Category: Boblimptock

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METH BADGER

Okay … I have this idea for a movie, and I want you to shut the fuck up for a second.

I know “cocaine bear” … sure … SHARKNADO? – a day that ends in Y. Waiting for TIME-SHARK, that’s probably coming out for Christmas in 2025.

But here’s my pitch for “METH BADGER”, the motion picture.

Opening credits play “Country Road”, by John Denver, as the camera, showing a panorama of the Kentucky hills, keys in on one spot, where some old dude has a kennel in the backwoods … We creep up on the place, with the camera, as country road transitions to some nice keyboard/guitar work, with a banjo thrown in.

Here is where we meet our “man of folly”.

“Old Shimbly”, a crazy old coot that lives in the deep woods of Kentucky starts breeding honey badgers for the domestic Panda Express market …

“Shim”, as his friends call him, begins experimenting with steroids and growth hormones purchased from Ecuador. He ends up getting raided by the FEDs, but one of his PRIZE badgers escapes … Shim is riddled with bullets, as his FAVORITE badger, “Ol Annie”, licks his wounds, and Shim says “get outta here girl”, so the gigantic female honey badger runs for the woods … transition to a short montage with “Man Comes Around” playing (of course Johnny Cash), showing the brief history of “Ol Annie”, and the various things Shim did to raise her to enormous size.

These here normal honey badgers … ones not common to N. America … get to be about 30 pounds … but “Ol Annie”, Shim’s pet name for the experimental badger, grew to be 300 pounds … ten times the size of an average honey badger, but it’s worse …

She was in heat, and needing to breed …

This wasn’t any normal honey badger … its eyes glowed yellow-green in the darkness, and it seemed to SCREAM when it killed. Shim fed it road kill and old dead hookers he found in the Ohio River, bad food, fueled a bad badger.

“Ol Annie” roamed the countryside after the FED operation, and eventually stumbled across two bumbling Falstaffian fools who also happened to be METH distributers. They had about 50 pounds of PRIMO GRADE meth … and the badger ate the meth, then she hunted and ate the poor doomed Skakespearian fools …

Of course there’s a sexy scientist from the University of Kentucky – she grew up in Germany, but has a twang. And then there’s that brave fucking sheriff, who warned about people breeding killer badgers, but nobody listened. Gertrude gets all upset when she discovers that the insane badger had bred with mountain lion, and it seemed as if she might give birth to super-lion-honey-badger … there’s a lot of handwringing over this.

At one point, the Sheriff and Gertrude are on a scouting trip, and they witness the battle between the male mountain lion and Annie …

Gertrude: “I know I said I’d seen everything …”

Sheriff: “I know …”

Gertrude: “But …”

Sheriff: “You ain’t never been to Alabama.”

Lots of Bluegrass music is showcased in this, whatever …

There’s a big finale where the local hillbilly has a vulcan canon, and tears the badger a new one, just before the badger lands on him and bites his head off …

And it’s all somber music and bullshit at the end …

And it looks like the sheriff is going to bang Gertrude.

(and nobody cares about the two fools, Shim, or the lost meth)

THE END

SONY: CALL ME

(we make this movie for less than 20 million, we make 300 million)

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“I am issuing orders …”

I am issuing orders to all YORGON FORCES. It’s time to sharpen knives and load up socks with rocks. Take your jimbly-balls and tiger-shakes down to quadrant 43. At which point encircle the Drog-Armies of Forster, while wheeling on the rear of Bogon the Ror-Guergen. Seek out opportunities to harry and torment our enemies, bury the bones near the masonry pit.

I’m issuing MORE orders …

I am sending the lesbian sky navies out to hunt in their magnificent vacuum ships, dressed so scantily. They will patrol near space at 20-30 miles up, seeking out targets of lusty opportunity, keeping the HURG-MASTERS under pressure as Lord Synd rallies our forces near Boston and sends the color guard to Ringlet-prime. Sure, the women of the sky navy will be ungunjoolating themselves as they do battle, but that is as it should be.

I am sending the submarines on PLAN-JELLO-PIE …

They will move dreegen-fluids to the front line, so that our scar-fighters can maintain the front in good standing. These subs will run quiet and deep as various robot fish-people hunt them, and hunt them they will. Sub commander Carl will lead an assault upon the OCEAN PALACE of QUEEN GOPRA and her various sklag-warriors. Authorization to use wacky fission devices is given, start scraping the americium out of smoke detectors immediately.

A full assault on objective WHITE FIRE has begun, and General Woob of Grid-2 is in charge. He’s moving giant trebuchet and fire throwers to the front, he’s got a shit ton of diesel and a couple old tanks and 5,000 pounds of cocaine so he’s ready. The general has sent out scouts and is already moving up archers and the various swamp creatures from Denver. The attack might last years, decades … millions will die … all for the wrath of pitiable soul named Chad.

I’m ordering the milk maidens to prepare the great gorbly-bath. Skazi-herbs and goat-grease will season the great hole, as busty women wrestle violently to be the GOOB DUCHESS and to hold on to the magical refrigerator that contains all my jizz.

The battle will be complete, when the last maiden suckles upon zoom-spice.

I am issuing orders to KUNG-FU HEROES!

Grab your num-chuks and butterfly knives and shurken. Take the castle by first taking the guard tower, and shower upon the MOOG SINNERS all the wrath of Eegis the Mort. Remember to send those soiled materials to the Doctor of EEK, and let him sort out the protein.

I am issuing orders to the Klungiit-Armies and Crumbly-Gangs …

All HOBOS …

ALL WURB-NERBLERS …

ALL GINGOUS-FRUIT …

RISE UP … time to create chaos in region-5 will the slingo-pickets hold tight against Emperor Solz. Remember your training, playing video games and drinking code red … your dark marrow is coating … your fecal juice is LORE.

RISE UP AND FOLLOW YOUR ORDERS HAGLAMITES!

(all else is unclean)

I am issuing orders, so WISE UP NED!

If you can grab a spear made of old rebar and swing a pillow case filled with d-cell batteries?

If you can grab that jug of torpedo sauce and take a swig and jump full bore into the force of fire-snake-power?

You can form a gang or a clan or a sect.

You can mumble in vague phrases and let nothing burn but pain …

Your mind will split open with mold and your soul becomes walnuts …

And this is the only damn WAR you get!

This is your WARNING ORDER.

(this is your strife)

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“COCK CHUDSON”

[Note: this is an EVERGREEN SUBJECT, and I may have ranted about this before]

If I became a porn star?

My name would be Rick Bigington …

I would have the main hustle in the valley, not far from In-n-Out, where my moobie-girls hang and sell strong-juice-donuts to the local cops …

I’d harvest the jelly and oil up, and when the camera turned on? – I’d turn you on … if I were a porn star.

They’d say .. “hey BIG RICK”, as I slung my dick for a stack of lettuce … and my girl Histy would do meth with me, in the park, after dark, we’d both have a NARCAN injector ready.

The honey-butter oil they’d rub on my man boobs would be filled with histamine minty freshness – as vapo-rub spore-gasm leads to nitrous type butt magic. And her tummy-gasp would sell DVD’s in CHINA – and most of the galley tribe would be stuck on “Who’s Miss Charlie” … our number debut HIT.

As a porn star, I’d develop a new MULTI-STAGE guru-type butt-muscle program with progressively re-shapening tube sock wrenching.

People would CUM to my seminars, and even TED would invite me to give a talk about “power drilling” and “West Kentucky Goat Stroking” … and other dignified subjects of totalistic love power.

As a PORN KING?

I’d buy a vineyard in some burnt out N. California crispy town, where the mungit-slaves feed on scale-flesh and the old dabblers shamble towards Grinken Town.

I’d call the vineyard “COCK CHUDSON”, in honor of a great actor who made a movie once called SECONDS, and how that story is like this story …

I’d shift PORN style, and reinvent myself after spending 8 weeks at a THAI monk guru spa …

I’d do a new series called: The English Dock Worker

I’d show up at her door, asking for money for the old dock workers, and she’d be in a t-shirt and underwear and ask me if I knew how to get on Instagram … it develops from there …

My girl and I would switch from meth/coke to cougar-snake venom, and my girl would have to inject this shit directly into my testicles … after my 3rd heart attack and 2nd zipper surgery.

But it would be my vineyard, and we’d do another “English” series called the: British Investigator

All filmed AT the vineyard – smart.

I’d be in tweed and all Scottish-Welsh bullshit … and she would be dressed like a nun … and my job would be to find the truth … this script writes itself.

As a porn star, one day I will die.

And it will probably be from pigeon-monkey herpes cancer, cuz, let’s be straight, that’s the end game for old burnt out porn stars … sleazy as F … dirty bird cave dance.

And on my death bench, as the seagulls poop on me, some old busty female hobo will say:

“Sir … how are you?”

And my last words will be:

“How’s your cable, Mabel?”

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It’s a STRIKE!

You’re all KESTER-FLESH MONGRELS for eating your grape salad and drinking that tangerine spritzer. Your tall hot skin-sack tells you kind things about your everyday living, as your giving heart turns to diesel fumes and my broken pipe leaks acid.

We’re striking …

We’re tired of your bullshit and your crap.

THIS IS A STRIKE because the formula one racers are stripper style bacon steaks and most of the people in charge are eating CHEESE while the rest of us eat fermented whale semen cake.

We gotta STRIKE, WE’VE HAD ENOUGH!

I’m tired of sleeping on mold-mattresses and living on the edge of a hooker nightmare. I know the world is spinning, and some joker is hiding his or her gold in their snatches … It’s what is going on. But we’re striking because we want diamond studded dildos and rhapsody style puppy mills.

People will say: “Why the fuck are you STRIKING DAN?”

And you know what I say: “BECAUSE YOU ASKED THAT SIDE-EYED QUESTION MR FUCKER!” … and then me and my buddies from the UNION find that dude, and beat him with rods … dump his body someplace where secrets are always kept. That’s a strike.

We’re striking because the RIGHTS of MAN, defined by Lord Clovar, have been violated …

We were promised beer-donkeys, robot-beings, half donkey, half robot, half beer, wandering about filling your glass with cool refreshing beer … this never happened.

We were promised 2 show, and 4 no-show jobs for that guy we did that thing with … you know the thing where that stuff that was left over from that other thing got taken care of? Not far from that place we went fishing last year, after the storm. That was a bad storm, when we had to do that thing to that guy.

We used to have sandwich and stew and chili parlors, where old grease freaks from the bowels of TOYOTA KENTUCKY could rub scleavit oils on his sores and drink moonshine with Tennessee whores. We used to be a proper country, and now we have to STRIKE!

There was a time when the hard working AMERICAN MAN of vigor and mineral spirits and aluminum siding was RESPECTED … because he had lungs half filled with asbestos and a heart racing from too much plutonium.

We striking because you drink your LATTE with your fancy BRITISH NAMED FRENCHIE … that beast is rancid and unviable … we’re striking because of THAT.

I know a lot of you think you are fancy.

You’re not fancy.

You are a kettle-worm awaiting a destination of diseased monkey paste because your slime village is the nest of all murder vipers. And we coming …

We coming to STRIKE!

STRIKE NOW, WHILE THE IRON IS HOT!

If you show up for this strike?

Borrow coveralls from your pal Frank, he has a real job, working on cars …

If you can’t borrow Frank’s coveralls, buy some of your own, but splatter them with diesel fuel and oil … it needs to seem like you work hard.

Make sure you have a grimaced look on your face – do not smile … STRIKERS don’t smile.

If a SCAB shows up? – you pick the scab … pick it, take it, put IT in the trunk of the LTD … drive to a magical place of empty forever forgetting … near the swamp.

But you show up to my STRIKE? – you gotta be read for anything …

Please pack some knives, and a fudd revolver, and maybe sock full of rocks and a bat … be prepared to swing and beat your way to justice … don’t let the factory manager get away with it.

Because we’re striking.

And we’re done with it.

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Peeps printing nukes …

“When peeps be printing nukes, what you do?” – Dr. Freckles

I think a lot about WHY:

I am nearly certain I see WHAT THEY are doing, I’m still grok’ing out WHY …

It’s why I talk in terms of BEST CASE and WORST CASE …

But something I started thinking about 8 years ago still rings true: actual useful tech like 3D printing was threatening fundamental power

I also remember saying in a podcast that if someone can crack the nut on x-ray or gamma-ray wavelength high energy lasers, that you wouldn’t need breeder reactors to make plutonium. You would just need raw uranium. This also means that in about 10 years someone with 10 million dollars could be making mini-nukes, in their basement … 5-10 kt yield

But it gets worse: with narrow wavelength nucleus ablation, you might invent NEW more DANGEROUS and FUNNER isotopes … and who knows what yields you could achieve with your micro-nuke printer.

So yeah – a lot of tables were about tip over, and TPTB knew their days were numbered … so WAR against the whole human race, mostly in the form of strategic and orchestrated military psychological warfare.

(a theory as to WHY)

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Simulation Theory

TBH:

The essential metaphysics of a “simulation universe” isn’t really that different from a “the universe is a manifestation of God’s will and thought” …

(first there was the Word)

(another name for a series of bytes)

If you can imagine THE DECEPTION, as being, as ugly and deep that a 10 billion year old universe can instantiate?

Then you are kind of groping in the world of Lovecraft.

(and we might simply be NPCs in an ocean of semi-deterministic bullshit)

(but there’s beer and cigs)

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Remember “malls” …

Remember going to that food court and ordering that REAL ITALIAN pizza slice, named after some Mexican killed in France?

Remember those FUN STORES with fake shit and whoopie cushions? You could buy your girl a mood ring and then test your love at the YMCA shower … those were days, mall rat days.

Some SCRYB is selling cell phone plans in the main hall, and he says “LISTEN UP VERN, YOU GONNA BUY THIS RINGLE DING” … and it’s all I can do to keep myself from braining this GUY with a baseball bat from DICK’S SPORTS.

I would go to Nordstrom’s and try on their spring/summer pastel button down BULLSHIT. I’d go home to my dorm room at the UW and watch GEORGE F. WILL mind fuck me with sideways “small government republican” tripe, as I drifted deeper into a personal abyss that almost destroyed me … but malls helped, amirite?

You remember going to the mall with RITA, and trying on the mascara-dick-wand at Frederick’s? – she would tease you with those strapless bras, and those tube tops, but you were her jizzum king, and she was your sandwich dream. You’d spend the day watching Woody Allen films and trying on skirts and shoes … she would … you’d pay. And by the time the sun was going down, you’d grab takeout from Old Style Panda Express, their motto used to be “Real Good Panda, Real Fast … Panda Express” … you’d get the Orange Panda, and she’d order General Tso’s Panda, and you’d make love in your studio apartment till the sun came up … somewhere.

The mall is where RICK broke your small ginger heart. He was big and strong and played football, he said he’d marry you one day. But instead he left you pregnant, and you’d just finished seeing Jurassic Park … so you think life is a shame. And Rick had his game and he ended up lame and washed up near S’compton. But your cat-spirit burned hot, and you made your way to Hot Topic for some new tees …

There was this store, at this one mall …

Called “S’kleeves”, and it only sold sleeveless clothes …

Gumbo freaks and EAST SIDE TOMMIES and various law enforcement would frequent S’kleeves for buying wife beater t-shirts and sleeveless coats and jackets … the same place would sell MERCURY LOVE POTION from the Philippines, and very abrasive rope, and cloth masks, chloroform …

I recall going to SEARS and buying a new bicycle … I rode and rode and rode down MUH ROADS all summer day long … chased by midget-squirrels and pettergast-flies … and the sun rose so high in the sky … and I was at peace, because of malls.

Malls were our AMAZON.

Malls were our INTERNET.

Malls were our SOCIAL NETWORK.

Malls is where we first contracted genital crabs …

Malls is where we bought smack from Birney.

Malls is where the world died.

Malls.

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GRAVITY CORPORATION

“gravity” is owned by Gravity Corporation …

When you “fall” you pay them their fee.

When Gravity Inc says “fuck you, pay me”

they might actually break your arm or legs

(I know this)