Today’s one of those days when I want to build a DYSON HOT ROD …
I want to coast through the universe in my solar system sized starship at a slow clip of 20% the speed of light …
The gravitational wake from my speedster will bring destruction to so many petty civilizations.
Imagine the STAR CRUISER meet ups at the end of time, the DARK VORG-GROODER will ride into combat with his BILLION MILE LONG X-TRA KLASS MEEG-SEEDER … powered by a captured black hole, the entire DURGIS-NAUT steers through the cosmos, breaking havoc to the lesser folk, who decided NOT to build DYSON HOT RODS …
And then something happened.
Life is not validated, promised, pure – eternal life IS ALL OF THESE THINGS …
But life on planet Boblimptock? – it’s grimy and scummy and putrid and horrifying and filled with a disproportionate number of crap heads.
So I found out I need to find a new place to live, and it’s not because of any personality conflict or issue – it’s simply reality.
“Sometimes reality happens.” – Dr. Freckles
If you’ve read my scribbled words, or listened to my frenzied podcasts, you may have gotten the idea that I believe some difficult times are ahead that might be, for all intents and purposes, unprecedented – perhaps even Biblical. I am not a prophet, so I can’t say much more than this.
What I can say is that it’s HARD for people to find some random space for a middle aged dude, and it’s hard, at this point in human history, to find a lifeboat welcoming of a curmudgeonly old pothead who drinks beer BUT will walk your dogs. I will walk dogs and dog sit. This is something I have testimony concerning, just ask for a reference. I’m going to miss boomer.
Yeah, I’m going to miss boomer. In the strangest way this mutt has been my psychotherapist these last few years. I always had this fantasy of WHAT IF, and the vision of some ranch or piece of land in the mountains, where me and my friends and the dogs would live. I always dreamed of that magical “reprieve” you’re supposed to get, at middle age, if you’re willing to take a stroll down the storm drain, towards another world.
In this magical tube world, you take your sacred pup and tap into his scrombozoid ways. Boomer’s mind tunnel technology, known only to dogs, will allow us to transport our poop smells between dimensions … end … finally … Boomer and I will end up ruling the solar system … but what then … what’s next?
If we could dance like kings, Boomer and I, COSMIC STERF-REALM HERDERS, finding time drifters and dimensional madmen.
I dwell with those masters of asteroid gold who become the ONTO-LORDS of Delvic-88332, and those people have no sense of humor …
Boomer and I will convert the solar mass of our solar system into a super star ship … not a “Dyson Sphere”, but instead a Dyson-Hot-rod X-Ray Tango 900 …
A super ship, billions of miles long …
A super ship stretching from rim to edge, in which the SUN is now a power plant and warp engine … and who knows … maybe we capture a pulsar to use as a canon and a black hole as an improved warp drive …
And maybe Boomer and and are listening to Chicago on random as we coast to the edge of the cosmos, turning on our hyper time drive, traveling 4 trillion times the speed of light …
At the edge of time, we encounter angels, and they say the following:
“A time of hurried expectation is upon us child.”
And so am I worried about not having a place to live in a couple weeks? – yes.
Is it possible some bad things happen because of this? – sure, bad things happening all over.
Do I wish there were a way out? – yes.
And this is where I SCREAM at GOD and say DEAR LORD, SHOW ME A WAY OUT!
And if there is silence, it is NOT for the lack of God’s love, no …
There is silence because of the ANGER I SHOW in summoning God in such a way.
I can LISTEN when I’m ready to hear.
I can PRAY when I’m ready to obey.
I can FORGIVE when I’m ready to love.
But this does little to change the trajectory of Boomer and myself and our notional stellar sized star ship capable of creating 3 parsec wakes that end up swamping EVERY CLASS BOBLIMPTOCK CIVILIZATION. And we were meant to be the final CAST MEN the REAL GERDERS we would and could tower over the midget men of the desolate plane.
I kept a BUST-SHURG hoogen-priestess, whose boovula is in-grease-tified and her own bustyness would shine and wiggle as a trophy to all TARG ZURG-GRIEGEN and other stone TORDOR and other woodland freaks …
The simple truth is this: in a few weeks I will be homeless, through no fault of my own OR the friend I rent a room from. It is simply reality. I have people living out of cars right now, that’s reality too. If I “fit” better, maybe I’d be at Redmond, writing code as some kind of code monkey contractor that doesn’t give two fucks about shit … if I fit. I don’t fit.
I would say: “If you can help”
And I know most will say, “I wish I could”, and that’s the simple truth.
But, queerly, I sense an angel, telling me: “Worry not my son, this is a time of hurried expectation.”
(and maybe “needing a place to stay” by late August, as crazy as it sounds, might mean something too …)
(but now I sound loopy)
(because I need a place to live)