I’ve met rich people, having worked in healthcare, who are evil shit heads and still make millions … not poor.
If you think people are poor in America mainly because they are shit heads – good luck bro … Good luck … I mean it.
CRAP CHUTE PILL HEAD America has a LOT of people who “make money” grifting – and if you choose to avoid industries that grift people, you will probably end up poor.
And since I think this “game” is almost over? – it doesn’t matter …
No matter where you live …
No matter how many ounces you have stacked or food in your basement …
We will all be visiting the poor-house soon enough.
Beating up on poor people has to be one of the lowest energy shitty things to do …
But people no longer know the difference between kindness and communism – so here we are …
You are sitting at a bar, and you bitch and moan about Danish people …
A random Swede hears you, and creates a meme on Twitter …
A young girl in Denmark creates a Tik Tok video about Danish pain …
A historian writes in his journal of the coming persecution of Danes …
For several generations, a family of plumbers in France who were exposed to that fucking historian’s writings, fosters and spreads a hatred of Danish people …
One day, in the year 2344, Rene Debouf sets off a barn at NEO-TACO-HUT, and kills a bunch of robot Danish people …
And this was Stochastic Terrorism Theater …
Hiring …
“Always hire people more talented than yourself, that’s how you WIN.” – Dr. Freckles
Remember when …
Remember when “firing” someone meant setting them on fire and then dumping their body behind the Starbucks?
(that was awesome)
Out there on the high plateau, being chased by bat-squirrels and lamprey-rats, you can feel the energy of predatory love tooling …
Remember when you could struggle in the zest-pits of S’compton, wrestling your lover for total sexual mastery … and then planting your ivory goo in her bib-hole and she’d be like “thanks for cumming in there”, and you’re like “I didn’t ask bitch”.
Remember when “two for a dollar” mean Shirley, the transient meth-whore, would give you a “grimbly plus and triple spleg”, and you’d clean up that mess with windex because it didn’t sting so much but the genital crabs got herpes and your lover left you in the gutter to die?
Remember when we were young and we’d frolic with joy and hope and we’d play chainsaw games and hunt turtle bat? We’d ride the river in our dugout canoes and throw nets at the monkey-owl and catch bush meat for dinner which we mixed with curry flavoring from the 7/11 store?
Remember when our parents would give us dynamite for our birthday and let us eat sugar cereal and stuff? Like “here kid, here’s some dynamite to toss at that old dude” and you’re like “thanks Pa, I needed that and boy that’ll be fun”, and then you end up killing that weird guy?
“Some will take whatever they can get.” – Bill Nye (is he talking about pedophilia?)
TRANS ERUPTION … not a real thing.
It’s a trauma based mind control PSYOP with the added benefit of “wounded on the battlefield” …
Wounded people take resources …
Wounded people take focus …
autism
cancer
dementia/alzheimers
trans people
vaccine injury
Wounded … needing help … unnecessary victims.
BTW – I’m not transphobic but I also don’t think, as a Christian, I have to abandon my values. I think I can love and pray for people and not necessarily approve of their choices, just as the same can be done for me. You might not like my choices, but you can still live in peace with me.
People are turning into MONGO GOOBER type fuckers, with boils and curses and chunks of flesh just hanging off their bone. Their eyes have turned amber-blue and their minds are a mixed bag of dark foreboding and hooker delight.
“If I had a million bucks? – I’d buy 20 large coffees at Starbuck’s.” – Dr. Freckles
Limited government …
“Believing in constitutionally limited government is a lot like believing in Asimov’s Laws of Robotics: it’s a nice thought, but it probably won’t work.” – Dr. Freckles
The Libertarian Party …
“The Libertarian Party is your last stop before reaching freedom.” – Dr. Freckles
Butt Rapes …
“85% of all butt rapes are performed by aliens, the other 15% are mostly CIA.” – Dr. Freckles
In the future, the lands will be made up of separate parts and each part will serve some nefarious purpose or serve some vampire goal.
There will be 100 zones outlining the various places you can go. You will be given a metal plate and that plate will be attached to your forehead – when you board a train to travel, your plate will be electrochemically stimulated to produce GINKTUS-GROO and that muck mixes with your neurotransmitters to drive you CRAZY … and once you’re GONE … you’re outta there …
Every ZONE is divided into 44 domains. These domains are ruled by a sexy cadre of stripper warriors, all of them busty and scantily clad and covered in the greases of the avenue. They carry switchblades with the word KARMA etched on the side …
A domain is composed of 75 regions. Each of these regions are filled with sklig-pipe lords and various hankus-gangs. They rove about, looking for catalytic converters and fast-time boovula. Their women are power hungry murder hoes, and their dogs are pits, covered in metal spikes.
A region is made up of 200 sectors, and the sectors are WEIRD. Dark sectors contain witch festrel and carrot meat. You walk for days looking for a place to sleep, but you don’t find nothing but the urban gape and it’s nasty stench.
Sectors are built on 9 quadrants. A quadrant is ruled over by a JINGO-MONK or KELMER-PRIEST. They are ordained as pimp daddies and street flesh controllers. All hookers shall be registered with them and given hooker names. What is your hooker name?
Grids are the building blocks of quadrants. Every grid has a GRID COMMANDER. The grid commander wears armor made of leather and iron, he or she carries a sword and a revolver and a fifth of Wild Turkey. These commanders are a saucy lot and capable of great feats of hooker style grease magic …
Blocks and their hooker queens are the basis for GRID MAGIC and total feudalistic whore control. Spider ministers acquire your soul energy and then drain it into the collective pool. You will lose your mind as you gain your way toward cocaine nightmares and old time’y ape pasta surprise.
All these hooker blocks contain a variable number of fortresses – these are the power centers of the future. Each year the people of the fortress vote on their THURGEN-REP, and this person takes claims of pain and agony and madness to the FEUR-MASTER GURGEN that overseas all connections to the block lords and the hooker queens. The votes are tallied, for justice, and then some random person is tossed off the ceremonial bridge.
Fortresses have rooms, and each room will have 21 inmates or citizens or voters. Each voter will spend his/her/its day eating muddle soup and complaining about their mold infections. The last FORTRESS KING will determine how many rooms get to stay, and which ones get flooded. You can vote on this, but voting does nothing … everyone knows this. And you’ll live in this overcrowded room, and most of your roommates will wipe their butts with their dirty laundry … because there ain’t no toilet paper.
Not giving up …
Truth is:
I yelled, I screamed, I sought help. I sat on that sidewalk, frozen, freezing, with my droopy broken arm, considering letting the shock set in and the hypothermia kill me … probably 15 minutes at that temperature.
But I didn’t give up – not a huge victory, but mine.
Liberty …
“If liberty is victorious, we all win.” – Dr. Freckles
I made monkey-sperm pizza last night. I was hanging with SLANT-FACE Jonesy down by the old abandoned shoe factory. We were drinking slizzle-hooch that my girl Shandy made in her underwear drawer. Our lives are LIGHT-MADE black sky trauma, and our drug is cat-glass, sold by Jorg.
I wanted to find her royal jelly and she made minced meat curry from the dead rhino at the dump. Animals have been dying at the zoo, and they just dump the bodies out there, and you pick the zoo animal that you want to eat. Carla showed up and did coke, her boyfriend was Juddy.
Ken doll types paraded down the boulevard, and we all ended up at BIG NED’S near the river. We drank Colt-45 and other swill down by the pier, and the river boats creep’d by in the night, as our boisterous ways bled white on their poetry. My girl got wet and wanted some action.
“When’s it coming”, she whispered. A train whistle in the distance as the rabble fanned out to find some place dry to sleep. She grabbed my man hammer, and I drove a hard bargain. We made a pile of clothes by the dumpster, and pulled out some cardboard for a bed and went at it.
After our tussle near the dog pound, we got up to see of FLIB’S was still open. FLIB’S was an all night, all day, club. This time of night, they usually had some choir boy type from the community college spinning trance music and hustling sandwich-grease from the stripper-whores.
At FLIB’S, the wafer artists were handing out sunshine blotter, and my heart-slave grabbed a handful and chomped it down. My girl had the twitches, she need s’klink, the new street drug. Like KROKODIL, it had EDGE and blooded rhoid energy. Her twitches would turn to sores soon.
I’d cave in the side of some dude’s head just get my woman the medicine she needs, I’d take bodies to the landfill and let the steel giants chew them up and spit them onto the latent park. New sprouts and carrot pus were sold there, where the birds stop singing and the trees die.
Last night I walked deep into DINGUS TOWN, where dog soldiers guard the harlot realm. I couldn’t stop the white gas and the green light. I couldn’t bring hope to the sandpiper women and those old drunk fishermen who told stories of tuna and whale. In this place we were the ending … what was the beginning?
A kindred self wanders, and seeks to find gentle hands to hold, and a tough heart to embrace. We’re nugget princes and fishwife queens when the sun is out, and we’re chased by every badge when the sun goes down. Our ilk lives off the fever and gumptous those weirdos make and sell.
My tunnel mites were hurting bad and my woman’s fever was turning on me. She’d picked up a rock and it looked like she wanted to bash my face in … “when’s it coming”. I couldn’t tell her, all the s’klink was off the streets because the Mormons were at a convention near Vernal.
When the time came I’d leave her like the rest: some place soft in this landscape of jagged wrecks and abandoned buildings. I’d fashion a grave marker from the fire-wax in the sewer and I’d sing songs of NO GREATER LOVE so that all the street lords would hear. She is remembered.
War
“Humans invented murder, Lucifer invented WAR.” – Dr. Freckles
Wait … what?
that cereal is for children you hate
you eat grits?
that’s a nice jar of something
you fry eggs?
did your mom sit down on a dirty toilet seat?
is that how you were conceived?
Is that your girlfriend …
the one that calls you on the other phone?
are you going to apologize to that old lady?
your car?
she went to the fancy place, don’t feed that
no, you don’t have to comment on her hair
that’s your kid’s ADHD meds?
yeah – definitely eat that before tonight
monkey pebbles?
yeah – just squeeze into that
you gonna wear that?
stop picking your butt, you’re in a meeting
you should clean up the blood before your wife gets home – nobody likes a dead hooker
he said the vacuum cleaner reminded him of you
you got a vacuum cleaner
no, he’s not at the gym
why are you doing that?
stop touching your boovula
can I say fuck off
you make cricket bacon?
you think someone loves you?
what’s that on your boob?
you post memes?
you don’t drink coffee?
I could learn to touch
you watch that show?
your butt makes your butt look big
Someone doesn’t know what cob-juice is ….
I’m going to the grocery store to cash my welfare check
you do healthy things on your day off?
you put more sugar on that?
no … you will never have drinks with Elon Musk on Mars …
he will kill you
that’s not for breakfast
look for some gauze
lance that
burn that
drain that
I thought the pimple stuff was just for kids
I’m sorry about your face
who wears lip gloss to bed?
that’s not a mole
yeah, it’s not too early to start drinking
that’s not vegan, get real … you bought it at 7/11
you have a Peloton?
people just don’t want to take the risk, but it could pay off big time
this will shake up the world of #bitcoin / #btc / #blockchain
some people will make millions
you hear voices?
you said you’d quit smoking
you get consumed by void?
you have coffee?
that’s not what you do with that
that’s the date rape dude
no Dear, it’s not your dog that makes you look fat
he sniffs underwear
how long have you been on the pill?
are you on the pill?
that’s herpes
you use that to cover up the smell?
you shave?
If the aliens are coming, they’re coming for your butt holes.
You rub your boovula, I make life BIGGER with CHEESE MIND …
Wookie …
they’re out there … up in dem dare Uintas …
they live off of old possum and freak bate …
they can’t abide Mormon style hookers and the lost injun kingdoms …
They wait … with patience … staring deeply into their own dark souls, awaiting a time when they can attack.
Indiana Jones …
Indiana Jones: and the hunt for the Rascal Scooter
Indiana Jones and … the … um … where am I? What’s my name?
Indiana Jones and the double hip replacement
Indiana Jones and the prescription refill
Indiana Jones and the procedure … just a procedure …
Indiana Jones and the I HOPE IT’S NOT MALIGNANT
Indiana Jones and all the Blue Pills
Indiana Jones and Incontinence
Indiana Jones and the Medicare Scam
Indiana Jones and that blue paste the nurse makes me eat
Indiana Jones and THE VILLAGES
Get used to it …
When you think your woman smells like sleevix and squirrel grease?
(get used to it)
(get used to the hairy legs too)
Your woman or man will rub themselves with quelf-musk and sprinkle rock salt on their junk.
Get used to it, it’s coming …
People will chase you with baseball bats and mutter filthy things about you and your cats …
People will vomit ire on to your brand new concepts and then dump your body down by that fake lake outside the building where you work … so the mutant catfish can feed on your disgusting muffin top …
That’s right fucker: get used to it …
do you know anyone … I mean any old scro … That ever thought, “well, I’m sure glad shingles cares …” ???
get used to it …
you find it near the river of forgotten stripper love
a greenish brown mold that is collected from under rocks
you squeeze out that special paste, and it becomes your JUICE
Guns …
“We don’t need guns? – buddy, we don’t need armies.” – Dr. Freckles
Surface Mind and Deep Mind …
“There’s surface mind and deep mind: we play with the surface mind, the deep mind plays with us.” – Dr. Freckles
There are hurt’ers out there, hurting people … and that hurting spreads.
Hurting does hurt bad because it hurts, it hurts cuz someone did the hurting, and do they hurt? Longer this hurting lasts it hurts hard, and then you start shoving hooks and forks up there, root about, so it will stop hurting so bad where it hurts and now you want to hurt them.
Now you have wandering hurt people hurting themselves and hurting others. We all become pain givers …
So much hurting is a tsunami of dark and broken souls. Mind is cursed and the hurting swells into all consciousness and makes light of the terror-selves chasing you …
Hurting is hurting and is hurt, and it’s hurtful …
Hurters hurt because the hurting never stops hurting …
Hurting is a hurt lord and a side freak and an anal puppy …
So let’s stop the hurting ….
My family …
We are of the STEEGEN-CLAD FOLK, who live among the beaver-elk in the great northwest cauldron. Our people have sojourned there for over 87 billion KLEN. Since the time of FORG the DRAGON, we made musk-soup and lived as swamp bastards, covering our junk with dead fish carcasses and old style DEER poop.
… our people strode the world like LIVING JUNGLE KINGS, our people, armed with bats and chain, wrangled with the fester creatures and ate mint pudding and played the harp as we made love. Ships would arrive from far away to bring us the ancient herbs and spices. We drank fuel.
… there were times when oft sought after monkey varnish was rubbed on our own sadness. Our people fought the SKRUB-WARS against the old style dolphin priests and we set fire to their wretched homes. We covered the land with smungis and cheese and bred whale-ostrich and quail.
… if we felt hungry or cold, we buried our pain in a sweat magnet. Our enemies were everywhere plotting against us, and our angels had fled long ago. No green leaf or soft pelt was allowed, hence the mutilation of future bonds and the corpse waddling on the edge of madnees.
After the great valley was laid waste by ZORDOR, our family wandered SECTOR-777, where the mud witches ran naked across the meadow, rubbing their boovulas as their boobies bounced back and forth. We had fist-parties, and ate walnut pizza. Our last dead brothers were dumped.
Role Models …
“Role models and life coaches are just a few degrees removed from cult leaders.” – Dr. Freckles
Hobo Shaman
What does this mean?
desolation of self
mind openness and cocaine
ghost hooker guardians
you don’t work no regular job
you don’t spend time fucking with people
you want a HAND UP and not a HAND OUT, but what you really want is cocaine
commitment to NEXT WAVE fire thinking
orchestrator of feast magic
practitioner of weeble rituals involving ear parasites
bringer of good times and peace
lover of dogs, dogs help you find cocaine
capable of great travels, beyond the perimeter …
Imagine a world …
Imagine a world …
A world that is AMAZING and ENDLESS …
A world filled with animals and plants and mountains and lakes …
A world surrounded by infinite space and untold possibilities …
Now, in this ENDLESS imaginary universe, imagine there is a planet …
On this planet there is a person …
This person is imagining worlds …
And in this person’s imaginary world, there is another person imagining worlds …
And he begins where it must, imagining more worlds, and more imagineers …
It’s like voting or JRR Tolkien books … I don’t care.
Harry Potter? – don’t care.
Going to the Moon? – how is that movie relevant?
Rule of Law
Covid-19
Nordstream
… and …
You could always include 9/11 and the JFK assassination …
Genius …
“Passion is the fire, genius is the light: that’s why there are more geniuses than we realize, if we can escape this dead, statist, passionless world.” – Dr. Freckles
What if …
“What if Peter The Great were a hobo that thought he was some Russian Tsar? … I’m serious.” – Dr. Freckles
Prophecy …
“Prophecy is a gift, a reification of faith, but it’s NOT a way to make money or predict the next President.” – Dr. Freckles
More of a machine …
This implant in my arm, it’s changing me …
Already the super-tech titanium tendrils from this stuff, in my fucking arm, is giving me the power of TOTAL LOVE SEX ONENESS and ANAL STOVE PIPE.
My hooker lovers are lining up, around the block, to taste my heart-rod and simmer in the juices of my deep caress …
My robot name is KLAMMER …
I have several small, vibrating, rubber covered, pitted cylinders that pop out, when necessary – you know what I mean girls.
I am a robot man now …
(I am ribbed for your pleasure)
Already, the dogs see me different …
The Hungarian Puli eyes me, with his dread side eye and weird noises he makes that sound like an old crack head saying “FUCK YOU” over and over again …
The Shar Pei grinds his teeth, waiting …
The others pretend like everything is “okay” …
My mind is becoming expansive, as the titanium gumptuous fills my soul with garbage and fear-waste. I am yearning for the husky, dusky, jungle loving type grease bats, like in the old days of jungle fever.
I am ready for her sordid kiss, and then I’ll use my freeze ray and take her back to my lair and tie her up in a barber’s chair …
This is the machine talking.
I want to remember the human me, the organic and loving me, but only this wretched titanium now – screaming, yelling, demanding flesh. It denies the carbon unit, and seeks silicon style love making, somewhere in Seoul, Korea. And among the demon priests, my robot grease is prized …
Helmeted grief-herders shower monkey spice on the soft folk of region-KILO. These people just want to eat their frug-stew and drink their brown water and hide from the sky-pythons, that be killing their babies. I was drawn to them, my machine arm pointed their way. I was the glowing fire god to these sand freaks, and my own ivory dream would be their shredder.
“Do you know the price of smuggiz oil?”, the old crone asked me. I slapped her with my robot arm, and told her to leave this place. You see: she was really a 32 year old sleaze-witch seeking after my ivory power grease. I cannot forsake or deny the gentle soothing power of that.
I keep trying to reverse it, fight against it. I can sense my mind being torn by the eternal sea, filling it with the dead things that only Danish people know about. I know that my soul is undergoing defenestration and spirit wanding. I would not scream, except for her name, “M”.
It’s impossible to describe what this titanium is doing to me, really …
It’s as if I am touching my broken YOU mind, and reforming my ME self into derelict protein and tempting the swamp goddess NESTRA so that she might insert the hot rod where it goes …
It is sweet fate.
I would make mountains of molehills, and hope from hookers, and whiskey from dead cats …
I would send valentines to the future, asking for muddle-cream to rub on my biz-trick. I would get nothing from those huftee-boo types, I would simply hide in the shadow gallery alone.
The NEWS …
Bargaining for lesser catastrophe … (updated list)
Monkey-Herpes / Covid
The Vaccine
The George Floyd Race War
JAN 6
Biden is CRAZY …
Hunter Biden is so bad …
Look at all these weirdos – the great TRANS eruption (look for actors)
Ukraine War
CHINESE SPY BALLOON
AI is so scary – the CHATGPT story …
Stagflation
US default (left out the silent part)
They gonna take the guns …
Government says there are ALIENS … omg
(I could keep going)
It’s your fault if you are renting out your brain to:
Chinese Spy Balloon
ChatGPT Skynet
The great TRANS eruption
(and all the rest – so many trauma monkeys now)
Simple fact: if you remove the bullshit from the news at this point, there is no news.
(no news)
NO GNEWS is GOOD GNEWS on the GARY GNU SHOW!
Close Encounters!
“Almost every story of alien abduction sounds like a really bad one night stand.” – Dr. Freckles
“… pulled off to the side of the road. I was alone, and feeling dirty … the alien reptile thingy shoved this … I dunno … into my butthole.”
“… they told me they had a plan to destroy Baltimore. That all they needed were 5 CHEVY trucks, 20 drunk rednecks, and 5000 pounds of fertilizer. It was crazy … the ginger girlfriend said it had something to do with ZOG … what’s that?”
“… they had a workbench and some cheap ass rusted out tools …”
There’s this other story of a woman who was alone, at a bar, on a Saturday night …
It was near closing time, and a strange dude walked in …
He asked the woman if she was alone, and then, according to the abductee, he slipped some kind of potion into her drink and took her back to his spacecraft.
There were other strange men back at the “spaceship”, but she was “groggy and unable to escape their clutches …”
“… they asked me if I wanted a pregnancy test … it was almost morning, and I was still tied to the spaceship’s kitchen table … they took baking powder and diesel fuel and metal shavings and placed these into a milkshake and told me to drink it … and I said …”
Being Evel … (may have talked about this before, forgive me)
Careers …
This injury has got me thinking about changing careers … to daredevil …
I will jump stuff on some broken ass old motorbike … I will jump and then crash and get my body rekt and have hobo surgery clinics where sweaty old scum bags use modeling knives and fishing line.
Maybe I’ll take a trip down to Tierra del Fuego and become a tavern owner. Nasty and mean spirited fishermen will come in to port and sit at my bar and drink rum and complain about their hooker crabs. We’ll do coke and have panda style sex with the yoobly-girls of Santos.
I could get my pilots license to hustle food and cattle and drugs from one airstrip to the next. I could smuggle orgy greases to the rich folk in NYC, while partaking in gumbly-fuss with old miss sour crotch. I’d live a fast life way up high, my women would be scattered about.
I could become a mountain man and live off the scum-oil of the hills. I could have a cougar wife and live in a cave, I could build traps and toss the corpses in Pain River, near Loradio. I might have to murder a man for stealing my elk kill, but I’d still have to fuck his wife.
I’ve thought about cooking the blue meth, like Walter White. I could get myself a Winnebago and outfit the damn thing for a p2p style cook. I’d steal the methylamine from the asian dudes living across from the landfill. I could build a castle of beer cans and have scoob sex.
There are hell zones in S. America where a man can earn his way as a mercenary. I would form a gang called the “Hooskals”, and we’ll work out of El Salvador. We’ll take hit jobs and hunt down nuns, and steal money from the orphanages. We’ll guard the coca fields and hooker lands.
I might go to sea once again and eventually become a sea captain. My ship will be called the Storm Bitch and she’ll be painted blue and white and green. We’ll fish for stoog-fins and great white sharks, we’ll eat kelp and vomit up diseased squid after drinking torpedo juice.
There are these freaks in Old London Town that make hats and shirts and underwear for those sexy European style hooker models. If I go there, I’ll have a shoppe called Old Niv’s, and sell panties to women between the ages of 25 and 40. I’ll have cameras and peep holes everywhere.
There’s a farm not far from Grinken Town, a place I can settle down into my own whiskey oblivion and sell cat-scars and dog cake. I would farm phillips-berry and ferment the loin greases of coyotes and deer. After many years, they’d find me dead, with my 6 shooter, and my hooker.
In denser times, we’d cover ourselves in owl musk and hunt the beaver of the great swamp. My girl, Skleela, she’d rub booster-ointment on my body, ingunjoolating herself and reaching peek hooker-slut maximal. We’d have bonfires each night, and chew on drig-sausage and tooster-rat.
After many years hustling wino-sauce down by Hooley’s off of Grympton AVE, I’d work my women, making sure they didn’t hold out or keep that gold to themselves. My pimp kingdom spread throughout the new city, and the city dwellers made way when I came by. My heart would be fickle and broken, and those kylie-style woman type furniture brides would hold court at the nearby hotel … for a career.
My krinkus-bride asked me “how we gonna eat?”, so I’d go down to the LABOR READY hiring shack at 4 AM, and wait for some gig holding a sign that says “SLOW” or “STOP”. And she’d wait for me, rubbing her styg-spot, drinking yag-gin, and squeezing her boobies as she smoked weed.
Doctor Quick Clean – fishing line, modeling knives, blue nitrile gloves, everclear, an impact hammer (rubber coated), dremmel tool with saw blades, barbless hooks …
A Clown Named Switchblade
Bounty hunter in sector 33 ZED, not far from the reeking forbidden zones and hooker republics …
Submarine commander, patrolling the ocean regions not far from S’compton …
Space warrior, wearing a golden electronic codpiece, with laser fingers and razor arms …
Crazy …
“Some of you are just as crazy as me.” – Dr. Freckles
I love life …
“I love life, just not most days.” – Dr. Freckles
COKE: Decline of the Best
“When did America go sideways? – WHEN COCA COLA TOOK OUT THE FUCKING COCAINE!” – Dr. Freckles
Dynamite …
“We used to play with dynamite, what happened?” – Dr. Freckles
Chinese Spy Balloon …
“The problem with shooting down Chinese balloons is 30 minutes later you need to shoot down another one.” – Dr. Freckles
“They buried the Chinese balloon the same way they buried Bin Laden, meditate on this.” – Dr. Freckles
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.
