PLANETARY STATUS REPORT!

I made soup for all of you … but none of you showed.

I cooked coyote gizzards in zorg-oils, and mixed in minced beetles and darly-girds … and did you come by?

I wanted to give you everything … bastards.

We went down to the bowery and the Sklub-Sektor. We found the harley-rats and the cornet-monkeys. We made bats and chain from timing belts and filled pillow cases with d-cell batteries and rocks …

We don’t have a choice, and the whole town is turning green. All for SWEET GIRLS!

Weevil sadness settles in, as you take in the damage you did to downtown, and the buildings. And the poors are riled up, so they come out for “hot deals”, taking all the shit from the WALMART and probably ravaging HOME DEPOT as well.

And you could have had soup … but YOU DIDN’T!

There are shock armies forming in the national forests. Armies of dead-beat chongos and last-run sarahs. They wear clothing made from deer leather and old steel belted radials …

They sing songs of forever war, and own the lands beyond your highway suburban life. Fuck you.

A lot of people just get dumped now …

You go to the ER at St. Smiggins, and some drongo sends you to Nurse Lugar in exam rm. 5. And she puts a hydraulic piston to the back of your head, and pulls a trigger, and it’s lights out for you DOOBINS.

And your body just gets dumped some place … nobody cares shit head.

But I made soup of crisket-honey and dloom-joins and rice. You could have had SECONDS … SECONDS! But instead you went to the strip club to see MOMMA GETZEL twist her bazongas on the pole.

And this is why the cities are burning …

major body dumps outside every city …

usually in the low rent part of town, near the mixed-waste incineration facility is best …

And they’re just dumping them …

And it’s all because you didn’t come over for soup.

“Come to our store …”

You get your choice of chicken-rice or scab-milk. And the robot inspects your anus for remnants, while your mind is flooding with ads from OLD NAVY …

And you want to steal it all, but your crew can only steal so much – and you’re part of a flash mob.

You don’t eat soup.

Satan and his son are hanging out.

Satan: “Body dumps or McRib-Strategy?”

Antichrist: “Why not both?”

Satan: “Good idea son, I love you …”

Antichrist: “I love you Pa”

Elon Musk really does troll the “space is fake” crowd, but at times … it seems like he’s hinting towards the truth.

I’ll be making Ol’ Mangies Toogat Soup … eating it alone in my camper, in the dark.

Recipe:

Mix gravel and diesel and metal shavings and broken glass – along with turnip-worms and dried yellowjackets … don’t cook it … not unless you want to ruin the flavor.

It’s so good.

There’s an entrée I’m preparing for Thanksgiving tomorrow …

It takes time and patience, like scaling the mountains of Horg and seeking after Queen Lustra’s POWER JUICE, but knowing you’re not really Clint Eastwood.

You take baked beans and old hairspray and mineral spirits and mix this into a large bowl …

You then mix in toadstools and x-ray bugs …

Eat this, while watching old episodes of Twilight Zone alone …

currying daggly yolk and massaging merg-shank

yep – cutting up scribbly greens right now … pre-heating the tsongas-beef … making sure I have hyle-gravy.

You go down to the wharf, and meet Tony …

He hooks you up with Sharon, and then things get fun.

You pile CRAB into a swangus-stew pot, and mix in crag-nuts and cat droppings and lost storg-larva …

And it takes some getting used to, especially when your anus starts to bleed.

I put the gumbous-beast in the oven …

Getting craggle-berry waffle juice ready …

Making a slurry of mac+cheese+green beans …

Happy Thanksgiving, really …

Saturnalia begins … with the ritual of the dead bird.

There are blues – fentanyl pills …

Then there are the blues-travelers, fentanyl pills dipped in PCP …