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 …
The freaks will rule forever.
[curated: 3/22/2023]