PLANETARY STATUS REPORT!

Kids are going to public schools to learn about NEGATIVE EGO INVERSION and Tennessee love-affairs with greasy teachers and dirty cops. They show up at health class, and it’s mainly a discussion of eating scorpion eggs and raising cane rat to feed the tribe. No more time for books or math, only pale castings of tire iron getaways and the forest regions where parent’s are dumping their dead babies now. You’d be SURPRISED by what happens 50 feet from the principal’s office, or maybe you wouldn’t be shocked.

They have a new vocational training program at the local schools …

Skages, the deed-baron, has a course in farming for the kids. He talks about raising mites and mosquito larvae and extracting venom from wasps and hornets and yellowjackets … He lines up the kids in the trenches, and MR GRIBBS comes by to check their underwear for doormat soup. Kids with bruises and shaking, kids seeing dead eyed manger rats chasing them back home, down the hill, to the burrow under the docks. “You kids don’t understand, you can extract REAL CASH from these things”, and Skages smokes a cigarette and laughs at his cadre of misfits, as each young soldier pulls poison from the thorax of the pinned insects.

Yagle-spikes are being set up on the perimeter of the local school. Triple-strand concertina wire, claymores, crew served area weapons, all set in place to keep those hell-spawn in the fenceline. Dick-whorlers rustle the runaways from their black/white cruisers, in their polyester uniforms, whacking the young ones with bats, batons, sticks. The parents are busy doing the BLUES, which they buy from the POH-POH, as the local councilwoman stands up for “JUSTICE” and the mayor talks of dead animals being dumped in the sewers.

“Clever mother fucker!”, screamed the bus driver to little Tommy – that damned kid had placed homemade dragon’s teeth on the road, cuz his parents let him stay up late watching TV. The bus flipped over, throwing those little pedals about the yellow box, as Mrs. Gombley is skewered by a pine branch, and her stool is spilt all upon the bus floor. Some of the kids survive the wreck, but they drag the bodies off into the woods and begin preparing them for STREET TACO MEMORIES. The cops show up 6 hours later to tag the bodies, identify the wreck as a “mishap”, and to arrest the local woman who filmed the event and uploaded the whole thing to TIK TOK.

“The softball team is heading to state, go out to the tennis courts and wish them goodbye”, so the DORG-CREW, led by Steevis McDoob, storm the courts … they spent the morning drinking drain cleaner and hand sanitizer … they are looking for them TOOG-REALM dancers, who feel special, feel loved, and so must be destroyed. Most of the GLEE CLUB is stuck at the skate park doing tranq and PCP, while the CHUD are cooking street-buffalo in the caves near Migg’s Town.

A cactus hero from New Mexico stopped at the school to give a “motivational” speech. He talked about “cash energy” and “slave benefits” … he made the kids scream “SCORPION POWER”, and then he spent 20 minutes talking about his new style scorpion juice energy drink for kids … and prostitutes. Most of his helpers come from CAESAR’S PALACE, or Ship Rock, and carry with them curses from the elders of the dust storm.

Yellow and red, dried out rinds of life. As the leaves turn to sand and the ground shakes, the future quakes and stakes out time near the funnel river. The skies are covered in crisscrossing sketches of death and nasty marmalade burdens. None of the kinder folk feel safe, as adults march on WALMART demanding more cricket flour. And now there’s talk of an OLD STYLE PANDA EXPRESS opening up in town, and maybe taking over the cafeteria at the school – so that the kids can have healthy panda meat just like their ancestors.

I can still see the flipped over bus …

Catching fire, screams heard over the rustle of a dying timberland.

The parents too busy to know …

The officials too drunk to care …

The road painted crimson and white …

And the school day is over.

The long emptiness awaits.

I sure did. IDGAF.

I clicked on it because it offered NEW VITALITY and SEXUAL GREASE POWER. I got sent to this website in JORGANSTAN, not far from the Tomb Town heroes. I ended up putting in my social security number and credit card number and all the private keys for all my bitcoin. It gave me SOUND POWER loving, and sandy moments of forgetfulness. Hacked my email, that’s what it’d done, and sent out dick pics to all my friends … all 4. Fucking link. I clicked on that mother fucking link.

I clicked on them INSTAGRAM links. There were photos of old people, from way back times, from times where people carved spears from hickory bone and launched their scones at the Queen. I clicked on it and it said I would be RICH one day, if I adopted a new crypto based cash flow system – there was a picture of a hot chick having sex with a gorilla. It was terrible, monstrous, changed my life. No longer will I fear some lingering silent death, because I ordered DVDs from the guy with the LAMBO … and his ho looked quite nice, so he must have great advice … because of those fucking links you DM’d. Sunnabidge.

Those links you sent me?

One of them talked about Terrence Howard and the SACRED FLOWERS of LIFE, and how FLOWTEIN POWDER from SEAFLOW is related to this “there are no straight lines” cult nonsense. Professor Howard promises “improved libido” and “meat pipe follow through”, all the fluids of your woman will ungulate as you cast your boovula magic using the sacred life flower cash flow model teriyaki style love lasers and tit clamps … all from SEA-FLOW, all from those fucking links you sent.

There have been these weird links floating around on the WWW. People send you LINKS, and you have to click, just like you have to pop those plastic air bubbles on that fucking bubble wrap. You can’t not do it, your soul seethes with anguish if you ignore “You’ll Never Believe This” or “What the government doesn’t want you do know” or “You don’t have to work to be rich” or some picture of a EMO busty ginger, 33 yo, wearing only underwear and holding a sign that says “buy bitcoin”. Your heart is a shattered thing, and the GLASS is not half full or half empty … that fucking glass is broken, just like your hopeful memories that stop at the future. Fuck you for sending me those links.

Pour a beer out for Harry Truman (not the president), who has been drifting through space for 44 years … with his 23 cats and 500 tons of chili, in that fragment of the mountain where he stole away to a cave to save his cats and chili and whiskey … probably met VEEGER out there on that elliptical orbit. Now he’s returning, for PAY BACK!

In 1987, Harry and his cats, wearing space suits made of duct tape and discarded newspaper, explored an abandoned space cruiser from JINGO-PRIME in the DELVIC-REGION of the galaxy. Though the crew were all dead, bodies apparently melted, one of the droog-creatures had left some nasty machine on, and all 23 cats jumped in … after a few moments they didn’t need no space suits no more, because they’d been turned into SPACE CATS with hyper intelligence – but still cats. Harry didn’t know what to do, he still loved them little demons.

In 1994 his rocky asteroid like capsule coasted by MARS, and his super cats went down to check out the Martian bones. They knew the secret, and were busy etching shit, and dropping clues that lead nowhere. The cats told Harry that “dinosaur bones” were a PUNK, and placed there by aliens to fuck with people … the cats knew things, and their robot hearts were now burning with a sense of vengeful mischief – a generalized anger toward the human gumptous freaks, and a desire to enslave the human race in a Feline Kingdom of kitty rule …

That chunk of rock is near now … maybe tonight … maybe next year.

Harry and his cats and space crabs are coming …

Are you ready?