Category: Planetary Status Reports

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Not everything is as it seems …

You think I’m a woodland hero, searching for Bigfoot in the land of Gnorr, but I’m really a whiskey scout landlord, holding nature captive to my cyanide nightmare.

You think I’m some pimp daddy? With 30 girly-girls and 10 flashy cars? Do you think I drive around all night, looking for action, looking for some poor sop too tired or drugged out to care – and I’d take that guy to the pier, and beat him with rebar, and steal his meth? Do you?

You can’t really see the person inside – weak and vulnerable and ready for cuddly love. Sure, I look scary and angry and old and sick, but that’s just the veneer covering up this leather bound warrior, willing to liberate your womanly pleasure zones and unscrew your boovula.

There are dark places where you can hid your real face, and hide the deeds. Old abandoned rest areas, poorly kept national parks, haunted Indian burial grounds – all prime for the great forgetting and re-imagining of broken selves seeking chain store redemption. And this is true?

A kind demon would punish those too bold for truth, and lead you into the MIND MAZE of Hell. You’d lose your baggage in those caves, and live off of cattle plans and bovine pleasure rods. A trip too deep for the timid, too far for those who lack the necessary VISION – and you think you’ll be okay, because that demon gives you cocaine? – nah bro, you’re buried in lies, and the deeper you go, the more brazen the deceptions.

[curated: 3/13/2023]

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I told you …

I was there when the strange travelers gave you AIDs …

and I told you …

I told you about the guys from Vegas who were looking for Sara West. They had sleek hair and greased cars and leather jackets covered in steel rivets. They spoke of “two time Charley” and “sideways sally” and other sexual positions only the perverts and newlyweds know about, cuz it ain’t in the Kama Sutra, and your butt is backed up with cheese.

I told you, but you didn’t care …

I told you about the coming of the gear ghosts and the car fiends. About the catalytic converter mayhem, and the fresh whores of East Hampton. I told you about that guy named FRED who lives down by the docks, and why he goes out at night – and what kind of “produce” he brings …

I could have stood back and had my french whiskey. I could have accepted my fate while not bemoaning yours, and perhaps I could have offered you a drink of malt liquor, with a side of stale pizza and rotten meat. You’d be thankful, taking that slag home to your family, with pain.

I kept the secret, to protect, to adhere. I sanctified the RED REALM with oil magic and the soot from an East End London fire pit, rubbed into the boovula of a long dead queen. And the King’s supper is laid out, with the vegetables and ale, and the cat’s memory of death is dim.

I TOLD YOU my DEAR and LOVELY FRIEND …

I warned you of the amber sky …

I saw omens of the cockroach kingdom, while taking the tram to velvet village …

I was there when the 9 elf armies relented before SKR’YB, and the various angle iron brigades were shut down after beating all those white people to death …

GRONKIS LORDS? – they mean nothing to us now … but I did warn you.

When the HOOKER REPUBLICS of CHOP and CHAZ were formed? – I guided you through that turmoil. I made my bread with their saccharine treat. Spice and blood mixed with lies and dirty cash – the MAYOR would have three plastic tubes inserted into his anus, and the Chief of Police would roast marshmallows near the reservoir. My girl Dez? – she would give them all head, near BURGER MASTER, off of Aurora and your jingiz-protein would stain her dress, but she had a touch up stick and some bondo, so it was okay. But I did tell you …

DENDRA?

THE S’KEEL BITCH?

She rode hard in the night, as the storm rose and the winds blew. Her lover, Jin, had 9 lead pipes he carried in a satchel, and he’d use those damn things – in a pinch.

Dendra ruled ZONE 6, and all the chud and trog and morlock obeyed her reign – but nothing lasts. She would be chased through the streets, rocks and fruit being chucked at her, the people screaming “YOU DIDN’T TELL US ABOUT THE DOLLAR!” … Dendra and her banker whore allies dug in deep near Gaslight Park, off of Lake Union. The kite fliers bought dog music, and the fires of the dead lit up old Ivy Town. But DINGUS was AROUSED, and Dendra was in descent. The path was messy and filled with foreclosures and PhD hookers, moms and dads pimping and whoring, just to get a few turnips and a snail. And I did warn you, but you fuckers bought BITCOIN.

I cancelled the phone and the cable …

I set my alarm clock to SNOOZE …

I stopped dreaming about your wicked world and its twisted path …

I will engineer a ship to take me away, beyond the battles at 20 miles up …

I told you about those lesbian near-space navies, battling in vacuum ships, at 150,000 feet?

I told you about admiral LESTRA and her FUNKET-FLEET and the busty sailors that pilot that dreadnought, so far above the earth.

Rocket planes and rail guns, flashes of light. Scantily clad pilots, pushing their sky ships to the limit, all of them at odds and for WHAT? – my love …

They battle for my affection, my spunk, my love grease …

These lesbian navies, high above the land, murdering each other so that they might have some of my skleevus-oil … and I told you what would happen.

I said that THIS was tipping over, and history was unstuck …

I reminded you that all things turn to dust, and that history has become unstuck …

I took you on fancy journeys to a Thai-style sex paradise, filled with RED CURRY and SWEET PYTHON passion … and you ignored me, because history has become unstuck.

History didn’t end.

I told you this.

History has become unstuck.

[curated: 3/14/2023]

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How I broke my arm?

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230310_How_I_Broke_My_Arm.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

Wag the Dog … (The Ukraine War)

  1. doesn’t mean people aren’t dying – great USA psyops are also snuff flicks
  2. doesn’t mean it’s “okay” – could be the pretext for using nuclear war to “cleanse the Earth” of the excess hoi polloi
  3. Imagine a statement like this during any other war? Vietnam? War on Terror? Korea or WW2?

Broke …

“If it’s broke, use coke.” – Dr. Freckles

My THOTS …

“My dumbest thots are my best hookers.” – Dr. Freckles

How I broke my arm?

Back in December I was involved with a girl named Debra. She had green eyes and a clean body, she smoked snail-mix and loved the Bee Gees. We were at Nick’s off of Hallor Street, when we encountered her ex-husband, Neil. Neil was an oil worker and a line worker and a tree cutter and a speed freak, he spent his days near the train station, looking for spare parts the railroad dumps, and other things. His face turned red with pure anger, and he ran at me – tossing me on the floor and beating me senseless. Luckily, my dog Boomer pulled him off and bit off his nuts, but not before this shit head took brick from the door jam and split my humerus in half … for-realsies … this sucked.

I was drifting through space … lost to all I love. My ship, the “Yulia”, was headed to Zeta-Prime-Alpha-67-Charlie in the BRAVO Quadrant of sector-33, in the “cautious zone” … not a forbidden zone mind you … you just need to be cautious. My main fusion drive was overheating, after having finished chasing the pirates of Zelton around the dark star called Glyb. I went down to the engine room to help repair the magnetic bottle armature and super conducting magnet array. My Chief Engineer, Klevon, was a Jabronian. He was from the Newark Star System and he grew up on the galactic shores of East Philly. I noticed that Klevon was unconscious on the deck and the main coolant spindle was reverberating at an incredible rate. I grabbed my Leatherman, and pulled out the Phillips bit, and began torque’ing down the strumulator, which is connected to the whammy bar. At that moment, there was a burst of orgolion radiation, and it through me across the engineering deck. When I came to in the med bay, my nurse/girlfriend/hooker/accountant was massaging my “fuel seam” in order to excite my tinkle zone … but yeah … I’d completely busted my left humerus in two and fuck all about the pirates!

Hunting Grizzly … I encountered a pack of cougars being led by a mangy, out of control, wookie woman named Michelle. She was pungent and hairy, her breath smelled like cigarettes and Clairol and stale beer and popcorn. She had a bunch of cougars she’d rounded up and cornered in a cave near Mt. Gabriel, not far from the Gable Woods where the human footprints were discovered near the dinosaur footprints. I was hunting grizzly bear, and had just finished washing my svelte body in a hot spring – I was naked when I left that pool, as the wookie woman stood 40 feet above on the trail. She sent her cougars after me, busty and frothing, and ingunjulating their boovulas. It was a swampy spot, and we wrestled, nakedly, in such a itchy and burny way … after wrestling several cougars, I grew weary and ran for my camp and my 900 Winchester Magnum X-Ray lever action rifle. I was a mean cannon and hit hard. I fired two rounds at that terrible wookie, but she overtook me and tossed me into a ravine. Days later, a busty 34 year old female park ranger found me, there, naked, and brought me back to her cabin – she nursed me back to health, even setting my broken left humerus in a cast. And we spent the winter together … RIGHT?

There was a GRAND submarine battle … and I was a lowly navigator. Our sub was fighting the Russians near Dallas, Texas, and we were overtaken by a “Mexican Style Harley” which is a lot like a “Chinese Mix Chopper” and it was BAD. It could move at 120 knots under water, and carried the Epsis-3000 super torpedo. The Russians had a mean admiral in charge, Chirgov. He was a legend in the submarine races, the ones at the lake, where you were conceived … anywho. Chirgov fired 9 of these fucking torpedoes at our boat, and this caused a rupture in our hull that I helped repair. While working on that hole, a piece of stray reinforcing steel came lose and hit my left arm, breaking my humerus IN TWO. We won the battle against those fucking Russians, but I spent many months recovering from that injury.

The caves and tunnels of S’compton … a dangerous place to meet a hooker. I was lonely one Monday night, December 19th 2022 to be exact, I was watching dumb ass NETFLIX documentaries about white people killing white people but feeling bad about it … but … I was really wanting a warm body next to mine on that cold winter’s night. So I went to Craig’s List and typed into the search box “hot butt boobie style action Vernal Utah”, and you’d be SURPRISED the results I got back. I scanned them, looking at their pics, imaging the scenarios of our encounters, greasy, nasty, rough, brutal, real, sex. The kind of lovemaking where your bodies melt together at the end, and your kisses are sugar drop masterpieces. “Gerdy” said she’d meet you, near S’compton Caves, but only after midnight. Okay … I sent her a message on Snap Chat, we interacted a little and negotiated a standard price. I arranged to meet her at midnight, and I stole an old Chevy to get there. At the caves, Gerdy was already undressed … her sultry body glistening in the icy cold, her breasts fully aroused and stiffened. We made love like desert hounds, next to that roaring fire of pine and pain. At daybreak, her pimp Joel showed up with his 4 Mormon brothers, and I didn’t have money to pay for Gerdy, and they proceeded to break my left humerus over a rock … so here I am. Lesson learned? – you betcha … don’t go to Vernal.

Making love to a super advanced robot woman … this is the path to madness baby. I was reading Boy’s Life, and in the back, next to the advertisement for the “build your own hovercraft kit” was an entry for something AMAZING: “Build Your Own Robot Lover”. As we should accept, I’m a lonely burnt out code monkey mother fucker … and no one is going to warm my bed unless it’s to torch it with gasoline, but I digress … The advertisement was for plans to build the robot, not the actual robot – and it claimed you could do this for $500, if you lived near a Home Depot. I bought the plans, they arrived, and I began building Regina, my robot style lover. It took weeks, and pvc tubing, and rebar, and small motors and pistons and pulleys and lots of rubber cement. By December of 2022 I was done, and on the 19th of that month I turned that bitch on … there was smoke and sparks and weird arcs of electricity, her eyes, made of LED cameras, flickered and came to life. I began massaging her boovulex, and she conjoined with my stleevtous. After a few minutes, she kind of went crazy, asked for my credit card, and then broke my left humerus … fuck … fuck that robot.

Walking to the grocery store to get potato chips … but Lay’s Wavy plain? On December the 19th of last year, it was a Monday and I was in a really shitty mood. I woke up, got a donation, tried to transfer it to my bank from Paypal, and it didn’t work and it made me wonder if TODAY was the DAY I would be financially cancelled. I called the bank to resolve the issue and borrowed twenty bucks from my friend to go get some beer to drink and to lose myself. When I was done drinking the temperature outside was around zero degrees Fahrenheit, and it was kinda breezy, if not windy. I wanted to get a small bag of Lay’s Wavy (plain) chips, because they’d been really pixelated, unreliable, lately – some weeks the grocery store has them, some weeks they don’t. But darn it, no matter how cold it was or icy or windy, I was going to get some fucking potato chips. About a quarter of a mile from my home I hit a very slippery patch, near a street’s metal walled curb, and fell just perfectly, on that ice, that my left humerus hit the curb, as if some neo-Nazi stomper demon had done this on purpose. It was a lucky shot. My left humerus broken in two …

Why?

Because I wanted to go buy some potato chips.

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Sanity and freedom …

“If you attach your freedom to your sanity, the government will simply re-classify the sane as crazy.” – Dr. Freckles

“But Dan, I just want to make sure crazy people don’t get guns …”

“You mean like you were, after the divorce, when you were taking anti-depressants?”

“That’s RACIST!”

(and scene)

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Moving to an age …

Get into your FORD ECONOLINE van …

Stop at the CHEVRON, and load up on gas and cigarettes and whiskey and love …

WE’RE MOVING!

WE’RE MOVING to an AGE!

I’d say we’re moving to an age of scrotal enlightenment, and one day crab cures at 7/11 …

I’d say we’re moving to an age of one night stands and old time’y cocaine festivals …

I’d say we are being pushed, to the event horizon, of a lost world of dollar store nightmares …

We’re building our cliff dwelling lifestyles not far from the old abandoned school, we’re chopping up woodchuck spleen, and adding in some pepper and watching it bloom … we’re moving …

I’d say we’re moving to an age where JESSE JACKSON sells Teslas to jackals …

I’d say we’re moving to an age where douche bag priests take pictures of swallows …

I’d say the KRIEGUZ-REALM has fallen, and all the old demon lords are dead …

I’d say my Jezebel proctologist is done testing my urine for poo, and done testing my poo for champagne … we’re on the MOVE.

We’re heading west of S’compton, as trailblazers and weird fantastic freaks. We’ll make magic as we make hay and sell our junk sausage to old miserable pock faced shit heads who run the swizzle game and feed on girl glass. It’s an age of mountains on fire and the aerie world of regret spinning out of control – our own minds melted by time’s stale torch.

We can hack it on the high seas, dodging whale carcass and decaying reefs. We’ll build a home on plastic land, the giant plastic island, the continent of crap – and our children will feed on the motor oil fowl, they’ll run from shark and snake, they’ll BBQ bush meat and simmer in urine duress. As we bleed, our path is more clear and the land is further away …

Because we’re moving …

Moving to an AGE.

[curated: 3/10/23]