PLANETARY STATUS REPORT!

A woman is a power-beast with sick claws and ranger faces. She walks down by the old coolie shack and preaches breast expansion and buttocks convexity. Her mind is a flutter with batty nonsense and crooked murder schemes. Women will dump your soul and feed it drano and then cry and then yell at you for not listening. Women will watch closely, for their chance, to poison you – be on guard.

Women are of the THREEG-CASTE, and are forced to wear red in public. They are meant to clean the grease-grizzle from off the BBQ and they are tasked to keep well in times of greed, but they’ll still sue you for child support and tell you that damn Korean kid is yours. Mine? – no way … he’d be in his twenties, besides … 24 …

WOMEN keep the clocks sharp and wound … it’s their job to frame a table and place fried potatoes on a plate. IF they spend too much time bitching about lipstick and vacuum cleaners, then it’s time to spin up that dance club and set her right. A woman is meant to be your foam princess, and she’ll gather in the “sheaves”, place them in jars, and save them … sell them to Japanese women who are really lonely.

A woman will march through 8 deserts and hunt the hairy ape alone. She’ll sell twinkle-sauce to her sister-brides, while riding high on KROKODIL and diet coke. She has an answer to every question, and wears her pride as POWER. She’ll hate men, but she’ll always hate her sisters more – a Woman cannot bear to give the sun more than her, and all others are whores. Women are whores.

The FEMALE organism is a complex mixture of sand and charcoal and raccoon blood and kerosene. Her boobs are composed of popcorn and butter and wax and taffy – if rubbed correctly, they yield schnapps and cinnamon rum. That woman’s body is a map of the city, every alley, every lost cul-de-sac, every hovel in the dreary land, and you know you can see scars of where someone put out a cigarette … and you don’t care. You found your angel love in her, and her scars are her dowry …

The women folks wrestle with their chocolate desires, looking for frisky logs and friendly cable guys, while their man is out working in some mine, being buried alive. That girl spends her day clutching on some large onyx beast, whose power is manifest in those features of volcanic stone and mocha madness. The cuckolds die slowly, of cancer and sadness, as their women make love to any stranger – and this is just what they are.

A REAL WOMAN is a TORNADO made of dynamite, steak, and champagne. She flies in this world, relieved to know that nothing can stop her rise. Her men are mere consorts, for she is the queen and she has the honey. She’ll tie you down to a domestic life, and pick at you, and remind you of that “other guy” she could have had – but she knows about your hooker girlfriend at the Denny’s, and about the hotel, and all those dried condoms you’ve been collecting. She knows – because she’s a woman.

A woman has a boovula, this is her POWER CREVICE. She shoves all kinds of stuff into this place … old rocks, squirrels, fish heads and used hair spray cans. From a woman’s pulse, you can tell if she’s “ready for freddy” – her heart beats faster, and she gives off the zoob-mist which emanates, once again, from her boovula. She reaches peak sexual excitement, while rubbing her stwig, and spending YOUR MONEY. If she could, she would connect some apparatus to her hand and to her mind and to her boovula, to unify the one love experience of shopping … even if online.

A real woman is an unstoppable harlot, bent on the destruction of all that is good and well. She bursts on the scene, leaning in, providing INPUT – and tipping everything over. She insists on POWER POSITIONS, but then is unwilling to wear the rubber cock. Her voice is the voice of many tiny voices all arising from her secret erogenous zones that are only known to the Devil and John Stamos. She seeks to tie herself to a large oak framed bed, nearly naked, covered in chocolate and rose pedals … but her lover is the old grey monk, and her shame is on display every night at the strip club.

A woman is a lighthouse, bringing her lover to shore …

A woman is a missile, targeting your T-ZONE …

A woman is a joker, and the joke is on YOU.

Be careful, dear Sir or Mam, around this beast called “WOMAN” …

(she will tear you apart and feast on your pain)

A woman should never address or speak to a man at an IKEA … the woman should know enough to use the credit card and spend the man into massive debt.

Also – women should walk a few steps behind the men folk, and should not be allowed in the men’s study …

And, separate beds.

[curated: 3/31/2023]

I feel like I’m losing my mind.

I also don’t know if I care.

I screwed up a podcast today, mixed up some names from the Bible. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, especially given I was reading JAMES just before – and he ADMONISHES US to be CAUTIOUS in seeking the role of teacher. And here I am, BOLO, shit head, fuck up. Jesus is not happy with me.

I wonder about trying to make money … I dunno.

Been watching this old show that had been unavailable, online, for a long time … and it looks like they digitally remastered it, editing the background, to add geoengineering spraying … as if the clouds it might have shown, the ones from my youth, would be to fucking shocking to see … better to hide this, forever.

I could use a hooker, and take a trip to the movies with this slut. We would share a large popcorn, covered in butter, and then slip off to the men’s room to find that swift harmony of the grease zone. She’d yeez all over my pants as I left my mark on her shoes, and then we’d get chased off by the theater manager, and then what? ROB THE DRUG STORE? … I dunno.

I was a scrub racer once … I was a jaundiced-owl and a hair dresser and the last of the 3 armed Shimbly’s … I could wrestle crocodile and snort coke and find love on the edge. I lived in a box outside of Grinken Town, where the noodle people eat their ramen and then vomit up their rat slurry to sell to weirdos from Paris. They can eat their own flesh to soften the blow from Heaven.

I wonder about my madness, and whether it’s a super power. Maybe my insane rage will be my ticket to FAME. I’ll grow an army of dingus-freaks and we’ll wear leather and steel and hunt the squirrel and live off of old time hooker soup. WE WOULD BE HUGE and unstoppable, if I cared.

My madness is my laser beam love. I can sky glide in raspberry make believe, while GERDY and BIRDY fondle the ruckus prince in my study. We will have musket parties, and drink spiced rum from some trendy blender. Our silk hide servants will grow stygian grub for our pies.

Sometimes I stare at the holes between the holes. I see the fragmentary alliance between disarray and entropy and their queer love pact. The particle streams reverse themselves and Ron Jeremy starts selling enhancers late at night. Your Mexican lover is none other than Rolanda.

I knew this guy from Sheffield, in the UK.

He was a triple toker and gasoline smoker and he had an MG and would drive real fast …

His girlfriend was named Jacey, and she had red hair and pale pimply skin …

He was sane.

[curated: 3/30/2023]