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“As a hunter …”

AS A HUNTER …

I can’t believe you “gun” people … your guns and your gun shows and your ammo reloading … fuck …

I’ll tell you what I do:

I strip down to my loin cloth, and hone a spear with my buck knife and my fire …

I cover myself in mule grease, and then sit out all night, whispering to the trees and moss … connecting with my wolf-self …

Then, at the appointed time, I chase down that hairy beast and consume its munkton-flesh while the moon glows, and the sun is nearly broke upon the horizon.

As a hunter …

I reach for the old style techniques, of monitoring poop flows and assessing the dayglo-sauce of deer-snakes and hester-monkeys …

I gave up on soft-style party living, and now my waters run clean from the mountainside to the prairie hovel … where my hooker bride waits, and my 12 kids hunt possum for dinner.

We wear barley armor and provide LIGHT in the dark woods …

We are true HUNTERS, looking for adventure. Sure, we take it easy when doing “Kentucky Style Love Making” on a Saturday night … but our hearts beat strong for those bong-doodles, and our women wear thongs while singing that song about twerking …

We hunt the grease, we feed on the meat barnacles.

We are hunters.

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I started picking at it …

I started picking at the scar on my arm …

The one from when I broke it a year ago …

The surgical scar, where they taped my humerus back together with aviation tape and form-a-gasket and bondo …

I pick at it, and it bleeds, and I can see the metal wire, rusty, covered in fleas …

You would say “Dan, stop messing around”, but I heard a sound and moved fast. It couldn’t last, not the last of the JERG-WIZARDS, mixing elixirs and ancient pudding. And just like that the smoke cleared and I could see the bare bone and I groaned in pain as I shoved broken glass and wood chips in the wound.

I pulled on the broken plastic clamp holding the bone in place, and scratched at the remodeled bone with my rusty pocketknife …

It spoke, the bone, cursed flesh and marrow:

“The first of the KLUNGIT-ARMIES, being led by LORD JANGIS, is moving on S’compton … they just sacked Grinken Town.”

I’ll blame the SECTOR CHIEFS and the coyote herders.

I’ll take account of those DINGLE farmers, sharecropping the broken hearted no man’s land of BOBLIMPTOCK … Ungoobulating their women folk, greasing their boovulas.

And my bone is CHILLED MAX ICE …

And I pick at it for comfort.

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BILLIONS will DIE!

I built a time machine: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10996

One simple trick: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11001

Childcare Costs: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11003

No Schrodinger’s Dog: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11005

Don’t feed a hobo: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11012

Truth about Panda Express: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11030

Wealth Effect from Debt: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11032

Titty Soap: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11038

Bombing the poors: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11040

Billions will die: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11043

Garbage Dan: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11053

If you think the Ukraine War is real: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11058

There is no MAD with CRAZY: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11060

Government is an extinction level event: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11062

Government can’t be trusted: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11070

Numb or Dumb: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11072

Commies and the FED: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11074

No one ever gets paid: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11076

Golfing: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11083

Milei the Libertarian: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11086

Storm drain woman nailed it: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11089

Squatting: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11094

Looking down at Earth: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11097

Oh, Son of Boblimptock: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11127

TRAD MOM to ONLY FANS: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11133

Spotting Trauma Monkeys: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11137

What is FAITH: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11139

You were right: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11144

Government and Predators: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11148

Subway Club: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=11150

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SOB: Oh Son of Boblimptock …

This is Grinken Time …

In the AGE of BOBLIMPTOCK …

The kindred-dread of many minds,
spreading deeply from behind,
hurried voices soon shall find,
that rind,
left behind,
by the hobo kind.

You could have been a cocaine hero, raging with a voice of drymbly and bleeb. You could have sunk your teeth into tomorrow, but instead you sip the tea of old Keith and his barley excrement.

After many years my son, you will find the glory board and jump your way to SPRING MADNESS, as green shoots give way to chutes and ladders, and you get sad because nothing really matters. Your broken skull is potato skin to the gods, and your own morsel is but humble offerings to Chronos.

“WHAT TINGLIT MERCY IS THERE FOR THE THIRST-DURGEN?”, screamed Horz, the last THIRST-GURGEN and FIRST LORD of Tryb. He rode a horse of rage and fury, his saddle was made of onions and coal, he smoked a bowl after locking up his old man in the Sanikan, for a honey-bucket surprise.

As your limbs heal and your voice finds balance, the daughters of Histos will leave their pleasure caves and wander forth to find their mungit-mates. Sure, they will wrestle in mud pits for total busty dominance, but their bodies will be oiled and Brazilian style krazy, as driving Miss Daisy turns to Duel – best to pick up some extra fuel.

I can see the endings are empty too DEAR SON.

An age of fun and games gives way to consequences, and stumbling blocks, and crevasses hidden from the snow king.

Your meaning now is in BOBLIMPTOCK and those folk you can raise up to hunt scratch-dear and lamprey-rats.

So find that mud pit mountain dear boy, and seek out a lifetime supply of hookers.