I’ve had a hard time with consistent prayer and meditation …
My Bible study has been crap …
Not sure what to make of this – being here, in Utah, has been mostly a blessing of peace. Sure, there are struggles, but that’s life.
Elon Musk didn’t do shit …
Many of my “followers” can’t see my tweets …
Those I interact with look like fake accounts …
I am still deeply shadow banned on Twitter …
That Sugar Film …
Similar to Super Size Me …
I tend to agree with the editorial direction of the movie.
My friend who went to FRANCE:
The basic truth is PROBABLY this: it takes more resources, more money, to produce a healthy diet for 8 billion people than it does to produce shit food imbued with sugar. A dirty fact that will become more obvious as the corporate food system breaks down under pressure, and the Norman Borlag “revolution” is shown to be a sham.
Nutrients come from the soil – simple truth. High intensity farming strips nutrients from the soil. (why is this complicated or confusing in 2023?)
Humans evolved to get their food, mainly, from foraging and hunting – the paleo diet is a combination of this, and most like a traditional aboriginal diet. Hunting/Gathering …
The new monocultures PUSH OUT traditionally consumed plants, and make access to healthy animal proteins/fats simply more expensive. Which is another way of saying: today’s beef is probably not the healthiest protein … or factory chicken.
Arriving at an intellectual position or paradigm …
Education, self education and institutional
Parents
Being kicked around enough
Most people follow path #2.
Hard to say which path is the best.
A lot of people settle upon the least optimal, but most acceptable, set of beliefs within their community – voting, paying taxes, calling yourself Republican or Democrat.
There is always controlled opposition for the freaks: communism, libertarians, racists …
We could go to the 7/11 store and buy switchblades … you could even buy the ones where if you pressed a button the knife blade SHOT OUT at your enemies. You could just point the knife at your friend, and the blade would shoot into them. They ended up making those knives illegal, but for a time we were innocent and happy with our knives …
When I was a kid?
We’d spend out summer days hunting apple pigeon near the old orchard, living off of grizzle grease and old dead squirrel. Our parents were getting drunk at the Knotty Pine Tavern, while the kids were making shit-houses by the irrigation ditch and eating scrob.
During those halcyon days of youth? – we sought after firework power and smelly screeg juice. We’d buy worms from Little Mountain Store, and then go down to the pond to catch rainbows. If some kid fell into the pond and drowned? – we felt bad about it, then we played Donkey Kong.
Back in school our teachers used rods and yardsticks and belts and cheese paddles, to teach us a lesson. If we acted up, they tied us to logs and rolled us down the concrete steps in front of the school. We would spend hours in the basement, with the festering rodents and mold.
In high school, the kids mocked me and chased me. I lived in the shadows, even the “Tree People” shunned me. I was an outcast, living off of crack cocaine and pop rocks and Pepsi. I took my orders from an alley cat and carried a lead pipe, and my face was covered in rooster gravy and bear piss.
As kids we raised different kinds of animals and kept them in jars and cages. We’d watch MUTUAL of OMAHA’s WILD KINGDOM, and pretend we could steal the hearts of nature and clamp down on the natural splendor. We’d eat the faerie-grapes and whistle songs of dormant hyenas, cats.
When we were kids, our parents could buy hippo and elephant at the butcher shoppe. We would eat the ripe heart of the world, as we watched the Gong Show and supported our favorite freak. Our songs were the songs of sky rockets and afternoon delights and magic nasty rendezvous.
I can remember old Andy who lived near the abandoned puppy factory. He had a small hovel, covered in moss and dead birds. He’d invite the kids in for “cough syrup and cheese”, and some kids never came back. The parents burnt down old Andy’s home, and dumped his body in the river.
My sister’s would talk about the “black man” that lived in the woods. He was black, and would sneak into the house at night and steal babies. They would spin these yarns of semi-racial bare chested violence, as they imagined their Nubian king taking them away from their Catholic doldrums and forbidden jungle delights. Is that racist? – I don’t know …
In the mornings when we got up, our parents would make us breakfast – we’d have TANG and VELVEETA and re-liquefied parrot stool. My friend Skangus spent his days training mice and drinking KOOLAID. He stayed after school so Father Jim would teach him special lessons. We would find Skangus, trapped in the sacristy at the Church, and he didn’t want to talk about it, and his altar boy uniform was stained with blood.
My dad would take us to SAMBO’S. It wasn’t Sambo’s for that many years, the name changed. It was themed on some little black kid being chased by tigers, and the story line about how his family ate bush meat, and sometimes ate people. Little Sambo would run shirtless through the European settlements, impregnating white girls and stealing big screen TV sets … is that racist? I dunno …
We would play with buckets of gasoline, tossing flames at each other and melting garbage bags. If some kid got burned, we mocked the kid for it … it was there fault, and then needed to pay. We gave the kid raspberries and ripped up his underwear. If he went home crying, we laughed. Maybe that kid didn’t make it, maybe he set himself on fire to prove a point.
We would hunt for the freaks on Little Mountain, firing our BB guns at any the dared cross us … they lived up there in the woods, covering themselves in slug-oil and tooglin-blood. We’d round them up and put them behind a fence. We’d toss old cheese burgers and soup at them, and they would cry out their great pain to a world more interested in Fantasy Island and the Love Boat.
We would go smelt jigging, in La Conner, and take those damn slimy things and use them for crabbing … that sea protein was prized among the JOOBLIN-VOLK and they used the paste to clean their pixie pipe and massage their woman’s boovula and skleeviz. They would win awards, handed out by the old chief, and then take their winnings and play video games. Nobody joked about Asteroids, nobody took fun in Pacman or MS Pacman. It was all about the stinky dead things, and the old people dying of consumption.
We had games you could buy: Captain Kill-doh, The Furious Claw, House Trap, Cat’s Whisper and the Broken Glass Puzzle Fun Box … Kids would eat pieces, small magnets, their insides would get all fucked up. We would dare each other to eat bits of plastic or shove asbestos covered french fries up our noses. We ate raw DDT and lived like monkey fiends and our homes were caves and our time was empty.
I ate monkey pasta, and related stories of my conquests. The 8 Sibling armies gathered near my old home, the one where my hooker wife took skleeg-foam and rubbed one out and told my momma that I was dealing again. We slept in grease baskets, near the wharf, and ate chili cheese.
There were kettle corn pros washing themselves in the gutter, they’d been out all night turning tricks and making gravy. Cooley, the chief pimp, made sure their bodies were covered in honey butter and then he gives the speech: “… don’t hold out on me hoes … don’t hide money in your sklizz hole …” His women lived in fear.
A time was spent in the Amazon, learning ancient lessons from the medicine man and the Chief’s daughter Heleeza. We spent so many sweaty days trapped in the GREEN MANSION, looking for our earthy well being and yet … yet … my man pipe got infected by a bug or reptile, and it leaked hleebum-juice all day.
When you travel the swampy way, when you see the cattle-queens moving their homesteads west? – that’s when you GRAB THE GROIN of the mother fuckers, and power up your anti-matter cannon. You can’t trust regular bear anal artists, you have to trust the princess of Delaware.
Drinking with the Screw-zos of New Jersey …
Dining on seagull with my friend Yoog, and his harlot wife …
Married the last banshee wench of Chicago, she curdled my butter and left me wanting more …
Chemical factory near Grinken Town, worked in the bowels, deep in the middle, where they dump stuff …
There was this tulip field I worked at … when I was 11 years old. We picked bulbs in the hot sun, our bosses beat us with reeds … if we didn’t pick our rows fast enough? – we were “taken to the warehouse” where Mr. Hoosgarde would beat us and then lock us in the bulb refrigerator …
I had my kidney removed by organ thieves, left in a bathtub, filled with ice … a note said: call the cops.
Igloo Dirty was my porn star name, when I worked in the Northern Territories of Canada. I had a rough mutton chop exposure and a large rod …
Chemise made of old aluminum cans, her eyes were orange and green and angry …
Kangaroo meat Popsicle when I was a kid, during the great meat-paste crisis of 1978 …
Ate skunk pudding when I was being chased by the East Side Hoolies back in 1996 …
“The greatest trick Bigfoot ever played was convincing you he didn’t exist.” – Dr. Freckles
Stories of SASQUATCH or the WOOKIE MONSTER or OMA …
I heard once Bigfoot lived in the wind …
He was the FURRY KING, and the woodland creatures followed him into space. He would go around, buying drinks on a Saturday night, grabbing strippers and having hot sex. You’d think he would want to keep a low profile, but nobody believes what they are seeing … not until they give birth to these very hairy little babies.
SCRIPTUS SECT ALPHA
Connection to Ogo Pogo and the Lochness Monster …
Should we kill it, to prove it exists?
Buckskin love affair
The lost cave of Den-Breezus
Chiseled abs …
THE RACE of the WOLVES
WOOKIE ARMY IS COMING …
The 3rd CHUD Rebellion
Storgack folk form hooker style Republic
Robot Pam Grier opens a women’s prison with the Wookies
My last woman, Betsy, had hooker crabs and skleeg fever. Her boovula vibrated to the sound of Metallica and gold coins hitting the table top. She’d whisper the world in your ear, and then complain about the mutton soup, and her breath was like a stray dog’s. I couldn’t keep her.
I had this woman, she was mean and never shaved her legs. She pressed skunk grease against her cheeks to make herself look younger, and she begged me for my protein soup so as to enhance her jugs. She worked the street and found great solace in any stranger’s arms. She gave me crabs and herpes and black syphilis, and I had to flee to the eastern provinces to escape her pimp husband. But I loved her.
There was this girl I knew when the summers were long and the winter ran for cover. She wore soft pastel dresses, and waltzed with the green grass, as she ran through the meadow. Her hair was red and her face was freckled, and we spent so many nights chasing time and running from despair. She left me for a jar head named Cliff, and I never knew what happened. But we had that summer, and I’d never forget.
I spent time traveling on rockets, and taking my star ship to the edge of the solar system. I met marauders, armed with laser swords and covered in swamp pain – and then there was HER. She was the queen of the asteroids, she mined and harvested ancient wax and made her living along the Kuiper Belt. Her condo was on Pluto, and she didn’t care that it wasn’t a “planet”, because every man orbited her and her fine booty. We fell in love fast, like a black hole swallowing a rogue comet, and she broke my heart. She kicked me to the curb before the 4th Lort War began, and I was left wanting before the throng.
There was this chick from LA. She was a model and an artist and an actor. Her hair was brown, and her skin ivory white, and when she walked down the street the whole world stood still. She had men all over, but she always made you feel special – and I never feared for the clap or gonorrhea. I broke her heart, living fast, doing crack, selling my bling along the boulevard of starlight. She cried out for me, and my wretched self left her. I did not know she was going to be my wife, and our children would have ruled the wasteland.
While biding time near the old valley, I met a girl named Lola. She carried a sack filled with onions and spoke softly to the chickens. She would spend the spring days wandering the fields, scantily clad, with her female scent wafting about. She was my FOREST LOVER, my sky bride, and we held ancient sexual rituals, in the barn, when the sun went down. She broke my spirit like she was breaking a new horse, and after this was done? – she fell in love with the baker’s wife and fled to Quebec.
After many lovers, I found Rhonda. I was dealing cards in Vegas, at the Royal Palms Hotel. Rhonda was a cigarette girl and a stripper and the holy representative of blind chance. We would drive out into the desert at night and drink vodka and shout at the stars, and many of these nights ended in torrid and fiery love making. She needed “space”, so she fled to New York, and moved in with a street performer named Len. I was alone again, staring at the walls, imagining a kingdom of regret somewhere near Detroit.
I was with this woman from Dallas for a few years … She hunted whale-ape out on the high plains, and never rested. She snorted cocaine and got into bar fights and was never afraid of a Saturday night melee. I got her pregnant, and then she sold our baby to a Mexican drug lord in Juarez. It was a mad sickness that kept me near her, and when the fever broke I was empty, bankrupt, and wandering Phoenix with a loaf of bread under my arm and blood pouring from my anus.
While working as a seaman on the trade routes from India, I met a woman named Prakna. She had jet black hair and olive skin, her bodice was like a fine bottle of wine and I drank of her juices as often as I could. We would wander Calcutta, in search of slow-time concubines, seeking the obliteration of self in the dirty corners of a broken land. She would call me her “tiger master” and I would call her my “monkey queen”. After several months, she drowned in the Ganges and her body was never found … they say she’d been involved in bitcoin.
I knew an escort named Trixie – she worked the high rises on the gold coast in Chicago. I was recovering from splingus surgery, and she watched over me, my sexy angel of mercy. Our first Christmas together, we took a trip to Peru, we bathed in Incan pools and nakedly played.
Patrice was a waitress I met in Florida. Her family owned a gator farm not far from Orlando, and she would spend her weekends there, harvesting gator, in her daisy dukes and torn t-shirt. We would take the air-boat out on the Everglades, and there we would make love in the night, as the cotton-owls screeched and the turtle-cats slept. I woke up one day and she was gone – no note, no nothing … I loved her.
A gal I knew near Memphis took me by surprise, you’d look in her eyes and see a baby born. She was blonde and hot and busty and naughty. She worked as a Kindergarten teacher, but she was all smoke and silk come evening time. We rode Harley’s on the weekend and made love in the train yard after the sun went down. She told me I didn’t care about her cat, and I said “what cat?” – and she slapped me. She left me for a florist.
There were so many flinks and cherries …
So many sop-wives and angel dust Virginias …
I spent my time wandering the lost sectors of YULON, looking for the ultimate WOMAN. A woman of steel and fire and lace, a woman of claws and fury, a woman who can hunt down the wild deer, naked, as her boobs bounce about. I spent time in the jungles of NEPHOR, and found a hidden lake where milk maidens washed their privates and caressed their tits. I sought after that gentle hand that would nag me, incessantly, to take out the garbage. But after crossing 12 seas and 40 rivers I found the GIRL of my DREAMS … Vordica …
Vordica watched over me for what was left of my life …
As I grew older, she ensured that my codpiece and armor were well oiled … as she oiled her boobs.
I would hunt castor apes, and she would make me gunzit-stew. After spending many hours being chased by wopsit-clowns, Vordica would be there, in our bed, ingunjoolating herself, preparing her boovula for my meat rod.
As I grew very old, Vordica would drain my boils and wash my togger-wounds. She would rub in diesel fuel and broken glass and sawdust and metal shavings, and I would shake and shiver in her arms, as the fever took over ….
There were only mold-cats now and other scum-rot from the new biome – and all the old furry creatures were gone, and we wept before a brown and grey world …
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
