Planetary Status Reports Archives - Page 58 of 233

May 18, 2024May 18, 2024

Remembering Harry … (5/18/1980)

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?

May 17, 2024May 17, 2024

JAWS and QUINT

“Everyone has a Captain Quint and a Jaws inside of them … spoiler alert: jaws wins.” – Dr. Freckles

May 16, 2024May 16, 2024

Same picture … (if you know you know)

May 16, 2024May 16, 2024

DOOM LOOP

Ridiculosity … the rate at which shit gets crazy.

A madness so thick you can’t breathe.

your ranger-lightning burns bright today fight for your meat!

I know you have hoop-cash, and fly in a Deglon-cruiser, but your sky drag is pulling you back to earth and the canyon masters need you for their chili farm.

STREEGON FOLK are hiding out in sectors-6 and 55. Jiggly, the HARTNECK RULER, fills her purse with the stench fuel of generations, while the watching owl prances and the ants feed on cradle meat.

“Shitty ass TIME WORMS are messing with us.”

They were, the functor hounds, the Dryblin Folk of Gundiz. They were gathering at the nexus in Scholville, where the genius orphans and other trash converse in tongues of greasy flame and sulfur blowing from their assholes.

Mr GRAGGLY came by to talk about the new STEW factory in Poot’s Towne, not far from Sequim, or anywhere else. He said they’re starting to marinate the long-skull flesh before feeding it to the wandering hobos, but Dr. Benway has been by and there’s a violation of Quadrant BETA rules. “We can’t sell fart snake, or coop birds no more”, and everyone is going to Hell for the blood sins.

Remember when we would hang with CRYSTAL MARTY and the Summerside Gang? – we’d ravage the Valley of Dreams looking for some hooker sandwiches and old crusty grey-side poon-hide. Nasty ass JERRY would sell you table soup, but your momma made it with Crisco and your heart is broken from too many walrus pies. You can’t find good hippo any longer, so you settle for General Tso’s panda at Panda Express.

Mr. Skoobson came by about the paint fumes and the dried-out cave rot. I said I couldn’t sell him nothing, not for 7 chicken gizzards and squirrel pudding … but he didn’t take to that answer … he took his mallet and pounded in my forehead, leaving me with a bleeding scalp and empty pockets. And that was just my morning.

May 15, 2024May 15, 2024