"GRAVY FOR YOUR BRAIN!" – Conspiracy Theory (1997)
THIS IS HORGEN FRIED STEAK, as if you could travel through mother Earth’s meat tube and find the wagyu exit out there, some place. These are factually specific related reports of stuff and EVENTS that can only be verified using super atomic laser micrometers and busty strippers named “Jade” and “Chastity” … they’re next up on stage BITCH.
WHETHER THESE WRITINGS ARE RELATED TO ANYTHING OR BOBLIMPTOCK.COM IS UP TO THE MOTHER FUCKERS BUILDING FUTURE ROBOT SEX BANDITS.
METASTOPIAN: when your mind melts like refried metal shavings taco surprise and it’s FRIDAY NIGHT PIZZA ROLL PARADISE, and you live alone … and even your cat doesn’t like you.
METASTOPIA: this overturning churning charnel house of bitter pill wipe-outs and upside-down surfer hotels where nothing figures for the figuring, and you are abandoned by GOD.
MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20250802_METASTOPIAN.mp3
Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles
I am from the secret space program: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=22278
How: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=22269
Drop shipping: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=22266
Guardians of your own pain: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=22263
They don’t care: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=22252
I was rat-dipped into the secret surprise space project ALPHA in 1957, when I was MINUS THIRTEEN years old. I was equipped with particle beam straight razors and master-pant pillowcase parachute magic. My own DORB-BUSTRESS massages my guzz-pipe and leaves me ready for time travel.
I could spare you the details of INVERSE CAUSALITY gas and the adjustments to your spine and groin, all of this the TIME MASTERS demand. YOU SPREAD A NEW ASS PAN PHILOSOPHY, but instead you are locked in desperate battle, for hundreds of years, as a mind-scraping living detached in giant super battle cruisers. All fighting for the water fields of the KUIPER BELT and the OORT CLOUD and the SHEDD’S SPREAD COUNTRY CROCK.
On my first mission, after a 60 year journey to DORMUS-PRIME, I battled the 99 thryblick-blunt monks, who guarded the sacred bathing pools of Roonia. In them there pools, busty women would rub musk-oil on their big old titties all day long while periodically rubbing their boovulas. After hours of battle, I was nursed back to health by these scantily clad jizz-waifs … and after a few days of “hide the torpedo”, I jetted back to our star base on the MOON of YURG.
AFTER THE BATTLE OF TWO STARS, our cruiser the SSP VALKYRIE was missile attacked by the SPACE MEXICANS of the TACO NEBULA. These MONSTERS used HIGH FRUCTOSE neutronium core slime to cover their poop chute battery chargers. We couldn’t find them, in the dark they looked like our broken selves and the robots drew lots to carve up their sandwiches. Our space dogs were let loose upon those FREAKS, and after days of endless chase we forced them down the BLACK HOLE of CALCUTTA, to contend with rape gangs and street food covered in fecal matter.
I got shoved into a dimension once, while patrolling alone in a ME-163Z or ZED for “time skipper”. I was sent back in time to give Hitler’s girlfriend genital crabs, when a MICRO BURST of GAMMA RAYS from a nearby pulsar shoved my photonic rage goo out of this multi-present reality into another even lamer fucking timeline. There was no coffee or beer or whiskey or wine … there was no music … there were no smiles, only gray faced demon slaves staring gormlessly at glowing rectangles … and then I realized … “no, I’m back home” … my slippage into a dimensional ass crack provided me with an ideal kind of crab souffle for the FUHRER … and that ass crab buffet would keep on giving, even after he escaped to Argentina.
As a SPACE TROOPER of the 23rd RANK, my job was to combat the disillusionment and broken-heart’d cave-ladies that lived in COSMIC-ZONE 21. I’d swagger on in from the long day toasting morge-gorders, and the women would be talking about waxing their nasty bits and pulling cord-lard from the chasm sept where many a journeyman monk priest would leave their white-chowder, I tells ya …
But it wasn’t all fun and games …
Soon, STARG-VERGON NAVIES from the GOOBLIZ GALAXY would align themselves with the witches of T’yrg. After many decades of battle, our secret star fleet was reduced to just a few MASTER CLASS STAR CORSAIRS … but we were low on stoghix-fuel and the hooker robots no longer pleasured us …
So many more stories to come …
About the secret space program and my part in it.
times coming …
they don’t care
when the YORGEN-DWELLERS will rise up out of their mist caves, carrying pipe and bat and pillowcases filled with rocks …
there are millions of these disheveled freaks …
hunter-eagles scarred by hornet-fire …
they don’t care how many rounds you have
I saw the SEVEN SPIRITS dancing near the ancient urn.
There were cherry picked maidens carrying axes and waxes for baking the siren pie.
MOD TYPE Bergen-Yanks, stinking of whiskey and burnt offerings, take their time looking for your honey bee codex and the lost angel tantrums.
I could see the coming demon army.
Covered in grifter-sweat and hungry faced malcontents wielding the MOLOTOV DRINK and ridden with Danish mold pastries.
There were 2 kings standing apart on a hill, the last born sent them a message:
“Stay long in the woods before morning.”
THEY DON’T CARE about your ANGRY EYES and your wife’s smelly cooch.
They are hungry and tired and strung out.
For every box of ammo you have there are 500 of them.
For every hour you can stay awake there are 2,000 of them.
Your family is hidden in the dragon swamp.
think now
I am not your friend.
I am your nightmare.
I am the FIST of ULTIMATE FURY coming at you with dangerous glances and legs of iron.
My trash burden is your YEARNING for Yul Brynner getaways with your “sideways Debra” and her luscious things.
You have GENITAL CRABS.
YOU ARE DONE
THEY WILL ATTACK IN WAVES!
After the 6th wave you will be eating toilet bacon, and watching the fires burn in the distance.
Your water will turn brown and fetid.
Your woman will dream of stinky-cheese heroes and her eyes will turn to the sun.
You have been abandoned by dogs.
I don’t like it when the “happy adventurers” during some post-apocalyptic WOKE ASS butt show go around “helping” people … ???
WTAF …
You lure them into death traps …
You harvest their skuzz oil and make the women your wonder slaves …
You have an entire paddock 4-this.
It’s always some KUNG-FU bullshit where the “traveler” provides wisdom and protection to some waifish minx or her harlot lover covered in spazz grease and dead catfish.
Your BODY is a party magnet, and your world just unfurled as the merchants sell the wares …
Loss, endings.
all the women I groove with have OF accounts …
they splay their vitals while ungunjoolating their boovulas with discus snacks and gerbil perspiration …
Yellow volleys of guzz-wax come rolling out, as the OH-FACE gives way to toxic razor mash …
The GASH always wins pal.
I hate going out in public, time is so close …
you can smell the muttering despair
the worst part for me is seeing the seething toil of the growing swoil, the insolent mass of tottering toil …
a boil that must be lanced
not by CHAD, but a RAD BRAD with an old flame thrower
TAKE YOUR TORPEDO LIFE AND FLUSH IT MAN
(that’s what I feel like out in public)
THEIR LACK OF CONCERN BURNS HOLES in your CHEST!
They don’t care …
They don’t worry …
They’re in a HURRY to NOWHERE VILLE man … like ROBOT JAPAN for Barbara Streisand …
(is that her real name? – I don’t think so)
There’s more to this …
There’s a LORD HOGIS that runs the storm drains. He’s in charge of barley distribution and hog slaughtering and the Ne’er-do-wells rounding up HARLEY CONCERT BASKETS for hookers and arrant knights looking to PARTY HARDY with PAM JARDEE and her naughty nurse patrol.
I feed it.
I feed the soul pain.
they don’t care … never ever
I like raw dogging the skog-chasm “West Virginia Ferry Master” style …
they still don’t care
I currently inhabit 87 different segments of the multi-present … I just fucked Farah Faucett in 1976 … gonna go fuck Tedra Owen, in 2033 … you don’t know … I do …
voted biggest natural boobs 2032 …
very few people care
I believe you live in a nutt monkey squalor with 4 wives and 3 lives and chives for your onion and coyote-cheese soup …
I believe you met with Johnny Carson to map out the multi-dimensional invasion plans of JERSEY CITY and Pittsburgh …
Nomad rangers will die brutally now.
… but they don’t care …
Wanna know MY super power that makes ME special?
I can remote view anyone, anywhere …
I see you when you poop …
I know how greedy you are with that toilet paper …
I saw what you just did … you turned on the sink but didn’t wash your hands, so your gf think you did … but you didn’t …
she’s been banging your friend PAUL when she says she’s going to HOT YOGA … oh yeah … it’s HOT …
and so little concern from the uncaring barbarians of sector-0003-bravo …
I can remote view you pooping and peeing on the toilet. That nasty throne surrounded by brownish meal-crabs and lizard toe frosting … a urinal cake surprise.
And yeah … you just left a MESS on that toilet at the bar …
(you not gonna clean it up dirty bird)
THE METASTOPIA HAS ARRIVED …
bring forth the gird-nerdlers and the waffle house matrons …
bring the mead of time …
whether Boblimptock is or is not, we shall no longer care …
My manifesto is done, and though I could do rewrites and new editions, I will not …
I will TOSS all my pink slime surprise into a new and final category … it has no relevance …
but I choose to see the dark chaos as a friend named Mr. Chuckles-McGrew, a giant tabby cat …
He is my tabby cat friend …
He is the “LOOK AT ME … LOOK AT ME … I AM THE CAPTAIN NOW” spirit leader.
