Imagine Friederich Nietzsche, Charles Bukowski, and H.P. Lovecraft were travelling in separate star ships travelling 77 times the speed of light to the same location such that they will all collide.
And then imagine they are all making love to their own version of Scarlett Johansson and fertilizing the egg as a side effect of relativity (fuck you).???
And all those fertilized eggs fused on collision and pushed this new being into some random woman’s vagina in Skagit Valley WA.
That would be me …
Friederich Lovekowski …
Nobody wants that person over for dinner.
I’m the Jean Claude Van Damme of distributive nihilistic dissolution …
with ghost pepper hyper sauce.
And it gives you bloody stool, and heartburn and anger.
Nobody wants that for dinner, over for dinner, or to serve man.
I’m so tired of people asking me where “S’compton” is … you nasty FUCK. It’s that place in the heart where the fuel kings keep time and the old whiskey warden watches as inmates prepare seal wine and Kriispur-steak. Those people bake bread from street bones and make raccoon pudding. They drink the milk of eagles and owls and harvest the nag-weed from off the reservation. Yeah – those people, us, we, we’re the kinda folk you don’t touch because we’re greasy and smelly and we’ll take you for a ride. You don’t have the stomach to spend time in S’compton … yet … but time’s coming brother, time’s await’n sister … time is a tall snake in a nice suit looking askance at your snail shoes and ready to POUNCE.
So stop asking me about that fucker … I’m tired.
I’m so tired of people asking me about GRINKEN TIME. If you knew you know, and if you don’t you’re a misled little shit turd heading down south to Guatemala on a trash donkey. YOU FUCKING SHIT HEAD! This is the time of year when the last of the woodland wench widows streaves-herself and prepares her boovula for conguanalation – the ultimate act of complete sexual oneness with all life and creatures. At this moment, Lop-nuns hand out dynamite to the kids, so they can have fun too … all the kids and dogs and adults wander the land, in search of tired old hobos and other bums, and beat them senselessly so that all lessons are taught.
But you ask me about Grinken Time again and I’ll bust that beer bottle in your FAT SMUG FACE …
I’m shit ass shit tired of hearing “what’s Boblimptock Dan, I’m confused” … I know you’re confused hooker bitch. You sit in your studio apartment in downtown S’compton, drinking your Grinken Time style mint freezee as your boyfriend paints your nails for your next YOUTUBE or TIK TOK video.
I see your lurid dreaming and I watch you at night. My drones are everywhere, in your underwear drawer, in your shower … I have an army of genital crabs heading someplace special, just for you … asking me “WHAT IS BOBLIMPTOCK DAN?”
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHh
I will come to your hole-ledge and steal your monkey-dildo. I will toss old tire wax into your blower, and watch you go all KRAZY … not finding the burning end.
Boblimptock is the soul destroying age when all your fears are loaded into some t-shirt cannon and then fired all directions so that every squirrel and bee can take that pollen oil to the squib-zone of Gaia’s butt crack and achieve total oneness with the dolphin armies of GOONDAH.
Boblimptock is the time when your own cuddle scum mixes to make babies, shit babies. And those shit babies go to public school and learn how to live like shit people. And those shit people take shit jobs and make shit money. And after ALL THIS SHIT HAPPENS, their shit-lords start some shitty nuclear war and all the lands turn to shit. That’s boblimptock too.
Boblimptock is the age of FREAKS. All the freaks rule during boblimptock, and their eyes glow read and green and all fireball like …
The freaks take over all the normie zones west of S’compton …
I was in the midst of rapturous love making, as my mind blew a sklub-valve, and my brain had a micro-aneurysm – I passed out and my hooker-style-lover, Neela, grabbed cash from my wallet and left me there … in my dank room. I went deep into the dark realm of self divided, and my own train world revealed itself not far from S’compton. It kept whispering, this mist, into my ear: “you gotta get back to S’compton, that’s the mystery of the Titanic.” But I didn’t know, how could I? – my body was slowly dying, as I lay on the roach covered bed.
Kevin, my spirit guide, took me 12 miles deep into the CAVE of WONDER, and left me near the Pond of Daring. Out of that wretched subterranean pond crawled an eyeless man-creature called Smeer. Smeer kept the secrets of DIRK PIDD, the last lord of control before the fire-vendors took over the agora. “YOU MUST GO TO GRINKEN ISLAND, BUT BEWARE THE GHOST SHIP TITANIC!” What did I know of Titanic, it was at the bottom of the fucking Atlantic, deep down in all that shit-muck. “DIRK PIDD”? Who the fuck has that name? “I heard Grinken Island was off limits, because of the great Ska epidemic?”
“Sure, it’s off limits … but I can give you the key.”
“The key to what?”
“Dirk Pidd”
So that weird fucking cave person gave me a slimy and nasty shit covered brass key – it was large and dramatically heavy.
I set out on my mind journey, as my body lay there quivering in frustrated mortality.
I found a trading post near the Port of South Reamtown. The reamers were strange folk who traded in squid-bass and whale-possum. The bodies of these nasty things were hung upside down to dry along the docks, the smell covering the harbor like a green fog of cosmic denouement and farcical core meltdown.
“You that FREAK from Jefferson Town?”, an old sea-mite barked at me from down on the wharf. His name was Captain Torr.
“Yeah, I need a boat to take me to Grinken Island.”
“How big’a boat we thinking?”
“One big enough for me, and my gear, and my 22 hooker wives and their gear and the mobile hot-tub and my pocket fisherman …”
“That’s a big party … but I have that boat fer ya I do!”, and at that the funny old sea captain hopped and clicked his heels like some smelly brown leprechaun and led me down to the dock where his boat, The Sea Grizzle, was kept.
After about a day at sea, Captain Torr spotted land …
“That’s Grinken Island YOU FUCK!”, Captain Torr pointed to the horizon, smiling toothless and gormless.
Grinken Island was going to be tricky – too many bats and weasels. A few tribes of those BROWN PEOPLE who we were told, when we were young, are savages and they’ll rape your white women and steal all your craft beer. They were cannibals and roasted your balls with tiger sauce and kestrel bones. These were the scroungiest denizens of this place just south of Hell where even the Devil says, “look hun, let’s keep driving”.
“We’ll moor the vessel off that point, good anchorage for you and your hookers …”
It took a few trips, but I was able to get all my hooker wives ashore with the necessary gear – we built ourselves a fine bivouac near the tree line and started a roaring fire. Upon the tarps and rolled out bear rugs, we ungunjoolated ourselves, rubbing our naked bodies with pine-grease and hector-soot. Berta would allow herself to form the center of the scrunge-tree, and her enormous breasts would heave as the party went on. Our moans and groans filled up the night, and all the forest creatures came for a peek.
The next morning we awoke to the natives, in the distance, playing their infernal drums. My women folks enclasped themselves in scant leather armor and prepared to trek with the gear through the jungle, towards our destination. Constanza, our chief Ho-guard, led our column and her furious posture scared the meanest puma. “Fig-maidens, halt!”, Constanza halted our foray, near the hidden jungle pyramid of H’LUV, where the oil pits of Gilda are located and a known place for busty maidens to strip naked and bathe their bodies in that greasy shit.
At that moment, I awoke …
I was there, on my bed, shaking from some half-ass monkey fever and staring bleakly into the darkness, when that ghost ship showed up …
I had no fucking hooker wives, there was no magical island with savages on it that would do all sorts of things to our white women … and isn’t that kind of racist?
But that terrible ghost ship of the Titanic was headed my way, to steer its way to my pleasure dome and sheer away my heart shield. I could be vulnerable, and let my heart muscle weaken for some tornado squaw from the reservation, she said she would love me and my robot army, but she lied and my brown gub-flub flowed. I filled that porcelain hole, and made the flush, and lit the match for those poor souls who would cum later.
I left the house, dizzy, still suffering from the aneurysm, but that fiery ghost ship kept chasing me. I ran far, to the north, deep into the mountains where the wookie people slept. I could hear the cries of those sea banshees behind me, they chanted this terrible ditty and played tinny instruments as accompaniment.
