Month: February 2023

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What humans do …

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230228_What_humans_do.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

Your job as a human is to gather resources and technology. You want to get yourself a cave someplace, and make a super hero uniform out of Kevlar and steel and various leathers from long dead animals. You should make a list of enemies that will be wiped out, and you can never have a healthy relationship … too much trauma, pain. Better to live out your days, walking the streets, beating your enemies to a pulp. That’s your job as a human.

As a human you should become an expert in the use of fire. You will use the flame to cook and to heat and to forge axes and swords. You will erect a lighthouse, not far from the Eastern Lands, that will usher in the worn out sailors and hookers and crab queens. You should do it.

Humans are porn stars and greasy. You can’t trust them, their sly ways, their TV dinners, that little packet in the bottle that say’s “DON’T EAT”, but why would they tell you this? Maybe you’re supposed to eat it, maybe BIG BOTTLE doesn’t want you to achieve total enlightenment. Your body is a sewer, so drink bottles of gasoline and milk and liquid PCP. Frame your existence in terms of “in and out” or “who’s your daddy” – and grab that wench woman, and make 12 monkey babies … that’s what humans do.

You can eat cupcakes made from cricket flour with frosting made of mashed stink beetles. Your bloody stool will be that reminder, that memento mori, the knowing that your own ass case is a festering, walking, wound of dark oils and forbidden poop dragons. People can live in a pod that is 100 square feet, and be happy – with a tube sewn to their mouth and one sewn onto their anus. Your human life will sojourn in mediocre lands, where testicle pizza is sold by Mexicans, just off the freeway. This is a very human thing to do.

You’re stuck on the road in your Corolla, and the hipster man from Bellevue tries to pass you on the shoulder. He zips by, as mud washes your car – that guy HAD to drive through the puddle. He flipped you off and called you mangy. You decide to follow that guy back to Belltown. You see him walk into one of those new thai-turkey-german fusion places where everyone is wearing denim and silk and lost in a micro-dose haze. You follow the guy into the john, and stand at the urinal next to him – but you don’t pull down your pants. You just stand there, humming some crappy song from an older age of cowboys and mass graves. And when he is finished, you follow him out the door, almost to his car … you stare blankly, not at HIM, but at the weird lights over Queen Anne Hill. And this is really just what people type mother fuckers do …

You get lost, looking for a path. Candy wrapper salesman run the place, and all you have are firecracker peanuts and a couple of call girls’ numbers you can dial … if you’re feeling lonely, right? But there’s this voice that whispers terrible ideas, murder and stealing and cutting up folks with a rusty fishing knife and a rotten attitude. You buy canned food and frozen dinners, because that’s the shape of your heart – and you won’t stop being the LORD KING of East S’compton, cuz nobody is going to push you or threaten you – you are in charge. And, being in charge is very much a part of life …

A human builds a laser cannon and fires it at the stars. He or she or it decides to point that damnable thing at some nearby star system, Quodis-445 – and in that system there is an Earth-like planet named JED. You point that light beam at JED, and you send people there. You travel, on a light beam, at 900 times the speed of a dog, you travel on a light beam at 600 times the speed of a cow. You travel on a light beam and that’s a very human thing to do.

Humans dump bodies.

When I was a kid my parents would talk about stuff “going down the tubes”, and at the time I did not realize that in their day you had these networks of large tubes, you would just dump bodies into … and don’t ask too many questions. Grandma dies? – toss her down the tube. Your hooker lover? – toss her in the tubes.

Humans are afraid to dump bodies, but they need not be.

We can start dumping bodies again, and sort out our shit.

That’s what humans do …

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DUTCH MASTER SCREEGOL (Lords of Boblimptock)

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230228_Dutch_Master_Screegol.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

File under: homeless and poor are garbage

Link: https://www.wvlt.tv/2023/02/23/i-am-going-die-kpd-releases-body-camera-footage-incident-involving-in-custody-death/

Dutch Master Screegol

“Dutch Master Screegol, he flies like an eagle, he lives with a beagle named Burney Malone …”

Old Screegol stakes out the hide’y hole behind the CHEVRON station, across from your favorite CHAI-LATTE paradise bar. He usually carries a cardboard sign and stands the corner near the off ramp, at rush hour, hoping some fucker will give him 20 bucks for some liquor and smokes.

You’d say he was a stink demon, and his face was burly-brown like those freaks that hunt panther in Florida. But Screegol, or Screeg as his friends called him, was no common STREET-ROACH just roaming from one cripple ground to another – as the Jenkin’s Volk make banners from skin …

There was a time when it was just him, and Bob, and the old Vietnam Vet, “Symptomatic Nerve Gas”, and they owned the off ramp and the coffee shop parking lot and the theater crowd. They could live off of a few bucks from kind souls, weird figures of regret, running from dead hookers and whiskey cocaine club girls. These well dress gentle folk, fearing disease and truth, would just toss a fifty at you and run for their TESLA.

Screeg had a woman named Dez. She was hard and grizzly and filled with spice. She wore an old messed up wedding dress, covered in vomit and blood stains, and she still had the veil. Dez would whore herself out to truckers at the Flying J, and then link back up with Screeg, later.

“Dutch Master Screegol, his mind is illegal, the cops fed him seagull and he got really sick …”

The streets were harder than ever before. A new crowd of drifters were everywhere – young and mean and high on meth. Ready to cut someone up and use their body to fuel PURE RED DESIRE. These were the honey pot cowboys, snaking old fetter-friends and geezers and dumping bodies at the construction sites around town, while the cement is still wet.

“No more free chicken”, whispered Dez. She’d end the day handing out blow jobs near the Popeye’s off of 33rd Street, not far from the old abandoned slaughter house. They dumped their chicken at night, and it meant a lot of food and protein. They’d eat chicken and drink mad dog.

Screeg and Dez got arrested, the prisons and jails were full so cops had a chance to invoke RULE-222 … the state recently passed a law that gave cops the power to dispense INSTANT JUSTICE, and the fine people of middle class suburban land didn’t care, because their kids were pill heads and their world was imploding. The cops locked Screeg and Dez in one of the overflow sewers near the harbor. If the tides were too high, or there was storm surge, Screeg and Dez would drown – and nobody cared, and nobody was saved.

While Screeg was locked and chained in that sewer, the cops would come by and feed him “lunch” – Dez and Screeg, a stew the cops made, it was cold and oily and smelled like the wharf. There were ground up seagulls in that mash, and Dez got sick, and Screeg got really sick – they both began barfing up blood. The cops let them go after a week, Screeg wondered if it would have been better if those pigs had just let them die.

“Dutch Master Screegol, he lives like a rat, his wife and him suckle the whim and eat dead cat …”

Dez knew the cops that had kidnapped them, they would get their tubes cleaned at the Popeye’s every afternoon. Screeg had found a butcher knife, tossed by Panera’s, and it was sharp and strong and straight. Screeg practiced with that knife, he set up some wood on a busted sofa in the alley … and he’d stab the wood, over and over … angrier and angrier. His mind was on fire from fever and sadness. “Those cops think we’re garbage”, and Screeg was gonna show them.

Dez told a tale to the fat cop, Todd, and let him know that a real sweet hooker party was happening not far from the CHEVRON off of 33rd. Todd was a swaggering beast – fat and oddly muscular, juicing, shooting up human growth hormone in a cocktail of PCP and mescaline. The cops showed up at the location, Dez was there, along with her gal friend Marla.

The cops started rubbing their crotches and two women stripped down to reveal their emaciated and needle track ridden bodies, and SCREEG was hiding behind the dumpster, knife in hand, body trembling from infections, parasites, from eating those shitty seagulls. Once he saw that the men were in deep and riding the pony, he crept up behind Todd and stabbed him in the brain stem, and old Marine vet taught Screeg that trick.

The other cop, Fred, was startled and tried to pull his rancid cock from Dez’s boovula, but Dez wrapped her legs around that shit head and Screeg cut his throat like the pig he was – and the pigs lay on the ground, shaking, bleeding, pleading for their wretched lives. Dez and Screeg got their shit together and moved on …

They, Dez and Screeg, had just enough money for two bus tickets to S’compton, and there was real hope in S’compton, jobs maybe, maybe housing, maybe … they both knew it was a long shot, but they couldn’t stay in this dark city and this was there last chance, perhaps, of getting clean and getting gone. So they boarded their bus, and they sat calmly, together, loosely holding the world and tightly holding each other’s hands.

“Screeg and Dez found a knife, Screeg and Dez took a life, they dumped the body at the pier and they have nothing left to fear …”

https://youtube.com/watch?v=KLRATOEse7E
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I wish …

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230226_I_WISH.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

I wish doctors could prescribe drugs over CB radio. I’ve had sleeping issues since my surgery, and I could use some Ambien or Fentanyl or a combo of ambien-fentanyl-adderal that the formulary dude can make just for me fucker … then I could sleep walk my way into fame and fortune, being chased by cops and those old fashioned hookers that hide guns in their underwear.

I wish I could find a passionate outlet for my weaving and baking and drinking. I would find some milk maiden, busty and luscious, selling her butter down by the abandoned theater …

They don’t show no movies no more, and everyone has claxes disease because the dogs keep dying.

I wish I hadn’t done that thing I did …

It was a hot summer and the jungle was drenched with scrib-mist and human-stryg gas. The natives were sharpening sticks and preparing to roast long pig – and it was me or that other guy …

And I didn’t want to end up as RED muck stool.

I wish I’d been a more gentle and sensitive lover. How often I’d touch her, coarsely, my hands covered in scars and dried scabs and pain. And she’d whimper under my gaze, as the meadow-leaches sucked away her stringus-juice, and she moaned for luxurious relief, but none is found.

I wish I could ride the wire pony, taking tree-baths with the 8 minstrels of C’lept, as we harkon back to strange weird times of heroin dreams and broken glass time shares. I could find my heart in the blasted furnace and seek grain offerings for Zed the Lemur King, all knowing.

I wish the world could be filled with love. All the birds could sing some common song of peace and connection and mindfulness bullshit …

I wish all the ZEN monks would load up into some fucking AN-2 COLT ARMADA … and we can just take pot shots at these fuckers with .50 cal.

I wish I could find all my lost children. I wish I could find those kids, I left behind, in all those places.

I was bad …

I’d do my business on that gas station toilet seat …

Knowing, fully, that some trans-curious female would sit down, in her tom-boy clothes, and get it.

I have my own hooker children, all around the globe. They are the result of my toilet seat surprise. These women got pregnant, some thought it was a miracle event – but alas, no. I was leaving something special on the unisex toilet seat, something greasy and alive with GOLD FIRE!

I wish I could have my lover, Brenda, back again. We used to hustle miracle whip shots from CARL at the shelter. We’d drink piss-nod juice and play “grab a wang” behind the Denny’s off of Blimpton St., not far from where those baptists were killed last year. This is my WILL!

I wish I could get back those years of shooting up heroin and KROKODIL and liquid meth. I would sit on that park bench, across from the community college, and just shove that poison into my broken soul. I’d drain wound into the gutter, and watch the songbirds fly way, to FRANCE.

I wish my old FORD pickup still ran. It just sits on blocks at my ex-girlfriend’s parent’s foster kid’s farm. They don’t care, they set fire to it and fire guns at it. But that pickup was my only connection to the past, and without it my heart breaks. Can you IMAGINE THAT? BRO?

This wishing game gets old …

Newer wishes piled on old ones, worthless and weightless regrets to unfold …

Our inner child setting fire to buildings …

Our mistress lays naked, waiting for our male power juice-pipe love making routine …

A dangerous flame called WISHING!

We were candle makers once …

And drovers …

We raised crops and ate the silent flesh of dark autumn. Our women wore torn dresses and our men strode shirtless, carrying bats and chain and white lightning rage.

Our game was ONLINE and we won those points …

And she was MINE.

No telling where we would end up after all this hopeful, wishful, striving. We would build pyramids in honor of STYGIAN RAIL MEN and the LADIES of SCOMPTON that feed on weed butter and careless dainties …

There would be a NEW FORM in this wishful crap.

We would dream ON!

I wish …

I wish and wonder and dream …

I conceive of a self that stands tall against crap monsters and globe trotting BLOB CREEPS.

I feed on your fearful wonder because you know your hooker wife is cheating on you with Joe, the money guy …

I wish you luck mother fucker.

I can bring you safely home, once the night turns black and the coyote sing. I can provide a cougar style cave life, with all the SEX OILS and tools of seduction.

I can build a world within a world for your desire fetish, and I can hunt the old otter flesh to keep you horny.

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SPECIAL

– a lot of people believe this is a “special” time, and therefore they don’t need to worry about food/water/shelter any longer

– a lot of people think THEY are special, and somehow the rules of logic, nature, the universe, don’t apply

(a lot of people are going to get a shock)

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How many times?

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230225_How_many_times.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

How many times will you hunt the flesh of the world?

How many times will you lie trembling in your own gooey minctus?

How many women will turn on you and leave you begging for mercy?

How many time worms will wriggle in your belly seeking escape, but you are the eternal seal and you won’t allow ANY TIME to change until the time comes?

How many times will I venture into the spirit mind, while observing nothing and being wrought by that terrible inner pain and existential gastric infection?

How many times will I fall in love with a hooker style lover, only to be dumped someplace … with only a terribly incurable genital crabs infection as a persistent and unholy reminder?

How many times will the water fall from the waterfall until the water is gone and we’re falling for fake water being sold by the fallen ones? Fallen angels selling us fake water, what shit heads …

How many wars will be waged? Will we writhe as mud bunnies in the forbidden zone? Eating rat pastry and watching our gums bleed? Infatuated with the END of TIMES, instead of living with the greasy green sprouts of woolly headed thinkery and coke head optimism?

How many urinal cakes must I eat? Will I forever wander from one CIRCLE K bathroom to the next, looking for that tasty, waxy, nasty thing, blended in the patina of urine coarseness and fast-time love making doing it trucker style in the alley?

How many times will I watch some NETFLIX SYFY FANTASY limited SERIES, produced, ostensibly, by some NORDIC CRAP HEAD, but with English dubbing that sort of works, and it avoids being labeled CHING-CHONG racist BECAUSE of the surreal nature of the plot and how it’s confusing? FUCK THIS BULLSHIT MAN … (fuck it)

How many times will I lay awake, frustrated with the gods, seeking a kind of SOUL VENGEANCE that is only allowed to true warriors of the KIEFTAN-KLAN that hunt the old beasts near the ravine where you dumped the body of that hooker last Summer, and your dog told you to do it?

How many times will they shut off the electricity, based on the reasoning that I can’t pay and I don’t have no job for the simple fact that I stole money from the owner of the restaurant while she was wrapped around my man pipe in the lady’s room and it felt bad and rough, sandy?

How many times will fuckers say “good morning”? Are you afraid of the NIGHT? Do you not SENSE the coming dawn, ripe with dark and greasy demons, all of which are there to hector you, down the street of failure, until there is NOTHING LEFT INSIDE except “good fucking morning”?

How many times will my lover shove potatoes up my butt? Does she know this is hurtful? Does she know that I have feelings? I could have taken that job, hunting wild grizzly, eating and foraging off the scraps of broken worlds? But YOU are my tormenter MISS POTATO HEAD, and why?

How many times will I be chased down the streets by mobs of angry villagers, upset that I ate all their chickens and stole all their eggs and live like a hairy wild man making love in their fields to busty ladies with little regard for vaginal cleanliness or KETO STYLE PALEO diets?

HOW MUCH WATER, REALLY, GOD? Why must I keep drinking it? I drink some, I think I’m done, and then I’m thirsty again? Who thought up this bullshit? Why must I keep drinking water, is there no end to this madness that eats on me like some untreated STD in my groin, leaving sadness?

How many times do I have to stand there and listen to her talk talk talk about CANNING? Putting carrots in jars and meat in jars? Preparing preserves of apple and strawberry and jizzum? I can go kill some guy and feel better about it than all this “let’s put shit in jars” wastoid witch beast … tired of it.

How many MORE FUCKING TIMES will the aliens show up at 2 AM, all “smiley and grey”, to shove a metal probe up my anus? And for WHAT? SCIENCE? Are they the dumb aliens that build star ships but also have a keen entrance in the shit tunnel? Come on, it hurts down there from rape.

How many screams will be heard once the great SASQUATCH-POCALYPSE begins? Will those grand beasts, 12 feet tall, come streaming out of the hills to ravage our busty women and steal our craft beer and catalytic converters? And what will come of this, once the wookie is finished?

How many more MEMES about DODDERING OLD PRESIDENTS falling down stairs and then going crazy and taking on the flavor of human stink flesh as the tasty obsession that drives that old shit head to hunt long pig on the streets of WA DC while the secret service helps him with this?

How many YEARS until the sky turns black as blood in the darkness? How many YEARS until the sky hawk shaman brings back the light and cures the crotch rot in our hearts? How many measly pieces of jingo-fries do we get at dinner if we finish eating the monkey-pigs and gerbils?

How many drinks of whiskey in that nasty bar off of Grinken AVE, where your MAIN SQUEEZE hooked up with Larry and went back to his apartment so that he could ream her rightly? And you’re left drinking Wild Turkey, alone, with the stink of cigarettes and stale beer about, salty?

How many times will people create new ONLINE DATING accounts, only to be fooled by the first or second “wow, you look cute” message, before the fees kick in, and you know she says she lives a 3 day drive away, but she really cares and thinks it would be great if you could meet?

How many more monkey-people must die before the 12th KOOP WAR ends and all the last jizz-priests completed their forsaking of wave-oils and meat-nuggets? But you’re too slow, and the killer whale bites off your nuts so you can’t just drive to Burger King and get some chili now?

How many times must I explain to people that I don’t really BELIEVE in ALIENS, and if you are being visited, late at night, by some “being”, a being that seems to have a purpose around raping your butt hole, that it’s RAPE and it’s a DEMON and it’s not cool man? (it hurts there)

How is it we are still here, breathing? Should we not be stuck in that strange zone of forgetful bliss sauce? Are we not the HORNET EMPERORS that once ruled over the deserted shire, once the shit princess gave up her amulet and all the orcs set about impregnating her poop chute?

And is it not our fate to be beaten, like the old time’y black and white style take downs? Where Humphrey Bogart pulls out his 1911 and pistol whips you until your face is mashed in and there are brains all strewn about, but he don’t care because he finished an 8 ball of coke?

Whilst we delve so deeply into the font of DESPAIR, that our only escape is to brew KROKODIL with Tracey, once she gets off her shift at the strip club, and you don’t ask her about that whitish goo, on her bra, because that’s not “the basis of a trusting relationship”, buddy boy.

HOW MANY TIMES … I ask, DEAR LORD … must I sit here, with my sores and scabies? Will I lance the boil with this dirty steak knife, and smell the pus once it’s done? Can there be a greater HELL than that ditch we dig for ourselves and our dying stripper wives? Do you feel me?

And this is it …

The nature of time …

The infinite complaint …

A forever kiss from a pale skinned mistress, as she lay there, all swollen and frosty, looking for loin grease to sally forth and warm the cudgels of your heart.

Time is a WHORE named Sheila, she has crabs.