Category: Planetary Status Reports

I sure did. IDGAF.

I clicked on it because it offered NEW VITALITY and SEXUAL GREASE POWER. I got sent to this website in JORGANSTAN, not far from the Tomb Town heroes. I ended up putting in my social security number and credit card number and all the private keys for all my bitcoin. It gave me SOUND POWER loving, and sandy moments of forgetfulness. Hacked my email, that’s what it’d done, and sent out dick pics to all my friends … all 4. Fucking link. I clicked on that mother fucking link.

I clicked on them INSTAGRAM links. There were photos of old people, from way back times, from times where people carved spears from hickory bone and launched their scones at the Queen. I clicked on it and it said I would be RICH one day, if I adopted a new crypto based cash flow system – there was a picture of a hot chick having sex with a gorilla. It was terrible, monstrous, changed my life. No longer will I fear some lingering silent death, because I ordered DVDs from the guy with the LAMBO … and his ho looked quite nice, so he must have great advice … because of those fucking links you DM’d. Sunnabidge.

Those links you sent me?

One of them talked about Terrence Howard and the SACRED FLOWERS of LIFE, and how FLOWTEIN POWDER from SEAFLOW is related to this “there are no straight lines” cult nonsense. Professor Howard promises “improved libido” and “meat pipe follow through”, all the fluids of your woman will ungulate as you cast your boovula magic using the sacred life flower cash flow model teriyaki style love lasers and tit clamps … all from SEA-FLOW, all from those fucking links you sent.

There have been these weird links floating around on the WWW. People send you LINKS, and you have to click, just like you have to pop those plastic air bubbles on that fucking bubble wrap. You can’t not do it, your soul seethes with anguish if you ignore “You’ll Never Believe This” or “What the government doesn’t want you do know” or “You don’t have to work to be rich” or some picture of a EMO busty ginger, 33 yo, wearing only underwear and holding a sign that says “buy bitcoin”. Your heart is a shattered thing, and the GLASS is not half full or half empty … that fucking glass is broken, just like your hopeful memories that stop at the future. Fuck you for sending me those links.

Pour a beer out for Harry Truman (not the president), who has been drifting through space for 44 years … with his 23 cats and 500 tons of chili, in that fragment of the mountain where he stole away to a cave to save his cats and chili and whiskey … probably met VEEGER out there on that elliptical orbit. Now he’s returning, for PAY BACK!

In 1987, Harry and his cats, wearing space suits made of duct tape and discarded newspaper, explored an abandoned space cruiser from JINGO-PRIME in the DELVIC-REGION of the galaxy. Though the crew were all dead, bodies apparently melted, one of the droog-creatures had left some nasty machine on, and all 23 cats jumped in … after a few moments they didn’t need no space suits no more, because they’d been turned into SPACE CATS with hyper intelligence – but still cats. Harry didn’t know what to do, he still loved them little demons.

In 1994 his rocky asteroid like capsule coasted by MARS, and his super cats went down to check out the Martian bones. They knew the secret, and were busy etching shit, and dropping clues that lead nowhere. The cats told Harry that “dinosaur bones” were a PUNK, and placed there by aliens to fuck with people … the cats knew things, and their robot hearts were now burning with a sense of vengeful mischief – a generalized anger toward the human gumptous freaks, and a desire to enslave the human race in a Feline Kingdom of kitty rule …

That chunk of rock is near now … maybe tonight … maybe next year.

Harry and his cats and space crabs are coming …

Are you ready?