“The enemy of my enemy is an anemone.” – Dr. Freckles
The enemy of my enemy …
MOON LANDER
No offense voters …
“No offense voters, but most of your ‘solutions’ look like Lennie to me.” – Dr. Freckles
Keynesianism …
“Keynesianism: MARXISM for people who like the ‘color in the lines’ game at the restaurant.” – Dr. Freckles
REAL numbers …
“Real numbers get real interesting real fast.” – Dr. Freckles
Opening your third eye …
“Opening your third eye is an invitation, not a demand.” – Dr. Freckles
“As a hunter …”
AS A HUNTER …
I can’t believe you “gun” people … your guns and your gun shows and your ammo reloading … fuck …
I’ll tell you what I do:
I strip down to my loin cloth, and hone a spear with my buck knife and my fire …
I cover myself in mule grease, and then sit out all night, whispering to the trees and moss … connecting with my wolf-self …
Then, at the appointed time, I chase down that hairy beast and consume its munkton-flesh while the moon glows, and the sun is nearly broke upon the horizon.
As a hunter …
I reach for the old style techniques, of monitoring poop flows and assessing the dayglo-sauce of deer-snakes and hester-monkeys …
I gave up on soft-style party living, and now my waters run clean from the mountainside to the prairie hovel … where my hooker bride waits, and my 12 kids hunt possum for dinner.
We wear barley armor and provide LIGHT in the dark woods …
We are true HUNTERS, looking for adventure. Sure, we take it easy when doing “Kentucky Style Love Making” on a Saturday night … but our hearts beat strong for those bong-doodles, and our women wear thongs while singing that song about twerking …
We hunt the grease, we feed on the meat barnacles.
We are hunters.
I started picking at it …
I started picking at the scar on my arm …
The one from when I broke it a year ago …
The surgical scar, where they taped my humerus back together with aviation tape and form-a-gasket and bondo …
I pick at it, and it bleeds, and I can see the metal wire, rusty, covered in fleas …
You would say “Dan, stop messing around”, but I heard a sound and moved fast. It couldn’t last, not the last of the JERG-WIZARDS, mixing elixirs and ancient pudding. And just like that the smoke cleared and I could see the bare bone and I groaned in pain as I shoved broken glass and wood chips in the wound.
I pulled on the broken plastic clamp holding the bone in place, and scratched at the remodeled bone with my rusty pocketknife …
It spoke, the bone, cursed flesh and marrow:
“The first of the KLUNGIT-ARMIES, being led by LORD JANGIS, is moving on S’compton … they just sacked Grinken Town.”
I’ll blame the SECTOR CHIEFS and the coyote herders.
I’ll take account of those DINGLE farmers, sharecropping the broken hearted no man’s land of BOBLIMPTOCK … Ungoobulating their women folk, greasing their boovulas.
And my bone is CHILLED MAX ICE …
And I pick at it for comfort.
Moral compromise …
“Government is moral compromise made flesh.” – Dr. Freckles
They “HATE” to say it …
“If they say they ‘hate to say it’, they love to say it.” – Dr. Freckles
Dr. Freckles’ Rules of Time Travel
The first rule of time travel:
If someone CAN build one, they will build one – no number of laws or cops will stop this.
SUBWAY CLUB
Government and predators …
“Government doesn’t stop predators, it gives them a place to hide.” – Dr. Freckles
You were right …
You were right,
I was wrong,
when I stuck that 20,
in your thong.
I was right,
you were weird,
when you called your boovula,
a dirty beard.
Once you learn to do it …
“Once you learn to spot a trauma monkey, this shit turns into the Wizard of Oz real quick.” – Ivor Llewellyn
(a good guy who gave me preserves, fruit, and hope during a dark year)
ANTARCTICA!
“Antarctica: because TPTB trashed everywhere else.” – Dr. Freckles
TRAD MOM
“Trad-mom is a gateway cope on your way to OnlyFans.” – Dr. Freckles
SOB: Oh Son of Boblimptock …
This is Grinken Time …
In the AGE of BOBLIMPTOCK …
The kindred-dread of many minds,
spreading deeply from behind,
hurried voices soon shall find,
that rind,
left behind,
by the hobo kind.
You could have been a cocaine hero, raging with a voice of drymbly and bleeb. You could have sunk your teeth into tomorrow, but instead you sip the tea of old Keith and his barley excrement.
After many years my son, you will find the glory board and jump your way to SPRING MADNESS, as green shoots give way to chutes and ladders, and you get sad because nothing really matters. Your broken skull is potato skin to the gods, and your own morsel is but humble offerings to Chronos.
“WHAT TINGLIT MERCY IS THERE FOR THE THIRST-DURGEN?”, screamed Horz, the last THIRST-GURGEN and FIRST LORD of Tryb. He rode a horse of rage and fury, his saddle was made of onions and coal, he smoked a bowl after locking up his old man in the Sanikan, for a honey-bucket surprise.
As your limbs heal and your voice finds balance, the daughters of Histos will leave their pleasure caves and wander forth to find their mungit-mates. Sure, they will wrestle in mud pits for total busty dominance, but their bodies will be oiled and Brazilian style krazy, as driving Miss Daisy turns to Duel – best to pick up some extra fuel.
I can see the endings are empty too DEAR SON.
An age of fun and games gives way to consequences, and stumbling blocks, and crevasses hidden from the snow king.
Your meaning now is in BOBLIMPTOCK and those folk you can raise up to hunt scratch-dear and lamprey-rats.
So find that mud pit mountain dear boy, and seek out a lifetime supply of hookers.
What befalls you …
“Whatever cataclysm befalls the stupid is well deserved.” – Dr. Freckles
NAZIs won the WAR …
“More and more it seems like the NAZIs won the war.” – Dr. Freckles