Category: Boblimptock

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)

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)

[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?”

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.