MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20230825_ZONE_REAPER.mp3
Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles
Quick Updates:
still at the park, people seem really angry
this might be the first podcast from inside the tent, cuz we’re getting squalls and wind gusts
I’m glad to have the days here, at the park, to slow down. Yeah, I get weird looks because my aura right now probably screams “stay away from that scary guy”.
I get scared, sometimes, thinking that I’m used up. And worse? – that I don’t care that I’m used up.
I know this is true: I’m living in pretend land right now, make believe. I’m at a nice state park surrounded by “nice” people. I’m being left alone and I’m leaving others alone. I don’t have to worry about being robbed or killed or worse. But here’s the thing – I lived in Little Saigon Seattle long enough to know that there are horribly deeper levels of homeless. They make it sound like “well son, just pull yourself up by your bootstraps …” but at the bottom of the morass of American homelessness, is a slimy pit, with slimy cliffs … and no one, almost no one, ever gets out.
I’m not the commie who says “give me money”, just because. I did beg for help this week, and perhaps that was wrong or not or I still wonder. I have to respect my audience well enough to know that THEY can decide whether to give an old hobo money. But I don’t like the stench of grifting, and begging for help can feel close to that.
One more thing – I wonder if my lack of popularity relates primarily to one simple truth: my message does not resonate, because most people are shit heads and satanists at this point. I had some weird experiences at Walmart again – people who would walk towards me, as if to walk into me, with that very aggressive look on their faces.
“Don’t judge a book by its RV.” – Dr. Freckles
“Sideways is progress is a different direction.” – Dr. Freckles
park notes:
“… you say you listen to me, but you don’t listen to me …” “I try to listen to you.”
“some kids never grow up … she’s very skittish … it’s not your dog’s fault”.
ZONE REAPER: code name ALLEY CAT
He is a descendant of TREBLIQ warriors that live near Mt. Baker. He’s half CANADIAN, and the other half is all GOLD. He dreams of TIM HORTON’S muskrat scooter sandwiches and wishes his long past girlfriends well … all except Tessa.
He has a job of monitoring threg sector 18, where the scoob-raiders eat twembly and migrate monthly to the Duwamish River to refill on whisky stew and scogg-slurry. He keeps a close watch on BARRY the SKY DEMON. Barry flies about in his crop duster, laying down a nice mist of steezick gas and pesticides and other bits of debunkuated chemo goo. Got a keep an eye on Barry …
He’s looking for a room to rent, some place not far from Carrie’s Stew Salon And Tattoo Parlor. He got pulled into a “room for rent scheme”, using that old worn out chest nut: “will you send me the 60 refundable dollars to my random room posting”. The answer is: no … I don’t send any money till I’ve seen a place.
You could take him down by Rachel’s sewer rat bistro and suckle upon skeel-wine, waiting for the ALLEY CAT to furl his brow, and grab a bottle, and break it off in your nasty ass face. Zone reapers don’t have time for quasi-sect wannabes and left-side morgly-types … you see them at WALMART.
After the winter-battle of 2013, and his head was shot clean off? – the Zone Reaper was sent to the hospital at Lewis-McChord and they went ahead and used super glue and fishing line and rusty old hooks to sew the ALLEY CAT’s head back on.
BLISTO-ZIGGINS, the scudge wielder, rode with the Zone Reaper, when the harlots of grid-22 got frisky, and mcnuggins was on sale for 3 fiddy and you could still get non-deconstructed potato at the SKLEEG HUT. They chased the star pirates of XEEB and hunted curled beaver in the hooker region of sector-0098ZED.
“COME FORTH AND WASH YOUR FESTULES!”, cried the time-herald, bringing forth the sunshine day of forever before and ever until. His mind was warped from space dust and kiln-wine. Jester-turds would dance about that haglon, and the ZONE REAPER would mark time upon the clock that freak built, and the safe passage home to yesterday.
A jealous stag-minge from quadrant-MOOGON got caught in the Zone Reaper’s eyes, she fell in love, they connected and had a condo together. they would take weekend trips to the national forests of YOOG-8, and swim naked in the tondo-pools. He would inguzzlate her, using his sheebus-wand, and her boovula would detractify with oil kindness. But Zone Reaper dumped her because she was two timing with a squid-greeder, and maxing out his credit cards. She haunts him, stalks him, keeps track of him using witches and wizards and hyper-technology.
The hoove scoove kept the groove, and Ghendar’s slog wedding …
Jib-zoos were opening soon near the galactic center – the whole zoo is half a light year in diameter … crazy big. They’ll have lemurs … radioactive ones.
Castor creeps lurk between the blackholes and pulsars. Zone Reaper had his run ins with that crew. Those gunkit types carried 12 gauge 5 shot recoil supported revolvers, with mixed ammo, grenade, sabot. The creeps would hunt starships bearing gold and silver and hookers, and cocaine. Zone Reaper would use wop-guns filled with titanium plasma darts … he’d take’m out … and be back to Bregna-Prime for breakfast with his womens.