I was the Stroglon Lord, seeking styg from the beach whores who sold their iced coffee near the pier. I had the magic dust and rode a bike powered by cocaine and rage, and there was peace.
I was the chief whale herder of sector-99 YANKEE. They gave me a Waffle House and a busty wife and a lifetime supply of ale. I kept watch at night for the boovula banshees and set my traps for those whiskey apes that were watching from the street, and there was stew for all.
I was lost in the jungle of contempt, working long hours on Wall Street, trading oil for gold for slut-grease. They had me live the condo life, in Jersey, and take the train to the city each day. And when I was done all the old style kingpins paid homage, and provided sauce.
I was a champion, battling demons and robots near Grinken Town. I had 7 scurvy brides, all hooked on oxy and vodka and lost in a smelly panties kind of wastrel life. One day Hurgen found me, and tore out my kidney, and cracked my skull to harvest street protein. Living hard.
I was feared, and told tales of the WEST and the crack-head cowboys of Malibu. My home was on the water, and I surfed to the noise of forgetfulness. We would drink old wine and dance near camp fires, and make love like island squirrels. And you dreamed of cream pie weddings.
I was mad, insane, when the castle fell. My queen took her time, and then fled with the knights to the Holiday Inn. She left me beaten and bloody near the old well, the one our child fell into – and little Timmy’s ghost came to haunt me, to steal my heart wax. I did not complain.
I was broken, on the sidewalk, covered in ice and snow. I cried for help, as the drivers passed by, and I was mocked by the pharisees and found wanting before God. My veins were split open, and my blood froze on the street, and the wild dogs of S’compton came by to finish me off.
I was lost in paradise. I lived among the petty travelers, feeding on their putrid dreams, and wicked nightmares. I took my time with the sultry wives of Levittown, and hunted sky hawks with my crossbow. No one looked me in the eyes, no one called my friend. All my poo was gold.
I was a philosopher, a sage. I got paid to bring glad tidings to the town folk. But when my heart turned Cassandra? – they chased me from the valley, stealing my corn, my Wookie lover, my horses and sheep. I ran all night just to fall victim to a rabid cougar, she new how to love.
I lived among the skin walkers. They taught me tricks and spells, and all I had to give them was my soul. They savored my broken self, they suckled upon my lost romance, they took pleasure in my rhapsody of disarray and pain. When I was used up? – they sold me to the Mexicans.
I was chosen to rule the lands west of Grymm. I wore a codpiece made of wrought iron and my fists were glowing diamonds. My people lived in fear of my drunken stance, and my belligerence knew no bounds. We ate meat cakes and sailed to the lost isles of Tred. We loved and laughed.
I was made to eat the dinosaur scat, and to climb the trees like some cheap ass monkey. I didn’t have a coat or shoes, I had bark and a willingness to feed on the river wolves. I was told to set fire to the woods, and that a great wave would cleanse the lands. I did all as told.
I was a crack head and smack freak. I ate roaches with the vets down by the mission. We sang songs of lost nations and cities burned to dust. We traded tales of down range and midgets and the brothels of Pusan. And we laughed at the jaded darkness, because it was our only fire.
I was a curse to the wicked. I spent my nights, covered in dolphin grease, hunting the freaks of West Hollywood. I followed them to the valley, and then up the bygone highways and lost worlds of a dead landscape, and my miracle lover stroked her boovula, as we drove faster.
I was hurt by my fast time lover. She wore a skirt made of turtle skin, and her kiss was like a dagger covered in muskrat blood. She’d tell me “you are my coyote master”, and I’d say “you are my sugar plumb crystal”. And we would dance to the noise of cities on fire, scared fools …
I was a meadow flower, when the mountains wept and the vestal virgins bathed in ancient oils. I watched as the commie-scum of SECTOR-76 fed on babies and rabies and cats made of glycerin. I kept company among the crows, and I too sang of urban glory, as I ordered my latte.
ASH and TRASH
Shingles doesn’t care …
“All cool guns are belt fed.” – Dr. Freckles
“I’m tired of the I QUIT crack stories, I want more stories about going back to it and the success it brought.” – Dr. Freckles
the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.
the various branches of creative activity, such as painting, music, literature, and dance.
human emotion given permanent form
a projection of the unconscious mind
neither digital nor analog, connected and explosive, non-sequential
impacts perception of scale and tempo, changes time
uploading some archive to anchor/spotify, almost done
knowing what it is like to be a woman …
Meghan movie looks like Chucky …
star liner patch
Shit …
“Shit works until it doesn’t.” – Dr. Freckles
Percoset/Oxy: side effects …
judgemental
sleepy
loud
u start ranting
paranoia
YOU WANT MORE!!!
it makes you really dark
If I die …
getting surgery to fix my arm on Friday
I was given options: sawdust, broken glass, metal shavings, and other weird stuff
describe the surgery
THE DANGER
My friends Justin, Mike and A.J. (of FL) will oversee my riches and hidden gold
Dark winter …
Given the amount of geoengineering materials they are dumping right now, you’d have to cancel these flights – unless you want the travelers to end up dead.
“Arkansas is the Georgia of Missouri …” – Dr. Freckles
ARK: The great ARK …
AN: Absolute Nutrition (from humans)
SAS: British Special forces for security of the bunkers …
“Monkey Salad” is a code name …
You got to Little Rock and you find yourself immersed in the harlotry. Your dingus friends left you at Old Hector’s Mexican Style Pizza Bar, and so you go to the men’s room to snort some METH and get ready. You know who you need to kill, you know what you need to do.
There are cave complexes where the hookers live, they are bred there …
Like cave fish, the hookers are born blind …
V9004ZJK is your PASS ID …
They will let you into their subterranean Sodom, but you have to have something to sell …
You can find an old hobo off of Grinken AVE, this meat can be used for many things and sold to the bunker people of ARKANSAS …
I don’t have any real notes for this podcast. I don’t have those notes because this was 100% of me ranting about some banking snafu that held up some small amount of money that I was hoping to get … I think … I think it was just a “snafu” …
But there is a lot of rhetoric about using capital controls at LOW VALUES of capital, to including the coverage of hobos like me. I don’t have much of anything, but at this point in the game, and little meager amount will be gone after, and all the shit that your shit bird countrymen can do to you will be allowed … maybe not for everyone, but for some.
using my money at Davis, my money wasn’t good enough
Bluehost is flaking out to the point that I think they may cancel me too … what are the “dangerous” messages: a) COVID is/was a PSYOP, b) the POTUS is the Mayor of WA DC, c) the RESET is bogus, d) if you live in a city, you are already at the FEMA camp
I need 80 billion dollars to raise an ARMY of GORILLAS … not guerrillas … gorillas.
I was reading about how some scientists want to make Pluto a planet again … that’s racist.
“If the government sets aside $50 billion to STOP people from eating bacon, that money would be funneled to cronies, and people would still be eating bacon … probably twice as much bacon.” – Dr. Freckles
I can imagine some “Music Man”, going before congress in 2025 …
“Give me 7 trillion dollars, and I’ll finally destroy SASQUATCH!”
(and he’ll get the money)
(and he brings Sasquatch into existence)
“… and finally … when there’s nothing left … you can’t get another loan from the bank or another box of booze … you bust the joint OUT – you light a match.”
– Goodfellas
What people want …
“Knowing what people want is half the work of lying.” – Dr. Freckles
They stamp out the male vibe with their rag-tag leather bound persistence. Their minds are aware and open to ancient poems written by the skag-horde, and they will only relent when the pools of gobble-oil are warmed up for the ceremonial boobie baths …
Their leader, Testruss, is mean and coy. She’s a blonde bombshell built with triple-D’s and a will to use them …
Testruss has the canned gaze of that farmer guy, whose corn grows sideways and against the wind. She’s never late and always in costume – her high heel ways break the minds of men. She was the last of the ADMIRALS who ruled the near space, battling other vacuum ships and launching her woman-slaves in death rockets.
The YULIAN TRIBE is IN CHARGE of life at 20 miles up. Their craft slink softly through the near vacuum, with ion drives glowing and rail guns humming. They fight for the FRONTIER OF SPACE and will destroy and man-man navy that comes to take them out. Their lesbian bonds are forged in blood and fire, and their clever tactics are always on point.
Each year …
When the grass turns yellow …
When the leaves begin to fall …
The YULIAN HIGH PRIESTESS prepared herself for the MOUNTAIN OF IN-BOOVULATION …
A harness is built in the great woods, and affixed between several large trees …
The high priestess is stripped of all clothes and covered in the ancient greases of GROMULII …
She is tied and strapped into the harness, her legs spread apart …
She prepares herself by writhing and her own womanly juices flow forth …
She is going to make love to the great WOOKIE SPIRIT …
Her eyes are pale green and wet. She can’t stand it, her boovula exhales hydrogen gas. You knew she was easy, when she showed you her condom wallet – you knew she was greasy, when she bragged on her cuspit ring …
The drink is brown sklib, and the bar tender shakes his head as you gag on his mog juice. Terry, the old janitor, spends his Friday nights drunk on vodka and diet cola, he hits on the prostitutes waiting for their Johns … who are in the john …
Posted above the bar is a list of complaints …
Tingus owes me $5
There are dragon-moths in the womynz bathroom …
Stag flesh is being sold as taco meat, and Ralph started bleeding out his butt pipe.
Someone is dumping bodies behind the stage …
Why does this bar not close?
Hooker sauce is too expensive …
The condom machine has tampons jammed up in it …
The tampon machine is filled with rolling papers …
No one wants sardine salad … nobody.
Taxi drivers won’t pick us up here, not since we ditched them those times.
