In late 2019 I had a tingler latched to my back, sinking it’s 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 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.
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In addition to slightly out of date Popular Mechanics and Popular Science, there was always that one ragged copy of Boy’s Life on the table while you waited for your trim. You’d flip through and see articles about boys fishing for trout, and the “story of a 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 an 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 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 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. But the summers must end and we drifter deeper into the darkness scrumbo brothers and sisters.
THE HOVERCRAFT LIARS are the scourge.
They’ve morphed and cell iPhones now or reverse mortgages, but they’re still out there, grifting, sifting through the refuse of these intemperate masses finding goblets and glasses of tired old wine and Orson Wells’ ghost marking the way to peace.
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.
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.
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.
G.M.F.Y.I.L.Y.