Day: October 24, 2024

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20241024_BTANL_CHAPTER_1_HOVERCRAFT.mp3

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

YOU CAN FLOAT ON AIR,
YOU CAN RIDE THIS AIR CAR,
around your HOME ...
around your school ...

It floats on air,
powered by a vacuum cleaner ...

It floats on air,
powered by an electric motor ...

If it needed electric power?
Or some kind of magical SPRITE?
They'd tell you, right?
They'd include those words, amazing.

Infinite energy drive, what a time to be alive.

IT LIFTS 200 POUNDS!
THIS FUCKER LIFTS 200 POUNDS!

You will fly around,
all over town,
your woman will wear a gown,
the old men will frown ...

IT'S YOUR BOY'S LIFE HOVERCRAFT!
It's your key to future bliss!
This one time offer so surprising,
you don't dare miss.

For PLANS AND PHOTOS? - send $4.95 ...
For love and HEROES, give us your coin.
Your loins will flare,
you'll kill a bear,
your daddy WILL SWEAR to never take the ATARI away ...

PITFALL PETE.
PITFALL PETE.
STRUGGLE SO SWEET.
IN A JUNGLE SO WET.
You can bet mother fucker,
good old Pete,
wished he had a hovercraft,
to beat bricks back home,
to beat his meat.

You can float on air.
It lifts 200 pounds.
They'll never hear a sound,
when you sneak up on their BOY'S LIFE LIES.

The skies turn dark,
but you still have time,
for plans and photos,
send four ninety five.

FREE INVENTORS CALENDAR!
It's fun.
It's free.
With order ...

Low COST,
EASY TO BUILD,
YOU CAN'T BE KILLED,
YOU WON'T BE DESTROYED,
YOUR LIFE WILL IMPROVE,
one day you'll find YOUR GROOVE ...
Am I right Pete?

You still swinging Pete?

You still alive?

Or do you live with UNCLE CLIVE,
in HELL ...

Does that ring a bell?

We're going to Hell.

In late 2019 I had a tingler latched to my back, sinking its bug teeth into my spine. It whispered things like “fuck, shit’s about to get real” and “dude, the Lord’s Church will be driven underground soon”. And all of this is in the rear view mirror, as the COSMIC race brings us closer to a photo finish and British underwear models grab their feline spices and leave grease marks on the crescent metal sofa where their “third world guilt” banged them last night. Like that, and it’s fucking annoying, but it’s JUST LIKE THAT.

It reminds me of when I was a kid, at the barbershop with my dad …

In addition to slightly out of date Popular Mechanics and Popular Science, there was always that one ragged copy of Boy’s Life on the table at the barbershop whilst you awaited your trim. You’d flip through and see articles about boys fishing for trout, and starting fires, and the story of “young hero” type bullshit. Some bear was chasing some fucking Holden Caulfield down the dungeon pit of life’s little tragedies, but the boy STOOD up and made a SPEAR, and tossed that wretched thing in the bear’s ear. That boy’s life was saved; Boy’s Life was like that, and more.

If you stayed long enough, looking at those brownish yellow papers, that low quality ink on pulp, you might happen upon an article promising something AMAZING. COME ON: GEN X was RAISED on TANG and APOLLO STYLE BODY ORGIES. We expect the BEST, and our disappointments MOUNT. But back then, we’d look at that beautiful thing, and see in IT the reflection of our true American can-do selves. But that’s the GRIFT. That some kid during the stagflation heydays of the 1970’s might cobble together enough lawn mowing coinage to build some functional HOVERCRAFT … because that’s what they were selling. A hovercraft miracle.

Looking at that space vehicle you could imagine being General Patton, storming the BEACHES, fighting them NAZIs in your HOVERCRAFT DREAM. You might pick up Farah Fawcett and hang out at the WHISKEY BAR listening to the EAGLES play happy sunshine Saturday music bullshit. With that HOVERCRAFT? – the kids would stop making fun of you. Your dad might stop yelling at you. The world might stop calling you fat, and stupid, and a loser … if you had that FUCKING hovercraft. But instead, disappointment.

I think about the waning days of 2019, and out of that misty memory I conjure that demon from my youth, that impossible force, that summertime dream that some wise scheme could bring into existence; “the summer doesn’t end friend”, is what that HOVERCRAFT FANTASY said to me. But the summers must end and we drift deeper into the darkness scrumbo brothers and sisters.

WE ARE THE SCRUMBO, WE ARE THE LIMBO, we are the ones cleaning up after the baggage handler white lightning parties. We MIX DIESEL and BROKEN GLASS and OLD ASS with our sawdust and metal shavings, we are ready to guzzle it down, without a frown, so that the WHOLE TOWN, bejeweled and in gowns, might COME OUT THAT NIGHT and make it a happening. What a sight it would be, if that HOVERCRAFT LIE didn’t die.

THE HOVERCRAFT LIARS are the scourge.

They’ve morphed and sell iPhones now or reverse mortgages, but they’re still out there, grifting, sifting through the landfill of these intemperate masses finding goblets and glasses of tired old wine and Orson Wells’ ghost marking the way to peace. Will this madness ever cease?

They’ve changed into lawyers and voyeurs, glaring at that sticky alley fort life. Taco people wrapped in tarps, sleeping with roaches and rats and earwigs laying eggs in their ears and laying siege to their inhibitions.

I flourished before the time of LIES, when the FRENCH FRIES arrived and Ronald gave everyone a HAPPY meal. We were donuts and cake, we had an EZ bake oven and sold crank to the spiders at the Harley Davidson store. Kennels, filled with waifish bar maidens fed that lust prison and kept us from HIGHER UNDERSTANDING. We were trapped, and unfree – the HOVERCRAFT was a shackle and a hassle and the end of our youthful bliss.

2020 ARRIVED with BLUSTER and BRAVE FEAR.

Every crazed nurse-ape on TWITTER was advising you to MAKE YOUR WAY to the HOSPITAL respirator, for the necessary care of your magic monkey herpes or virus or pandemic. And you’d look at the nurses, as they danced in G-string style panties, and rubbed their BRAVE HERO MUNCTOUS upon your forehead blessing you, YOU SPECIAL YOU with WARP SPEED LOVE and BUMP STOCK BUSTINESS. The mind fuck didn’t end, no matter what you pretend or avoid. They keep tossing bullshit, but we know, my fellows, we know as HANG GLIDER MADMEN, that this is STILL the play; the intermission is nearly over, the FINAL ACT will be quite real.

You’ve tested the waters, and found that the sea is a roiling mess of carcass getaways and sailors lost and alone.

You are MAKING changes in your life, to become encrusted and trusted; various reef wardens have marked you and your time to SHINE is SOON!

When the fury cast is met by a skull dragon and the sky bleeds yellow, a fellow with a hearty laugh and a golden staff will arrive. He sells musket balls and catcalls and German cars and martini bars. You will meet that looming fate, and GREAT will be the scream as you meme and dance. An ORANGE KING has come to play and the sand castle queens will go away. For TODAY, this DAY, is THE DAY you turn up the volume on your life and get rid of the strife.

Boblimptock is almost ripe, and those cavern slugs you’ve been running from cannot hurt you any longer. Your fists are raw but filled with fight. Your eyes are consumed by the RED LUST of vengeance. You know what’s up, and you’ll take the FIGHT to them: the JACK-APES, the DURG-BUTCHERS, and FARMER TED. The whole GANG of framed mantle jacks can be YOURS for 6 EASY payments of just $15.99 … kind of feeling that hovercraft love again, ain’t ya?

Ominous …

In May of 2025, following the first full month of JD Vance’s presidency, a great object, glowing and special, will be seen in the sky. In April 2025, President Trump dies of a stroke. JD Vance takes over, and starts doing shit you’d expect him to do. Maybe we get WW3 no matter which chunk of human waste is tossed at the wall. Maybe there’s a ugly monster coming. Boblimptock was only ever going to last about 5 years … it all comes to an end, BOBLIMPTOCK does, the 5 years does, in May 2025. At that moment we enter GRINKEN TIME.

GRINKEN TIME will be a merciless pain flood. The deluge of old will take hold, in new forms. Humans, so called, will devolve into mongrel hoarders and old style weasel knights. The best among us will be taken swiftly by the first great herald, as skies turn brown, then orange, then black, then red. Many such horses and portended things can be felt, as the Pope talks about beach blanket bingo, and your grandmas tell you stories of salty BOOMER STYLE 5 ways in FRISCO back in 72′.

DOOK MINKLER, the TULIP STALLION, will take hold of what’s left of California, by the year 2033. Scoop gals, with torn dresses and jagged smiles, will carry knives about Sunset Boulevard and horny-Mc-Chesty types will run in fear from those rage driven morblies from Quadrant-83-BRAVO. Scourge forces and shock armies will surround your plans and nothing you expected will manifest. And why? – because YOU are living in 2019.

SKAG FISHING will be our FUEL ENDEAVOUR. Hunting coyote-elk and jungle-beaver will fill our days, as drinking and merrymaking FILL OUR NIGHTS. We TOSS that rancid place into the great vortex, we cast out remorse, regret, and sullen obsessions about pointless desires.

You want to go back? – STOP IT!

2019 is SO FUCKING OVER.

All your grievances and plans.

All your dollar faith and rule of law homage.

All the “respect” the institutionalized used to get, and is now gone.

All of it – leave it behind puddle flower.

Leave your pain with the blistering sun and that dead horse named Joovis, and just go …

Stop bringing up what “might” have happened – it didn’t, so what?

To be a LORD of BOBLIMPTOCK, you must transcend the ancient ways and embrace the new melodies. Songs played today resonate with the third eye and the green crystal. Pirate spirits will chase you, and try to take you away, but if you can LET GO of 2019 thinking, you can GET ON WITH Boblimptock style loving. And that’s a real nice moist warm love, fits well, you can commit to it.

Say goodbye to your hovercraft childhood.

Say hello to your meat pirate future.

We will get past the scrubly.

We will become GRINKEN FOLK.

And remember some old time wisdom …

“Boblimptock has made Helter-Skelter seem like Woodstock.” – Dr. Freckles

HISTORY HAS BECOME UNSTUCK!

CHEERIO GRINKEN FOLK of the FUTURE!

G.M.F.Y.I.L.Y.