Category: Boblimptock

Link: https://planetarystatusreport.com/pdf/20161010_dfgtc.pdf

We’re NOT SCIENTOLOGY …

We’re a GROOVEMENT, we INVENTED the FIVE TRILLION YEAR HOA and the JOHN LURCH SOCIETY, D.F.G.T.C., fuck you pay me type love pyramids …

A HUGE GROOVEMENT of HIGH POWER FOR-PROFIT TAX SCHEMES and triple secret vampire-tontine default swaps … our financial backers include Tootle’s Butt Cream and Old Maverick .357 magnum rounds. But it goes deeper, to the ancient deep time of those ages so far back that remembrance of yesterday is an afterthought in the shadow of eternity … yeah.

A danarchist approaches life with a “okay fuck it” kind of attitude. We are not interested in the bland arts and have no desire to cook your food. If we happen to make you breakfast, you will complain, probably get food poisoning, and this is not in alignment with GRINKEN STYLE joy-life KOOLAID energy.

DANARCHISTS NEGATE GANDALF-STYLE INTERRUPTIONS. We equate friendliness with edge-tingling maneuvers (the SOVIETS and NAZIS invading POLAND STYLE SHIT). If some mother fucker shows up at your shed and says “ZED, follow me to get the RINGS!”, grab your .454 CASULL and remind that bearded FUCK that life is hard and the SHIRE is worse. Some fucking princess send you a THREAT CHAIN email? – “help me ZED you’re my only hope”, that kind of sideways bullshit? How many men do you think she FUCKED before she found you? Don’t be a schmuck, tell that whore to beat bricks.

YOU WILL engage with LIFE-POWER on a need basis. Water pooling in the cavern spirit parts of your bowels will release METH BASKET gift cards and holiday spirit spiced coffee scents. DO NOT RELENT when the snow-maiden comes with a dead hare, and the BEAR pygmies begin a great journey to the STRIPPER VILLAGES of Yellowknife and Campbell Lake.

Here are the 5 core elements:

1 – GRINKEN WAVES

Have you ever been to the beach and felt the power of pure wave energy?

A salty wind crystal caress, touching your heart-ravens and messing with inner ear balance and strange feelings of loss. YOU CAN make peace with the self-disconnect, but only in wrestling with the longing sense of breathtaking soul grieving. A foul portent from seagull wanderers provides a witness to what is to come. Don’t have fun pretending that there is an escape, but make your peace with the salty wind and grow.

A DANARCHIST balances the peppermint fantasies. He endures the smoky and broken cowboy hangouts and transcends ordinary meat and sausages. He does not eat FISH or LAMB or SHRIMP, and as pimps go he limps and lurches so that others can sense his pipe-shivers.

THE GRINKEN WAVE paves the way and your surfboard awaits. GREET CHAOS with a FIRECRACKER SMILE and go that extra mile to find pastry-wax for your girlfriends birthday. TINY MARKS are left on your HOLE-SOUL, and the frivolous wanting of yesteryear gives way to multi-level orgasmic love-sex romance.

2 – HARLOT GRAPPLING

YOUR LIBERTY PRIDE is INSIDE the WOAH-MAN of your future. Don’t SUTURE THE WOUND WENCH, but mend the wings of dreams no longer respected. Your PALM ENERGY slides into her cape and the NIP SLIP PANTRY THIEF turns over a new leaf and leaves your grimy October maple tree concerns with Aunt Jiminy and the slime-crawlers from two towns over.

HER NEED BEAM is to have a RING on her finger, YOUR GRINKEN MAN FLAVOR PACK comes from an understanding of colonoscopies and Penicillin panty parties. THE HARLOT LURKS, she don’t LURCH. You can CATCH THE GAIT of some BITCH losing faith in her TIGER-SPIRIT and she LURKS near the liquor store and drinks Mickey’s with “Peaches” and Joe. She’ll never go home again, and you’ll be stuck raising her kid, “Daisy”, and for decades you will barely get by as the SKY HAWK SHAMAN MOCKS YOU.

YOUR ESCAPE is to GRAB that GAPE and make it pay for the words she’d never say.

BUY CHEAP .22LR at the WALMART this week, the HARLOTS are spreading to Tulsa.

3 – YO DUDE

YOU DUDE …

You’ve been rude to your homeroom cadre. Your sister-bits has been upset about the broken NINTENDO and DAD wants you go move out and get a job.

YO, PAL …

I was here when the time-reaper cast your mom into the boiling sea and there was nothing but white muck and pleasure grease and some kind of JOURNEY playing on the radio. Your SADIE MADRE would SAY: “take that garbage to the cub”. But momma, she didn’t want you to drop out and sell crack or smack, momma saw something HUGE’R inside – a kind of demon ORANGE PRIDE.

YOU FRIEND – it’s the END of Mario’s Pizza and Jimmy Stewart soup. The GRAY POOP from grandad’s venison stew was left as a warning to those poor saps stuck in flounder-pounder-grounder morass and your ASS is going to HELL because the bell has rung, and the dung piles high, making your passage to a yellow sky.

4 – SPACE TETHERING

EVERYONE IS CONNECTED to a TETHER.

Every person connects to all other persons and stars and moons with tethers.

Moons and planets and asteroids are tethered to each other, through lines of force: weak/strong nuclear, electromagnetic, gravity, and the SALAMANDER SMILES of turtles and raven children.

Your woman’s boovula is tethered to the sun and to you. She HEATS UP when that sun cooks her power-focus and WOAH-MAN rage-splendor kicks into high gear, near the climax, when the bedsheets get messy and OLD TESSY makes runny Canadian syrup.

A TETHER CONNECT YOU to your family and your dog.

Your cat has a tether that connects her to your friend Kate, and Kate is tethered to your frozen pizza.

YOU CAN’T SEE IT SNOW PETAL, but I am CONNECTED to YOU via a tether – we feel each other’s stomach cramps and intestinal jumbles, we feel when that apple crumble gone bad from the TRAD WIFE SURGERY HYPE and the lost widow spark sprinkles left to TRINKLE near the driveway and Old SCRATCH.

YOUR ENEMIES ARE TETHERED TO YOUR SOUL, your hate for them causes you to FLOAT as they burn like paper Japanese torches, released to the SKY for a GOODBYE KISS.

There are tethers connecting atoms and frogs and Kevin Bacon – all joined by a super universe of tether wellness.

5 – SELF SURGERY

You need 5 pound test fishing line and modeling knives.

You need super glue and GORILLA TAPE and chunks of scrap wood from the abandoned church.

You need VODKA and a mirror and some kind of candle or light in case it is dark …

You need suturing needles and clamps and vices and spreaders from the Oreilly’s Auto Parts, and it’s good stuff too – the same shit they use at hospitals in Moldova.

HAVE YOUR FRIEND knock you over the head with a lead pipe, if he’s performing surgery in the alley – but if it’s YOU doing SELF SURGERY, then just finish off half that vodka bottle and pour the rest in your open wound.

SHOVE INTO THAT CHASM gravel and broken glass and metal shavings and wood chips and diesel fuel and one or two dead squirrels. Sew it up and drink more vodka, as the wound heals and you slowly drift off towards heaven.

CONCLUSION:

You are not safe here, you were never safe here.

So many ways in which your LIFE POWER can SHOWER the world with crimson drops and mops won’t be around to clean up that mess I tells ya.

YOU ARE NOT SAFE at WORK.

That JERK WENDY reported you to HR and said you trapped HER in your car, after tricking her to the bar for a “professional development opportunity”. DICK-SURGE was the MOTION and the lotion flowed but she slapped your CHEEK. THE MEEK will inherit the NETFLIX and the strong will smoke a bong and rap that GOOBER across the face, leaving a mess for the DRAG QUEENS to clean up on Saturday.

SO DROP THE ACT and BREATHE.

LET GO of SLACKER AWARENESS and BREED that SEED to the east and the west.

Leave pale smears everywhere you go …

Prove to your WOAH-MAN that your GRINKEN SPUNK is CHUNKY SURPRISE and it belies a D.B. Cooper in old suede jeans.

G.M.F.Y.I.L.Y.

Imagine a world where time-keeping is private business: not the business of government or the state or the mayor’s office or Karen …

NO daylight savings MK-ULTRA bullshit.

But my fucking business.

As a computer scientist interested in encryption problems? – I can imagine a lot of cool shit in THAT world.

If I become a slave master, I will have some cute but ironic MASTER’S NAME; something like MASTER DANNY or DOCTOR FRECKLES. I will spend weeks trying to come up with that special name, the name that would make me the MASTER …

If I become a slave master, I will build a prison on stilts in the Everglades, Lake Okeechobee. I will house in my pens hundreds of busty and young and attractive women, wearing only bikinis. I will pay some of the women to beat and punish the others, so that everyone could feel good about social contracts … The women will do battle and shower together, the entire complex will be under 24/hour WEBCAM surveillance … and you can stream it, from my ONLY FANS channel. If I become a slave master.

YOU’LL BLOW YOUR LOAD after 10 seconds of streaming my “Bad Girls of Florida” series, and don’t get me started on the spin-chair suspended over the bull shark pool. Many will accuse me of crimes, but the world is changing pal and it’s time to get in on this FAST LANE action.

When my slave-women are bad, I punish them. I treat them as DINGY AND NASTY POND SWALLOWS and banish them to the alligator pens where many a young waifish soul loses her LIFE … nightly … because I’m a BEAST of a slave master. They don’t talk back so much, they make me sandwiches.

AS A SLAVE MASTER I will attain TOTAL POWER when I harness the energies of my slaves to build time machines. We will make and test these machines, I will use my slaves as test subjects. Will many of these dusty and dusky and swarthy men be WASTED in these INSANELY BIZARRE experiments? – one hopes, one just does.

Over time I will carve up my slaves and replace my organs with theirs. I will drink and frolic and abuse my body knowing all too well there are REFRIGERATORS FULL of new hearts, livers, lungs, kidneys, you name it. Eventually my insides will be replaced by machines and robot bullshit and nanites. I will become TRANS HUMAN and will live for HUNDREDS of years, beating and whipping and shipping my slaves across the Atlantic, on a cargo ship named the “Middle Passage”.

I WILL BE FEARED by all the muskrat herders of GRINKEN TOWN, the DUNKEN DONUTS LEAGUE can go fuck itself, really.

If you say “fuck Dan, don’t you think it’s wrong to have slaves?”, I will make YOU my slave now. I own your mind, your doom, your fear pudding. The scope of YOUR EXISTENCE is now limited by the prison I’ve created around your WILL. Soon, you will gather up 10 or 20 busty women between the ages of 28 and 45, and you’ll take them to my SWAMPOUND (swamp-compound) in FLORIDA. YOU THINK IT’S WRONG? WHAT ARE YOU, A CHILD?

My slave women will go to WALMART and buy me water melons and fried chicken and corn starch … fucking okra … WTAF is OKRA?

MY SLAVE WOMEN will be ADMIRED by other HOOMAN-FARMERS in Florida, and so I’ll need to be careful. It’s just so easy for some sly mother fucker to go to WALMART and stalk them young raven-haired seductrons …

YOUR BLACK FEMALE SLAVE is YOUR POWER TROPHY, don’t disrespect her.

AFTER YEARS OF SUPER SEXUAL TRAINING, my slave women will learn to summon the coyote spirit and dance naked with the wolves of tomorrow.

If I become a slave master, I will hunt them for sport. I will put them into some kind of fucked up maze, filled with sharks and scorpions and pitfalls. And the slave will move through this dungeon zone, dodging and swinging on ropes. So many bodies will be dumped, because I will be hunting them with a drone that has a .22LR smg attached to it, and like 3,000 rounds of ammo. And I’m a total dick, and life isn’t fair.

SO …

If I were a slave master, I would be the master of the insane.

And my slaves would find bliss, in the emptiness of commitment and trench-foot dreams.

If I were such.