“The greatest trick Bigfoot ever played was convincing you he didn’t exist.” – Dr. Freckles
Stories of SASQUATCH or the WOOKIE MONSTER or OMA …
I heard once Bigfoot lived in the wind …
He was the FURRY KING, and the woodland creatures followed him into space. He would go around, buying drinks on a Saturday night, grabbing strippers and having hot sex. You’d think he would want to keep a low profile, but nobody believes what they are seeing … not until they give birth to these very hairy little babies.
SCRIPTUS SECT ALPHA
Connection to Ogo Pogo and the Lochness Monster …
Should we kill it, to prove it exists?
Buckskin love affair
The lost cave of Den-Breezus
Chiseled abs …
THE RACE of the WOLVES
WOOKIE ARMY IS COMING …
The 3rd CHUD Rebellion
Storgack folk form hooker style Republic
Robot Pam Grier opens a women’s prison with the Wookies
My last woman, Betsy, had hooker crabs and skleeg fever. Her boovula vibrated to the sound of Metallica and gold coins hitting the table top. She’d whisper the world in your ear, and then complain about the mutton soup, and her breath was like a stray dog’s. I couldn’t keep her.
I had this woman, she was mean and never shaved her legs. She pressed skunk grease against her cheeks to make herself look younger, and she begged me for my protein soup so as to enhance her jugs. She worked the street and found great solace in any stranger’s arms. She gave me crabs and herpes and black syphilis, and I had to flee to the eastern provinces to escape her pimp husband. But I loved her.
There was this girl I knew when the summers were long and the winter ran for cover. She wore soft pastel dresses, and waltzed with the green grass, as she ran through the meadow. Her hair was red and her face was freckled, and we spent so many nights chasing time and running from despair. She left me for a jar head named Cliff, and I never knew what happened. But we had that summer, and I’d never forget.
I spent time traveling on rockets, and taking my star ship to the edge of the solar system. I met marauders, armed with laser swords and covered in swamp pain – and then there was HER. She was the queen of the asteroids, she mined and harvested ancient wax and made her living along the Kuiper Belt. Her condo was on Pluto, and she didn’t care that it wasn’t a “planet”, because every man orbited her and her fine booty. We fell in love fast, like a black hole swallowing a rogue comet, and she broke my heart. She kicked me to the curb before the 4th Lort War began, and I was left wanting before the throng.
There was this chick from LA. She was a model and an artist and an actor. Her hair was brown, and her skin ivory white, and when she walked down the street the whole world stood still. She had men all over, but she always made you feel special – and I never feared for the clap or gonorrhea. I broke her heart, living fast, doing crack, selling my bling along the boulevard of starlight. She cried out for me, and my wretched self left her. I did not know she was going to be my wife, and our children would have ruled the wasteland.
While biding time near the old valley, I met a girl named Lola. She carried a sack filled with onions and spoke softly to the chickens. She would spend the spring days wandering the fields, scantily clad, with her female scent wafting about. She was my FOREST LOVER, my sky bride, and we held ancient sexual rituals, in the barn, when the sun went down. She broke my spirit like she was breaking a new horse, and after this was done? – she fell in love with the baker’s wife and fled to Quebec.
After many lovers, I found Rhonda. I was dealing cards in Vegas, at the Royal Palms Hotel. Rhonda was a cigarette girl and a stripper and the holy representative of blind chance. We would drive out into the desert at night and drink vodka and shout at the stars, and many of these nights ended in torrid and fiery love making. She needed “space”, so she fled to New York, and moved in with a street performer named Len. I was alone again, staring at the walls, imagining a kingdom of regret somewhere near Detroit.
I was with this woman from Dallas for a few years … She hunted whale-ape out on the high plains, and never rested. She snorted cocaine and got into bar fights and was never afraid of a Saturday night melee. I got her pregnant, and then she sold our baby to a Mexican drug lord in Juarez. It was a mad sickness that kept me near her, and when the fever broke I was empty, bankrupt, and wandering Phoenix with a loaf of bread under my arm and blood pouring from my anus.
While working as a seaman on the trade routes from India, I met a woman named Prakna. She had jet black hair and olive skin, her bodice was like a fine bottle of wine and I drank of her juices as often as I could. We would wander Calcutta, in search of slow-time concubines, seeking the obliteration of self in the dirty corners of a broken land. She would call me her “tiger master” and I would call her my “monkey queen”. After several months, she drowned in the Ganges and her body was never found … they say she’d been involved in bitcoin.
I knew an escort named Trixie – she worked the high rises on the gold coast in Chicago. I was recovering from splingus surgery, and she watched over me, my sexy angel of mercy. Our first Christmas together, we took a trip to Peru, we bathed in Incan pools and nakedly played.
Patrice was a waitress I met in Florida. Her family owned a gator farm not far from Orlando, and she would spend her weekends there, harvesting gator, in her daisy dukes and torn t-shirt. We would take the air-boat out on the Everglades, and there we would make love in the night, as the cotton-owls screeched and the turtle-cats slept. I woke up one day and she was gone – no note, no nothing … I loved her.
A gal I knew near Memphis took me by surprise, you’d look in her eyes and see a baby born. She was blonde and hot and busty and naughty. She worked as a Kindergarten teacher, but she was all smoke and silk come evening time. We rode Harley’s on the weekend and made love in the train yard after the sun went down. She told me I didn’t care about her cat, and I said “what cat?” – and she slapped me. She left me for a florist.
There were so many flinks and cherries …
So many sop-wives and angel dust Virginias …
I spent my time wandering the lost sectors of YULON, looking for the ultimate WOMAN. A woman of steel and fire and lace, a woman of claws and fury, a woman who can hunt down the wild deer, naked, as her boobs bounce about. I spent time in the jungles of NEPHOR, and found a hidden lake where milk maidens washed their privates and caressed their tits. I sought after that gentle hand that would nag me, incessantly, to take out the garbage. But after crossing 12 seas and 40 rivers I found the GIRL of my DREAMS … Vordica …
Vordica watched over me for what was left of my life …
As I grew older, she ensured that my codpiece and armor were well oiled … as she oiled her boobs.
I would hunt castor apes, and she would make me gunzit-stew. After spending many hours being chased by wopsit-clowns, Vordica would be there, in our bed, ingunjoolating herself, preparing her boovula for my meat rod.
As I grew very old, Vordica would drain my boils and wash my togger-wounds. She would rub in diesel fuel and broken glass and sawdust and metal shavings, and I would shake and shiver in her arms, as the fever took over ….
There were only mold-cats now and other scum-rot from the new biome – and all the old furry creatures were gone, and we wept before a brown and grey world …
I was the Stroglon Lord, seeking styg from the beach whores who sold their iced coffee near the pier. I had the magic dust and rode a bike powered by cocaine and rage, and there was peace.
I was the chief whale herder of sector-99 YANKEE. They gave me a Waffle House and a busty wife and a lifetime supply of ale. I kept watch at night for the boovula banshees and set my traps for those whiskey apes that were watching from the street, and there was stew for all.
I was lost in the jungle of contempt, working long hours on Wall Street, trading oil for gold for slut-grease. They had me live the condo life, in Jersey, and take the train to the city each day. And when I was done all the old style kingpins paid homage, and provided sauce.
I was a champion, battling demons and robots near Grinken Town. I had 7 scurvy brides, all hooked on oxy and vodka and lost in a smelly panties kind of wastrel life. One day Hurgen found me, and tore out my kidney, and cracked my skull to harvest street protein. Living hard.
I was feared, and told tales of the WEST and the crack-head cowboys of Malibu. My home was on the water, and I surfed to the noise of forgetfulness. We would drink old wine and dance near camp fires, and make love like island squirrels. And you dreamed of cream pie weddings.
I was mad, insane, when the castle fell. My queen took her time, and then fled with the knights to the Holiday Inn. She left me beaten and bloody near the old well, the one our child fell into – and little Timmy’s ghost came to haunt me, to steal my heart wax. I did not complain.
I was broken, on the sidewalk, covered in ice and snow. I cried for help, as the drivers passed by, and I was mocked by the pharisees and found wanting before God. My veins were split open, and my blood froze on the street, and the wild dogs of S’compton came by to finish me off.
I was lost in paradise. I lived among the petty travelers, feeding on their putrid dreams, and wicked nightmares. I took my time with the sultry wives of Levittown, and hunted sky hawks with my crossbow. No one looked me in the eyes, no one called my friend. All my poo was gold.
I was a philosopher, a sage. I got paid to bring glad tidings to the town folk. But when my heart turned Cassandra? – they chased me from the valley, stealing my corn, my Wookie lover, my horses and sheep. I ran all night just to fall victim to a rabid cougar, she new how to love.
I lived among the skin walkers. They taught me tricks and spells, and all I had to give them was my soul. They savored my broken self, they suckled upon my lost romance, they took pleasure in my rhapsody of disarray and pain. When I was used up? – they sold me to the Mexicans.
I was chosen to rule the lands west of Grymm. I wore a codpiece made of wrought iron and my fists were glowing diamonds. My people lived in fear of my drunken stance, and my belligerence knew no bounds. We ate meat cakes and sailed to the lost isles of Tred. We loved and laughed.
I was made to eat the dinosaur scat, and to climb the trees like some cheap ass monkey. I didn’t have a coat or shoes, I had bark and a willingness to feed on the river wolves. I was told to set fire to the woods, and that a great wave would cleanse the lands. I did all as told.
I was a crack head and smack freak. I ate roaches with the vets down by the mission. We sang songs of lost nations and cities burned to dust. We traded tales of down range and midgets and the brothels of Pusan. And we laughed at the jaded darkness, because it was our only fire.
I was a curse to the wicked. I spent my nights, covered in dolphin grease, hunting the freaks of West Hollywood. I followed them to the valley, and then up the bygone highways and lost worlds of a dead landscape, and my miracle lover stroked her boovula, as we drove faster.
I was hurt by my fast time lover. She wore a skirt made of turtle skin, and her kiss was like a dagger covered in muskrat blood. She’d tell me “you are my coyote master”, and I’d say “you are my sugar plumb crystal”. And we would dance to the noise of cities on fire, scared fools …
I was a meadow flower, when the mountains wept and the vestal virgins bathed in ancient oils. I watched as the commie-scum of SECTOR-76 fed on babies and rabies and cats made of glycerin. I kept company among the crows, and I too sang of urban glory, as I ordered my latte.
ASH and TRASH
Shingles doesn’t care …
“All cool guns are belt fed.” – Dr. Freckles
“I’m tired of the I QUIT crack stories, I want more stories about going back to it and the success it brought.” – Dr. Freckles
the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.
the various branches of creative activity, such as painting, music, literature, and dance.
human emotion given permanent form
a projection of the unconscious mind
neither digital nor analog, connected and explosive, non-sequential
impacts perception of scale and tempo, changes time
uploading some archive to anchor/spotify, almost done
knowing what it is like to be a woman …
Meghan movie looks like Chucky …
star liner patch
Shit …
“Shit works until it doesn’t.” – Dr. Freckles
Percoset/Oxy: side effects …
judgemental
sleepy
loud
u start ranting
paranoia
YOU WANT MORE!!!
it makes you really dark
If I die …
getting surgery to fix my arm on Friday
I was given options: sawdust, broken glass, metal shavings, and other weird stuff
describe the surgery
THE DANGER
My friends Justin, Mike and A.J. (of FL) will oversee my riches and hidden gold
Dark winter …
Given the amount of geoengineering materials they are dumping right now, you’d have to cancel these flights – unless you want the travelers to end up dead.
“Arkansas is the Georgia of Missouri …” – Dr. Freckles
ARK: The great ARK …
AN: Absolute Nutrition (from humans)
SAS: British Special forces for security of the bunkers …
“Monkey Salad” is a code name …
You got to Little Rock and you find yourself immersed in the harlotry. Your dingus friends left you at Old Hector’s Mexican Style Pizza Bar, and so you go to the men’s room to snort some METH and get ready. You know who you need to kill, you know what you need to do.
There are cave complexes where the hookers live, they are bred there …
Like cave fish, the hookers are born blind …
V9004ZJK is your PASS ID …
They will let you into their subterranean Sodom, but you have to have something to sell …
You can find an old hobo off of Grinken AVE, this meat can be used for many things and sold to the bunker people of ARKANSAS …
I don’t have any real notes for this podcast. I don’t have those notes because this was 100% of me ranting about some banking snafu that held up some small amount of money that I was hoping to get … I think … I think it was just a “snafu” …
But there is a lot of rhetoric about using capital controls at LOW VALUES of capital, to including the coverage of hobos like me. I don’t have much of anything, but at this point in the game, and little meager amount will be gone after, and all the shit that your shit bird countrymen can do to you will be allowed … maybe not for everyone, but for some.
using my money at Davis, my money wasn’t good enough
Bluehost is flaking out to the point that I think they may cancel me too … what are the “dangerous” messages: a) COVID is/was a PSYOP, b) the POTUS is the Mayor of WA DC, c) the RESET is bogus, d) if you live in a city, you are already at the FEMA camp
I need 80 billion dollars to raise an ARMY of GORILLAS … not guerrillas … gorillas.
I was reading about how some scientists want to make Pluto a planet again … that’s racist.
“If the government sets aside $50 billion to STOP people from eating bacon, that money would be funneled to cronies, and people would still be eating bacon … probably twice as much bacon.” – Dr. Freckles
I can imagine some “Music Man”, going before congress in 2025 …
“Give me 7 trillion dollars, and I’ll finally destroy SASQUATCH!”
(and he’ll get the money)
(and he brings Sasquatch into existence)
“… and finally … when there’s nothing left … you can’t get another loan from the bank or another box of booze … you bust the joint OUT – you light a match.”
– Goodfellas
What people want …
“Knowing what people want is half the work of lying.” – Dr. Freckles
They stamp out the male vibe with their rag-tag leather bound persistence. Their minds are aware and open to ancient poems written by the skag-horde, and they will only relent when the pools of gobble-oil are warmed up for the ceremonial boobie baths …
Their leader, Testruss, is mean and coy. She’s a blonde bombshell built with triple-D’s and a will to use them …
Testruss has the canned gaze of that farmer guy, whose corn grows sideways and against the wind. She’s never late and always in costume – her high heel ways break the minds of men. She was the last of the ADMIRALS who ruled the near space, battling other vacuum ships and launching her woman-slaves in death rockets.
The YULIAN TRIBE is IN CHARGE of life at 20 miles up. Their craft slink softly through the near vacuum, with ion drives glowing and rail guns humming. They fight for the FRONTIER OF SPACE and will destroy and man-man navy that comes to take them out. Their lesbian bonds are forged in blood and fire, and their clever tactics are always on point.
Each year …
When the grass turns yellow …
When the leaves begin to fall …
The YULIAN HIGH PRIESTESS prepared herself for the MOUNTAIN OF IN-BOOVULATION …
A harness is built in the great woods, and affixed between several large trees …
The high priestess is stripped of all clothes and covered in the ancient greases of GROMULII …
She is tied and strapped into the harness, her legs spread apart …
She prepares herself by writhing and her own womanly juices flow forth …
She is going to make love to the great WOOKIE SPIRIT …
Her eyes are pale green and wet. She can’t stand it, her boovula exhales hydrogen gas. You knew she was easy, when she showed you her condom wallet – you knew she was greasy, when she bragged on her cuspit ring …
The drink is brown sklib, and the bar tender shakes his head as you gag on his mog juice. Terry, the old janitor, spends his Friday nights drunk on vodka and diet cola, he hits on the prostitutes waiting for their Johns … who are in the john …
Posted above the bar is a list of complaints …
Tingus owes me $5
There are dragon-moths in the womynz bathroom …
Stag flesh is being sold as taco meat, and Ralph started bleeding out his butt pipe.
Someone is dumping bodies behind the stage …
Why does this bar not close?
Hooker sauce is too expensive …
The condom machine has tampons jammed up in it …
The tampon machine is filled with rolling papers …
No one wants sardine salad … nobody.
Taxi drivers won’t pick us up here, not since we ditched them those times.
It will be combined as NATIONAL MONKEY BOUILLABAISSE DAY …
Add some monkey
Cook it in combo grease
Add street spices and broken glass and metal shavings
Add sweat and blood and urine …
Add that can of NALLEY’S TAMALES you’ve been saving …
Cook it until it becomes a thick green mass …
Eat it somberly, in the sewer caves, alone …
Fake …
*** Amendment to previous quote …
“Faking deaths, and making up fake people, is a growth industry in America.” – Dr. Freckles
Is SBF even a person, or is he the “man with one red shoe”? A “North by Northwest” fake?
Truth and the Black Market …
“Want the truth? – shop at the black market.” – Dr. Freckles
space – trips to the Moon or Mars
fusion energy or any cheap (better than oil) energy
immotality
artificial intelligence
Antarctica
For the Patriot system to work …
UKRAINE STORY: 50/50 … could be kind of real … unlikely it’s an organic event. If it’s just more “run out the clock” PSYOP nonsense, then nothing outside the scope of the PSYOP will happen, and that means NO nuclear war. However, if we’re at the end game of a campaign to manage a fuzzy event, like the “Methane Bomb”, and the geniuses have decided nuclear winter is all they got? – then who knows … 50/50 … could be “harmless” psyop nonsense, could have a more sinister feature. As a Christian, there’s the possibility that this is “sign of the times” stuff … just don’t know for sure.
Ground security forces, most likely US Army Ranger
And even with all the above, this is NOT an agile system … you won’t be moving these batteries around a lot … there’s a reason these systems are deployed FURTHER SOUTH in S. Korea than the primary ADA systems … they are for strategic assets.
So maybe you deploy a battery near Kiev, but when do you give the order to bug out?
(when Russian troops are 100 or 200 miles away)
(and that means right after the counter offensive begins)
What if the “news cycle” is purposely tilted towards these base fear-monkey psyops?
The “Ukraine War” is on hold … because winter geoengineering ops are still working … and people can pretend it’s “all okay”.
Imagine a world, like ours but different. Imagine there is a person in this world imagining worlds. And this other person’s worlds there are people, imagining worlds …
The “Kanye Hitler” event is “popping smoke” … more noise … more designer-confusion …
(just ignore the pillars of smoke in the distance …)
Great Things Hitler Did:
Volkswagen
Interstate Highways
High speed rail
Space travel
Jet engines
Really stylish outfits (Hugo Boss)
He HATED RUSSIANS, and that’s a thing Americans get into now …
He did some other stuff …
Daily prophecy …
They will call you LORD DRIG and you will own the lands of the ancient FROOG FOLK, not far from Chicago … you will have 44 hooker wives, all of them unbustulated and splayed out on a giant bed made of gravy and diamonds. Many will fight for you, many will lay slain in the snow.
In the age of Nordic hustlers carrying old spade tire irons, your name will be written on the STARS. The 9 hectarian-loog bitches will make you their man-king. Your schlinctus will be cleaned by putty-elves and your heart will be replaced with rookery. And no god will rule you.
Once the NEW AGE begins, the Trojans will lay scattered as fallen soldiers, covered in yellow grease and dried blood. Your community will elect a gill-witch as LEADER, and then declare all rumptuous blessings and fiery hot bonus shots. The TOOG will relent when the sky weeps.
If you have the courage to travel to the RED PLANET you could become a GOMBO-KING. You could rule many acres on the slopes of Olympus Mons, you could raise scuttle-rat and feed on brinctus-slurry. Your name could be Hlebuus and your woman will have incurable genital crabs.
Qourgon-Xled, the last of the geevers, would sit upon his throne in sector 54. He was a LORD of MARS, ruler of the red sands and the hooker lands. He mined cleavage-oils near the great lamprey sea, he wrestled turly-gators in the Swamps of Gatmos. His eyes were dark blue.
I went DEEP into the deserts of Utah a few weeks ago. My buddy, SLIG, was in search of the old whale-urchin juice and the monkey pie. We made camp on the Creol River, south of Gobo, where they used to hunt whiskey-rhino and the lost cougar bats of S’compton. It was like magic.
Have you had the PASTE? You have to find an old hooker named Rita, she lives 20 minutes from Vernal, in a small fracking village where the oil workers do too much meth. She makes it from her own female power broth, and it’s a powerful mixture that can excite your private zone.
all genders are SKREEGLIX-TYPE-3 now. all holes will be sealed up with boating standard cement glue. all the regions will create plunket-centers, where all types can have hot pokers shoved some place … and in this we shall heal and find totalistic peace and love jumbalaya, kay? The issuance of derivative financial products for the purpose of building specialized “help” centers, whereby ones holes are sealed or closed using a combination of arc welders and industrial glues … this is big man … GET GOLDMAN ON THE PHONE … money, and success, in tow.
It is in moments of fickle tragedy that we find our way back to the wholesomeness of crack cocaine …
U can’t take your weird red tide dreams and make a world, you can’t stop the WOOKIE people from taking their due. A time of great cleansing, when the hairy beasts will run, streaming, from the mountains, is coming and your .300 WIN MAG ain’t gonna do shit, even explosive bullets.
I knew this stripper in SLC. She had blue eyes and black-colored fingernails. Her arms, covered in needle marks, trembled as I touched her flesh. And when she kissed?- it was like kissing a garbage can. But she saved me from the gumptick-folk of Provo, so I had to bring her home.
I knew this DOCTOR in Seattle. He worked out of Pike Place and did street-style Italian surgeries and was willing to remove a kidney for 3 bucks. I asked him “how can I feel that way of youth?”, and he said “seek out the hobo shaman of UTAH .. seek out their ancient oils, grease … not far from where they killed all those orphans and then lied about it.
I was nearly beaten to death by 4 Mormon missionaries 5 miles east of S’compton Utah … and when I awoke, concussed, covered in piss and shit, I could see the great EYE GLOW of the TOTAL MIND looking down upon us as if were we scarab beetles or just monkey children with herpes …
ZINGO CASES work the docks near LA harbor. They pick up boxes marked “KAG” and decide to make sure a few “fall off” the trucks. When they get back to their sewer hideouts in Malibu, they discover a glowing orbis of dung and tryg and whale wax. And the Lord looks down in shame.
Skreeg gangs scour Grinken Town, while the old tiger-girls wear their short skirts and rub trouble-juice on their legs. They give you a wink, and you will be marked for the scoundrel sauce, poor women luring men back to their shanties, in order to feed the cats.
I found the old hag wandering near the median. She had a copy of Hillary’s biography, in her bag, along with the bloody condoms and crack. She spent her days wandering the truck stops, and now her time is done- and no one will know or care. A shadow of a life, gone.
12 generals vie for the EAST. 18 generals wrestle the poor. And the KING? – he talks to the ancient ones, using laser-tubes and glass-wheels. His mind is confused and his hands shake. His women look for skittle-fish, while the high priestess rubs her oily boovula.
I saw an orange, brown and black sky, when I sojourned, briefly, among the swamp people. Their tongues were like jelly-snakes, they drank the mead of hard-death, from cups carved of human bone. No one spent the day questioning the butt poisons, they lived the lie.
I had several whore wives – and they massaged the part of my broken spirit where the roaches laid eggs and the screaming never stopped. They would bring me their tizzle-juice, and I would ungoogliate their boovula with my man pipe. It was dangerous loving, angry.
When I lived among the GROBON-LEAGUE I would spend my days at the pier, looking WEST, towards the sectors and regions and zones that had fewer STDs and crabs. I would ride the ships to Dip Island, and ride the monkey-turtles and drink honey wine. Can we ENDURE?
Schrodinger’s Healthcare Plan Motto: “Leave that shit alone …”
WOMEN in CAGES
There’s something lurid about this story … greasy. It appeals to the ID and the UNCONSCIOUS and to that mixture of Eros and Thanatos that MODERN PEOPLE find so enjoyable.
Throughout history, people in power have used doppelgangers or lookalikes to provide a public “presence”, while avoiding the dangers of being stabbed …
It’s said FDR employed this, as did Hitler and Stalin …
What if there is no BILL GATES, at least not any longer?
What if Elon Musk and George Soros and Biden, and many others, are really just body doubles?
Could there be “real” versions of them? – maybe …
Could it be that those who exist among the elite decide that the best course of action is NOT to go out in public, especially now?
How sure are you that any of these are real people OR, as interesting, that they might be their body doubles at this point …
Want the trip to Antarctica, you can:
fake your death
or … hire a body double ….
(that’s it)
Thanksgiving …
MON – 11/21/22 – SLC to Seattle
I got to SCRUMBO’S GROCERY where I picked up the Utah Shuttle to SLC. The driver asked us to verify our identities by pulling out our butt pipes and taking a smoke … I got to SLC Airport, and immediately I could see the demon folk were taking over … I decided to start smoking again, tired of putting off my goals and WAITING for SOME SIGN. A Jingo-Freak by the name of “Theresa” was muttering about covid shots and grandmas and how they say there will be honey-cox for EVERYONE this year.
I know the grombolite folk are watching me. I sit here, at the airport bar, waiting for some kind of next level super understanding, but the blood leaking into my underwear says otherwise. Scrimbo queens? – they seek my gumbah flesh, and old Irish maidens prepare their boovula, ungoogliating before the demon throng.
Sure … I’m at Roosters … drinking some kind of IPA and dreaming of SHRUMPKIN QUEENS off of Aurora AVE. I can’t wait to drink the nectar of sadness, as the 65 hookers hold vigil over my melting corpse. And if I could determine which hooker gave me crabs? – I’d hire a lawyer, that specializes in crabs. Seattle is a freak zone.
TUE – 11/22/22 – Groblon Lords Rule Sector 4
I heard the SCHLEBUS-HOR talking to Baal. Her voice spoke of yoobrian whore grease, and she couldn’t stop saying nice things about Warren Buffet. “He says nugget oil is the key, you must turn off your ability to hear pain.”
SHURGON would rule this realm if it wasn’t a swamp casket and filled with the impurities of vroom-juice and the commie cougar oils they use to make it work out.
I heard the scream of an ORCA whale covered in tumors …
I heard her scream out for fresh salmon, and life, and a future for her children …
The Seattle funken-folk were too busy at the new GREEN-GREEN noogan-shit bar. The chief scumptous whore was like “did you hear what Bill Gates said?”. And then the 3 sects declare that festule closed.
WED – 11/23/22 – LOST
When I travel, rarely, these days … I tend to need a background white-noise soundtrack to drown out the wailing and the pain and the madness of most places, most cities, Seattle as it happens. “Lost” was this show, 15 years ago, where a bunch of frunctic horders find themselves “lost” on a Mysterious Island, an island that seems a lot like that game Myst from the 1990’s. Confused, grief stricken, but seemingly well fed – the “lost ones” struggle with their memories and their confusion and the infinity of their “bad takes”.
Yesterday one of the yoogan-tribesman was working on the ceremonial pit, where I’m staying, off of Zulu AVE in Seattle. He spent time talking to his girlfriend about suicides, and white people, and how “it’s okay” if we want to die, because of what the white people have done. I sit here in the darkness, and I ponder the existentially meek figure, being pulled by his nose, by his woman, and treated as if he were nothing … I wanted to say: “I’ve been there bro, I’ve been ‘LOST’ … you know … married.”
Waking up, I decided to get supplies …
SCRUGG, at the 7/11, looked at me … “Our systems … they don’t … work”, he angrily took my money and I got my hoodle-soda and my cigarettes. They sold old style bog-sausage and hooker-coffee. As I walked out the door, OLD SCRUGG looked at me and said “you’re gonna die Charlie …”
When I got back to the groove-cave, the xortan-bricklayer was using his high speed drill to remove the sins and other gromulan from the liver-side delay tube, next to the toilet …
At night, late night, I can find calm …
I can stand outside, in that place, not far from SEATAC – I can hear the planes coming in for a landing. It’s about 2:30 AM, PST, and every once in a while I think “maybe that one … it’s not some 737 filled with fat/drunk travelers … maybe it’s a Chinese or Russian strategic bomber, coming in, to drop its load.
I sense the screaming of souls, as if it’s an orchestra, and I’m the conductor, but I know that no such conductor is needed. This river of pain, called Seattle, is only pending demise, destruction. And the errant screwballs might want to pretend that some amount of bitcoin or internet services or NEXT LEVEL WEB 3 bullshit will have any impact or provide any relief. But the scum herders of REDMOND know the deal, and their mouths stink of halitosis and artisanal fried arugula …
KLIG-KLOG freaks live here … they eat muskrat soup and roodle-pie. They care not for the travelers stuck at Cloud City, drinking over priced coffee and listening to under-IQ discourse from the commie slave mooks, stuck in the old world quorg-feast and shoving potatoes up their butts to make a point. It just takes time to charge up their electric clown cars, and to put on their clown makeup.
Slag people are the night whisperers …
Slag people chant and grope for their METRO token and their American made mage-oils. Their eyes are green and jaundiced, they have the spice of turbulent failure. The slags do their work, get back home and night and head to Pike Place. They buy their tumor clams and their diesel crabs, they purchase some CHINESE ancient cures to stop the anal bleeding and to find meaning again.
These lost ones … they are stumbling from one herpes infection to another crabs outbreak. Their bodies are filled with blymph, and their minds are hot wired for brain jacking.
“How many shitty holidays have I had with family? – an easier question would be: how many good holidays with family? Small number, easier to remember.” – Dr. Freckles
… and for all hobo shaman who seek to know that place called “home”, remember this:
“Never let your curiosity exceed your pocketbook.” – Dr. Freckles
One last thing …
If you are a listener and provided funds for me to make it back home? – it was a piss poor investment, and I’m sorry.
“Thanksgiving is for THANKING THE LORD when it’s over.” – Dr. Freckles
My Last Will and Testament …
Nobody lives forever, did no one tell you this when you were 12? – sure, as a Christian, your spirit lives on … but the stuff of this Earth turns to dust and shit.
Do I know I’m dying soon? – no …
Is this a cry for help? – no …
I am simply taking care of business …
THE ARMY will burn my body for free … they’ve burned me before
Build a trebuchet, load my body onto it …
Launch my ashes into a pit west of VERNAL
Shoot a freeze ray at the pit, seal it up for good – let the skin walkers melt it with the fiery red eyes
I give the EASTERN ZONE to my friend in Florida …
I give the WESTERN ZONE to my friend in Seattle …
I give the CENTRAL ZONE to my friend in Utah …
Seattle Mike can tell you who these three men are, cuz he’s one of them.
You must rule these zones with a fist of glowing titanium, you must wear a codpiece made of lead to protect your junk …
All of my online properties, websites, podcasts, are for these THREE MEN (described above) to use – they know who they are, and none of this matters … but I love you.
Tell all the scrumbo freaks in SEATTLE and elsewhere, YOU ARE FORGIVEN … but that helps me, not you …
Tell the people of that SUPER CITY SEATTLE, that they should ask: “how many times has Rome been destroyed, do you know?” (are you fucking stupid)
Tell Boomer I hope there’s Heaven for dogs, that I make it there, but who knows …
Tell the roaming sasquatch that the TIME IS NOW … strike while the iron is HOT …
Tell the Troblin-Hordes who worship real estate jesus, that if the “kingdom came” in your head, did have an O-FACE?
Tell the BANKERS to count their pennies … as the tumors eat their flesh, and the families starve and turn mad with rage …
Tell the GROMBO SECT leaders that the age of RESUPPLICANCE is HERE, and ghetto-lords will rise up …
Tell the politicians that their time is over and beware the coming throng …
Tell the pope that the ROMAN APOSTATE CHURCH is simply a zombie, that rose up, when the western empire fell …
Tell the grifter freaks who have plagued me since 2016 – your time is coming …
Tell the crypto scams and the FED plants and the crombo-nerds spying on their neighbors – your time is coming, it won’t be nice …
TELL the NASA freaks it’s weird, you know, that humans last left low Earth orbit in 1972 …
TELL SCROMBO HERDS, living off protein combos, that “going back to the Moon” in 2024 is a marker … a delineation … an OMEN of rapid change …
TELL ALL GLIMPTICK FOLK of SEATTLE: you are living in fullness of bread, soon it will lose its flavor …
Ensure that all care is taken to distribute my belongings to those that I love – and the RULER of the CENTRAL ZONE knows what this means …
Let the OLD TIME’Y hobos know, I’m getting my due …
Let the hookers of Scompton know, I was your jingus-lover …
Let the credit card companies know – you will get nothing.
Let the student loan company know – the university told lies, and the value of that is ZERO … actually … less than zero … someone owes me money.
Cities …
“Cities have ALWAYS been FEMA camps.” – Dr. Freckles
Until rates get above 15%? — we are still just chasing inflation.
If they pivot now? – inflation goes sideways, and a whole bunch of folks dump treasuries and other dollar denominated assets.
If you think the “pivot” would be good for crypto? – yes and no. Short term lemmings will chase yield, long term lemmings will realize they can’t afford to keep the nonsense going … not with blackouts, shortages, etc.
I don’t have a phone, for a few months … this doesn’t apply to all of you, but I have been in communication with some of you, by phone, for podcasts. I will get a new phone, I think, before GRINKEN TIME ends and FINAL BOBLIMPTOCK begins … I dunno. What happened to my phone? – could have been wookies, could have been TSA, could have been DAN with a POCKET KNIFE in the basement: CLUE …
Snowbird Man: looked irradiated, saw my t-shirt, kept wanting to talk about Artemis
Forgiveness – what it is, what it is NOT.
Prophecy – how much of the bible, and what happens when you spiritualize it away …
Beans is still alive …
Parents … kids … wearing coffee filters
The poor guy and the air conditioner … (and leaving out the silent part)
Sodom and Seattle: it’s gotten a LOT worse, since I left 1.5 years ago. Giant dark pit of shit hole.
What I do: I won’t talk about your bullshit after today, I simply won’t talk to or about you, ever again. Fun fact: I said bad things, and many more good … I wonder if the good was heard.
They are going to be putting homeless people on McNeil Island soon … right in the dead sea.
We’re not there yet … but the wookie people have been seen by the dogs, in the hills, by their camp fires, sharpening sticks, that’s why Boomer is so crazy … that’s why Kia is growling … the orca look differently at the kayak dude … be careful. We’re not there … yet … but we’re getting there … BOBLIMPTOCK … but the orcas will go insane, with hunger and rage, overriding their empathy chip, looking for man flesh to eat …
BTW: if you haven’t read “Too Much Magic” by James Howard Kunstler, I highly recommend it … seems like Seattle is on the OTHER SIDE of OZ now …
The pay is less …
“Sometimes you need a job that pays less, but provides more.” – Dr. Freckles
Consider minimalism …
Consider the value of your time, healthy more youthful time, VERSUS the big payoff when you’re 72 …
Below is a short book I wrote, in 2015, related to this topic of “time” vs “money”.
