Category: Boblimptock

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There’s a mystery in Sector-19

Something weird is going on in Sector-19, something scary.

We’re sending out forces to investigate, but already we are receiving reports of “Wisconsin type love making” among the groblon-herders and there are concerns that the color-breasted harvel-wolves will go mad and attack random farmers planting corn.

Stories of migration and shaking, as if the Temple of the Dead Spirit has split in two and the last soldiers were killed in Scompton. No one knows why the monkey-sauce restaurants have stopped serving Danish people, or why the last Earl of Sweden is hungover and near dead in Stockholm. Xenii musketeers shower lead upon the rampart, but we’re still not sure how many “hairy Karens” are left roving those greasy streets.

We’re sending scientists and sorcerers and witches to the center of this thing. They’ll travel in tunneling ships and hoor-barges and by hyper-tube. Their equipment will be the latest in REI survival ware, with various bloob-guns and hex-grenades and a few of them “bouncing Betty’s” the kids keep talking on about. The scientists will keep notes and sketches, harboring fears of the Bishop Cycle, and the other star travelers from Mars. They’ll send word soon, and then that dread mystery will be solved.

Some people fear it’s about that new BUTT VIRUS that’s crawling up the pipes …

Sector-19 has had out of control roach-scurbing and bubbly body wash victory soap. There are dead henkel-birds all across the roads and muskrat trackers are getting lost in the subways, stepping on needles, doing the “blues” and then jumping into the train. Can’t be sure about the snake venom treatments, some people are drinking bleach mixed with sand and glass in order to expel their personal demons. Sector-19 is falling apart.

Gord-forgers, unleashing New Zealand bee-pollen bull testicle extract MAGIC, will lead the Uug-Too Tribe beyond the edge of infinity. There will be strange demons along the way, and huntress widows and old clasping freaks. The crab will settle upon the mud, as Seeg-Ruun builds his palace upon the golden mountain. But this will give way to transcendence, and Sector-19 will find peace.

(something from 2018)

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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?”