souls …” And the other naval forces of Commodore Shix should moor soon.

XUN-STYLE KILL-KILL-44 robots are being dispatched to Quadrant-33ROMEO. WE have word that the Rampagers are taking out 7/11 stores there and marching on Popeye’s to steal some crispy chicken sandwiches. Gunga-Roo, the ape-lord of the city-tramps is declaring Region-Charlie to be “BROWN LAND” and only for those folks who have brownish or yellowish or off-white skin. Black people are welcome, gingers are shot on sight. Nuclear armed recoilless guns are being mounted on Ministry Street Baptist Church, Pastor Claig is declaring his hood “total OG controlled”. Please, move the Gronkis Lords to the eastern palisades, to stand off against the skunk hordes.

The Empress of VEGAS has asked that each family give up one son and one daughter to the Everlasting Kingdom of Money and SHIT or EKMS. The EKMS controls most of NEVADA now, and is beginning to mine uranium for their bomb program. We need to move the 56th Hooker Rifle Regiment to the outskirts of Parumph, keeping 3 companies in reserve to take the prostitute-zone near the Palms Casino, across the street from the Denny’s. Tyg, the STREET-WARRIOR, has been ordered to link up with 82nd Airborne urban-patrols and to see if they can’t get a handle on Old Levi’s cocaine stockpile. All of this must be complete by June 6th, no later than the 13th.

There is reason to believe that the busty lesbian navy of Denstraa, is moving south from the pole. Her current stripper-pole position, near the north pole, is no longer tenable – Marshal Vedko has nearly closed his pincer around her ground support forces near Greenland. Javis, the gonzo-guerrilla, has declared his willingness to relieve Denstraa, but her women are too proud to let some man save them. Admiral Brestuss, Queen of the Seas, has declared her submarine navy at the ready and in support of Denstraa, they plan on an invasion of Africa in 3 months, if they can gain the support of the Bantu shock troops under General Liza Zulu Zuloop-Kwanzaa. All of this is a dangerous gambit, and the Asian lady-boys weren’t likely to give up their shops in Capetown.

Throat-ass warrior klansmen are forming on our WESTERN FRONTIER. They have joined forces with the MEXICAN COWBOYS of Juarez, and this only presents greater difficulties for DUKE KLEV of Houston. Texas Airborne Rangers need to choice their focus of effort from S’compton to Grinken Town. Jizz-King Gordon and his Starlight Team will begin mining the harbors of San Plabos and Tristan Reach. Jorp style burger outlets have been found to serve meat with broken glass in it – please stay away.

KILL YOUR SOUL BRAIN and enliven yourself with mega-hydrazine imagination. Your neutron bombs are special, and your hopefulness is in full release. See as the Kustin Realm bends before you and the lost mermaid women of S’lym seek your man dust. Nothing compares to this, amirite?

Plasma rifles are now authorized on the sklib-shrimp. Zone-3 mutants can use the flame thrower now, but only for the extermination of dingus-swine and helconn-troopers. BEWARE the hookers of Quadrant-22, they have skeel-crabs and jervis-8-herpes, many of these hookers are high on k-smack and carry knives covered in their own shit. MAJ Henda controls all the blocks north of the abandoned library, where all those books remain untouched and unthreatened. Take time to CLEAN YOUR JUNK this week, time comes, you might need your junk, to make babies, to enjoy your time off. Handle your grenades with care, the new KU-877 grenade is a popping fragmentation FUCK YOU grenade … you pull the pin on that fucker, and toss it, and it starts bouncing and then when it explodes, several bouncing bombs bounce out … and the shrapnel is made of tiny needles, covered in roach-dung.

80 cm electro-magnetic hyper guns are to be constructed near D’orozia. Each of these 10 guns fire a specially designed EMF accelerated hypersonic projectile, capable of making adjustments to flight. Time to target, at 2,000 miles, awas 30 seconds from firing, 45 seconds from target detection. Each gun could fire a one half ton projectile every 4 minutes – this accounted for rail/gun cooling and capacitor re-charge. This base will house a Von Neumann style self-replicating factory that as a byproduct produced a 10 gun battle emplacement, and more factories, amirite? WE WILL break the back of the illustrious lesbian harlot forces of Gustelza Merangue and her scantily clad army of busty grease style mud wrestling strumbly-types. Through these actions, the war is WON!

SHRINK WRAP your FIRE PISTOL – because starlight comes, and the wandering minstrels are drunk off of cheap petrol. The GHOST of ROMMEL chases our armies across Nevada. That desert fox is unwilling to give ground, despite the torment of a fire dance never ending. He’s converting TOYOTA COROLLAS into medium machine gun vehicles, and then painting them red so that the land will give up its dead. 9 native tribes have joined with him, and have declared an oath of blood vengeance. Now the game begins …

The newer vacuum dirigibles, operating between 20 and 30 miles above the surface of the Earth, were powered by kick-up plasma/ion drives, capable of solar powered recharge from ambient water vapor at lower altitudes or by picking up sea-water at surface. The onboard radioactive decay batteries powered both the main engine and the rapid firing titanium vapor plasma cannon. These cannon could fire a projectile of super-heated plasmatic titanium atoms at 10% the speed of light. We hope to finish construction of 5 of these sky-noughts by end of 2029. Perhaps the busty sky navies of lesbians will be in charge, till then, but our ships are coming, and it’s gonna be nasty.

CAPTAIN KESTOR needs reinforcements on the MOON. His troops are tired, and bored, and irradiated. Micro-meteorites are burning holes through their main barracks and fort, radiation from the Moon’s surface is leaking in and making the men sick. No one from the Southern Coalition of General Xi-Kum appears to be attacking, so they ask “why are we here?”, as they slowly die of radiation poisoning. Soldiers take turns lancing each other’s butt boils and anal scruggs. Much of the weaponry uses a simple alcoholic coolant which the Moon soldiers are breaking into and drinking and in many cases going MOON BLIND. And the MOON BLIND troops are cast out to the outer-zone of the Moon, where the shit merchants sell scuzz oil and the morning glory mommas burn incense for the SKY HAWK SHAMAN.

KANGAROO MEAT is on sale at the commissary. Your local food-officer can give you a ticket for 3 pounds of this succulent meat. Cane rat is still in reserve, keeping the gumptick folk fed, keeping them in line. Everyone gets a protein cube, in celebration of our victory over Lord TARR of London. His people weep and wail as we eat their steak and drink their scubb-ale. Very soon: coyote will be available on pizza.

Histor-trained and ready for a woodland adventure, the 3RD WOOKIE ARMY formed up to attack WA DC. They would surround the hooker-forces of the Senate and set fire to the Capitol once all their winky-dink artillery are in place. General Chestor would say “those damn things!”

Wookie navies are branching out beyond the Gulf of Alaska, and considering the invasion of Van Couver Island – where Canadian CHEESE FORCES held Fort Drimble and were willing to fight back “against those damnable furry monsters”, or so said Admiral Uranidies of the Canadian Royal Anal Naval Expeditionary Forces … THIS WAS BIG.

SHARK ZOMBIES HAVE BEEN SPOTTED NEAR THE OUTER WALL! Do not approach Shark Zombies. They are unkempt and angry and feed on human failure and regret. If your eyes are puffy and red? – they’ll send a laser beam straight to your heart muscle and cause a myocardial infarct for MI or cardiac event YOU FUCKING SHIT HEAD. The zombie sharks now control most of the Texas and parts of Mexico, they deal in baroolian-eel sauce and synthetic OTC cocaine like substitutes. Mormon forces under the control of “Big Ed” have formed an alliance with the shark zombies, so this is CRAZY.

Be on the lookout for tired old men whose minds are bent and whose bodies are broken.

Be on the lookout for skank bitches from S’COMPTON! They are armed with bats, they love to kill and they love to have sex …

Be on the lookout for stomach parasites the size of your hand, they burrow out of your butt hole, they simply want to be heard …

Be on the lookout for sideways cronies, selling urine wine and spending their days in the gutter. Warrior types from S’tovar are hunting scazz-hootch and stryg-butt. Your whores are no longer safe. Be on the lookout for runaway whores and their dogs on chains. No one is spared.

Make yourself hard …

Make your children hard …

Drink the diesel fuel, eat the coyote …

Breed gators, in your basement …

Build rocket launchers, filled with HATE.

Construct a wall around your inner child, and keep empathy hidden from your 89 wives.

For you are lost.

[curated: 3/26/2023]

I’m so tired of people asking me where “S’compton” is … you nasty FUCK. It’s that place in the heart where the fuel kings keep time and the old whiskey warden watches as inmates prepare seal wine and Kriispur-steak. Those people bake bread from street bones and make raccoon pudding. They drink the milk of eagles and owls and harvest the nag-weed from off the reservation. Yeah – those people, us, we, we’re the kinda folk you don’t touch because we’re greasy and smelly and we’ll take you for a ride. You don’t have the stomach to spend time in S’compton … yet … but time’s coming brother, time’s await’n sister … time is a tall snake in a nice suit looking askance at your snail shoes and ready to POUNCE.

So stop asking me about that fucker … I’m tired.

I’m so tired of people asking me about GRINKEN TIME. If you knew you know, and if you don’t you’re a misled little shit turd heading down south to Guatemala on a trash donkey. YOU FUCKING SHIT HEAD! This is the time of year when the last of the woodland wench widows streaves-herself and prepares her boovula for conguanalation – the ultimate act of complete sexual oneness with all life and creatures. At this moment, Lop-nuns hand out dynamite to the kids, so they can have fun too … all the kids and dogs and adults wander the land, in search of tired old hobos and other bums, and beat them senselessly so that all lessons are taught.

But you ask me about Grinken Time again and I’ll bust that beer bottle in your FAT SMUG FACE …

I’m shit ass shit tired of hearing “what’s Boblimptock Dan, I’m confused” … I know you’re confused hooker bitch. You sit in your studio apartment in downtown S’compton, drinking your Grinken Time style mint freezee as your boyfriend paints your nails for your next YOUTUBE or TIK TOK video.

I see your lurid dreaming and I watch you at night. My drones are everywhere, in your underwear drawer, in your shower … I have an army of genital crabs heading someplace special, just for you … asking me “WHAT IS BOBLIMPTOCK DAN?”

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHh

I will come to your hole-ledge and steal your monkey-dildo. I will toss old tire wax into your blower, and watch you go all KRAZY … not finding the burning end.

Boblimptock is the soul destroying age when all your fears are loaded into some t-shirt cannon and then fired all directions so that every squirrel and bee can take that pollen oil to the squib-zone of Gaia’s butt crack and achieve total oneness with the dolphin armies of GOONDAH.

Boblimptock is the time when your own cuddle scum mixes to make babies, shit babies. And those shit babies go to public school and learn how to live like shit people. And those shit people take shit jobs and make shit money. And after ALL THIS SHIT HAPPENS, their shit-lords start some shitty nuclear war and all the lands turn to shit. That’s boblimptock too.

Boblimptock is the age of FREAKS. All the freaks rule during boblimptock, and their eyes glow read and green and all fireball like …

The freaks take over all the normie zones west of S’compton …

The freaks will rule forever.

[curated: 3/22/2023]

I was in the midst of rapturous love making, as my mind blew a sklub-valve, and my brain had a micro-aneurysm – I passed out and my hooker-style-lover, Neela, grabbed cash from my wallet and left me there … in my dank room. I went deep into the dark realm of self divided, and my own train world revealed itself not far from S’compton. It kept whispering, this mist, into my ear: “you gotta get back to S’compton, that’s the mystery of the Titanic.” But I didn’t know, how could I? – my body was slowly dying, as I lay on the roach covered bed.

Kevin, my spirit guide, took me 12 miles deep into the CAVE of WONDER, and left me near the Pond of Daring. Out of that wretched subterranean pond crawled an eyeless man-creature called Smeer. Smeer kept the secrets of DIRK PIDD, the last lord of control before the fire-vendors took over the agora. “YOU MUST GO TO GRINKEN ISLAND, BUT BEWARE THE GHOST SHIP TITANIC!” What did I know of Titanic, it was at the bottom of the fucking Atlantic, deep down in all that shit-muck. “DIRK PIDD”? Who the fuck has that name? “I heard Grinken Island was off limits, because of the great Ska epidemic?”

“Sure, it’s off limits … but I can give you the key.”

“The key to what?”

“Dirk Pidd”

So that weird fucking cave person gave me a slimy and nasty shit covered brass key – it was large and dramatically heavy.

I set out on my mind journey, as my body lay there quivering in frustrated mortality.

I found a trading post near the Port of South Reamtown. The reamers were strange folk who traded in squid-bass and whale-possum. The bodies of these nasty things were hung upside down to dry along the docks, the smell covering the harbor like a green fog of cosmic denouement and farcical core meltdown.

“You that FREAK from Jefferson Town?”, an old sea-mite barked at me from down on the wharf. His name was Captain Torr.

“Yeah, I need a boat to take me to Grinken Island.”

“How big’a boat we thinking?”

“One big enough for me, and my gear, and my 22 hooker wives and their gear and the mobile hot-tub and my pocket fisherman …”

“That’s a big party … but I have that boat fer ya I do!”, and at that the funny old sea captain hopped and clicked his heels like some smelly brown leprechaun and led me down to the dock where his boat, The Sea Grizzle, was kept.

After about a day at sea, Captain Torr spotted land …

“That’s Grinken Island YOU FUCK!”, Captain Torr pointed to the horizon, smiling toothless and gormless.

Grinken Island was going to be tricky – too many bats and weasels. A few tribes of those BROWN PEOPLE who we were told, when we were young, are savages and they’ll rape your white women and steal all your craft beer. They were cannibals and roasted your balls with tiger sauce and kestrel bones. These were the scroungiest denizens of this place just south of Hell where even the Devil says, “look hun, let’s keep driving”.

“We’ll moor the vessel off that point, good anchorage for you and your hookers …”

It took a few trips, but I was able to get all my hooker wives ashore with the necessary gear – we built ourselves a fine bivouac near the tree line and started a roaring fire. Upon the tarps and rolled out bear rugs, we ungunjoolated ourselves, rubbing our naked bodies with pine-grease and hector-soot. Berta would allow herself to form the center of the scrunge-tree, and her enormous breasts would heave as the party went on. Our moans and groans filled up the night, and all the forest creatures came for a peek.

The next morning we awoke to the natives, in the distance, playing their infernal drums. My women folks enclasped themselves in scant leather armor and prepared to trek with the gear through the jungle, towards our destination. Constanza, our chief Ho-guard, led our column and her furious posture scared the meanest puma. “Fig-maidens, halt!”, Constanza halted our foray, near the hidden jungle pyramid of H’LUV, where the oil pits of Gilda are located and a known place for busty maidens to strip naked and bathe their bodies in that greasy shit.

At that moment, I awoke …

I was there, on my bed, shaking from some half-ass monkey fever and staring bleakly into the darkness, when that ghost ship showed up …

I had no fucking hooker wives, there was no magical island with savages on it that would do all sorts of things to our white women … and isn’t that kind of racist?

But that terrible ghost ship of the Titanic was headed my way, to steer its way to my pleasure dome and sheer away my heart shield. I could be vulnerable, and let my heart muscle weaken for some tornado squaw from the reservation, she said she would love me and my robot army, but she lied and my brown gub-flub flowed. I filled that porcelain hole, and made the flush, and lit the match for those poor souls who would cum later.

I left the house, dizzy, still suffering from the aneurysm, but that fiery ghost ship kept chasing me. I ran far, to the north, deep into the mountains where the wookie people slept. I could hear the cries of those sea banshees behind me, they chanted this terrible ditty and played tinny instruments as accompaniment.

“SKREEG, SKREEG, feel fatigue,

Run from our GHOST SHIP, hide in shame,

BRAVE THE GREAT SEA, and die so lame,

YOUR STEEL MINDS, are dull and tame,

We will take your wives,

We will take your sons and daughters,

We will take your craft IPA,

We will take you all to the bottom of the sea.”

And that’s it …

That’s the end …

Of this shitty story …

Because I don’t fucking care.

[curated: 3/22/2023]