PLANETARY STATUS REPORT!

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20241029_BTANL_Chapter_5_GRINKEN_MAN_and_WOAH_MAN.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

You are wondering: am I just trash?

White trash?

Black trash?

Asian or Mexican trash?

Eskimo trash?

Any mixed up kind of bastard trash?

The answer: yeah buddy, you’re garbage.

But we’re not the worst garbage.

We are the wayfarers lost in the storm, our ship is leaking and our people are upset. Our friends want PIZZA STYLE ENDINGS and morbid-steak for lunch. We are TIRED of being torn apart by RAIL BUFFALO and fruit-salad vendors. If we can stand up to the FUTURE our PAST will be secured as it was when began our former quest upon the sands of time. Our slime realm goblets overflow with prairie milk and spiced chicory, but we TIRE of the pistols and the beatings and the seeding of our women with vicious bastard kin.

CAN YOU HEAR THE VOICE? – it’s coming from outside.

We are SCRUMBO and we grow frustrated, but why?

We are SCRUMBO and our lands and chickens are taken, but why?

We have too little to care, but too much for our overlords, but why?

Many TENS of THOUSANDS of years ago, a great secret was stolen. The Neanderthal of GRID-4 were invading the STOOB-CASTLE of Queen Nostra. After many years of war, the Neanderthal DESTROYED the Queen and stole her “donut”, leaving behind a future heir in her “panty drawer”. But the SCROLL CHAMBER was safe. The queen had kept her bejeweled scroll chamber obscured by naked women, with big boobs, dancing …

The CHAMBER of SCROLLS contained the TRUTH about broken down men and women, well past noon on their way to evening, and how they “ain’t no good” and “maybe should be taken to a dump some place”, and really vile stuff like this.

The SCROLLS were spread about, to protect them and trick MONKS into copying them …

Then, about 23,000 years ago, XOXS the Blyb-Slayer, found the BALAMOO CODEX or CB.

The BALAMOO CODEX (CB) held within its writings the delineations of HUMAN, and defined what and why the SCRUMBO are:

The SCRUMBO are meant for the pain,
the grinding of it all.

Toss them into the pit with the dog and cat,
let them eat bat and dead turtle.

These are the worthless sleepers,
covered in nugget dust,
covered in jizz. 

They cannot LIVE but serve and do so with a smile.

Their days are counted as VIBRANT FLAKES of YELLOW,
falling off the uranium cake,
leaving scars and burning on the colon and hands,
no one understands.

In the dwelling swamp of Deacon Woods and ROBOT NIXON, their memories of stronger times was turning to new kinds of DISCO DITCH burning, yearning. People started buying VELVEETA and TANG and using plastic cards to turn death into mourning. Soon, it would be plutonium and poisoned lung.

At the crack of DAWN the scrumbo loads into HIS CAR, and drives to the sausage-factory to get TWO FOR ONE deals on maggot-loaf and yellowdized tango-gelato. Keevous-types, wearing jeans and acting mean, arrive at the worksite to clean out the hole. Greg had dropped a dead baby down that abyss yesterday, and he didn’t miss, but the baby made it clay. So TODAY we dig the trench with the front loader, Planned Parenthood is coming by for a visit.

So you think you’re OKAY with this SCRUMBO LIFE?

Let’s review THIS from the BALAMOO CODEX:

THERE IS NO ESCAPE FOR THE GARBAGE PEOPLE!

THERE IS NO WAY OUT OF THIS LANDFILL SCHEME!

You might as well find the FIRST squishy,
nice little fishy,
crawling on legs to escape the SEA.

But you make that wish,
and find that fish,
staring at you on a plate of NEW POTATOES and JACKET-WORMS.

YOU CANNOT ESCAPE AS SCRUMBO ...

But there is the PATH of GRINKEN MAN and WOAH-MAN.

If you read on, you will learn that WOAH-MAN is the FEMALE CORN GOBLIN. She rides horses and teaches courses, makes dinner while making love. Her eyes are fierce, but a kindness lingers in her fingertip parade.

THE WOAH-MAN is a TIGRESS, she has teeth like cold steel and the power to heal. She breathes in darkness and exhales JOY, and BOY does she make a good stew. YOU GREW to know her, in the garden and the muck, when your TRUCK brought in 400 lbs of manure, and she was never TRUER as she shoveled that shit into row after row … she ain’t no ho.

SCRUMBO MAN has a PLAN.

He can JACK UP HIS POWER MODULE and dig his way to WOAH-MAN’s lurching heart, it’s a start …

WE SCRUMBO MEN must move towards GRINKEN TOWN. We pack up our boxes and leave behind our TESLA/SPACEX distractions. No more GAMER LIFE or STRIFE, our PornHub account canceled, we are tossed by the wayside.

BUT A FUTURE EXISTS IN THE GRINKEN-MAN WORLD!

You can’t take the ridicule and the bullies no more. You have to SHAKE OFF that DEBT-SWEATER and tell the “companies” to go fuck themselves.

No one is coming to take your gun or your pit-bull or your CHEVY TRUCK you FUCK, but your wallowing in life’s sticky transactions makes you prone to SADNESS-VOLLEYS and other sordid entanglements.

WAKE UP FUCKER! – WOAH-MAN is waiting, if you can be brave enough to find her boovula in the night. Her tender valleys will lay open, and you can attain peach-cobbler CLIMAX, but not if you keep sifting through the discarded nightmares of DEATH-BARONS and shallow blonde cock holders.

A GRINKEN MAN WILL:

• KNOW HOW to DIG TRENCHES for dumping bodies
• understand all weapons, and how to build them
• quote SPOONER and RAND at random
• garden and grow potatoes and onions and carrots
• raise CHICKENS and COWS and hunt buffalo naked
• be fearless before the DARK LEGIONS of Vic Jaspers
• have a compound, with concertina obstacles surrounding it
• know how to dress a deer, smoke it, and share it with WOAH-MAN’s family
• use the SLYB MANEUVER when bringing your WOAH-MAN to PEAK-GASM.

The WOAH-MAN can’t be easily captured by just any GRINKEN-MAN.

She’s always moving, and her gait is clean …

There’s a GREEN CUBE below the stairs, it harkens after that WOAH-MAN power track. When you pump up the BOSTON on full volume, she gets wicked and pulls down her panties for that “free ride Friday” style pelvic action.

The WOAH-MAN hurries, but don’t worry – she has a slice of pie left for you. You have to hit the GYM GRINKEN-MAN and learn NEW skills before you get killed …

A WOAH-MAN does:

• the dishes
• whatever I say
• make me a fucking sandwich
• nothing, takes my credit card
• this is sad

YOU CAN’T USE SCRUMBO THINKIN LINCOLN, your UBER ARMY of blue haired freaks are DONE, and the crumbly-bun of septic misery is coming for a visit pal …

You have to STOP acting TOUGH or ROUGH, but be the stone that traps the sword.

Words are BLURBOUS …

CHOOSE YOUR WAR CREATURE GRINKEN-MAN; elephants are so LAST MILLENNIUM …

BOTH GRINKEN-MAN and WOAH-MAN are lost …

So many years ago we set out upon this path, and now we find ourselves in the forest of impossibility. Are time is near, but the beer harvest is incomplete and the blood catchments are nearly full. A firm hand and a holding pause so that our cause can prevail, but you got a notice in the mail saying “get the fuck out, or the COPS will take your home”. You are not alone, for we are GRINKEN-MEN and WOAH-MEN together, covered in diamonds and leather, bristling with fearless action and carrying 55 kinds of throwing stars.

Our CARS will be powered by FRENCH BULLDOGS, chopped up and sent to the mill, our KILLING WAYS will bend to PEACE as the world is renewed and the body dumps fill.

Don’t you DARE SAY “nobody said nothing”, WE DID … we left you a note.

But your broken and soulless enterprises, selling broken homes to devil bastards, is complete and now is the time to sell your shit, GTFO of the cities, and JOIN ME, at my COMPOUND, not too far from GRINKEN TOWN.

G.M.F.Y.I.L.Y.

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20241028_BTANL_Chapter_4_Paul_Harvey_Effect.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

If I were the devil … 
If I were the Prince of Darkness, 
I’d want to engulf the whole world in darkness. 

And I’d have a third of its real estate, 
and four-fifths of its population, 
but I wouldn’t be happy until 
I had seized the ripest apple on the tree — Thee.  

So I’d set about however necessary 
to take over the United States. 

I’d subvert the churches first — 
I’d begin with a campaign of whispers. 

With the wisdom of a serpent, 
I would whisper to you as I whispered to Eve: 
‘Do as you please.’

To the young, 
I would whisper that ‘The Bible is a myth.’ 
I would convince them that man created God 
instead of the other way around. 

I would confide that what’s bad is good, 
and what’s good is ‘square.’ 

And the old, 
I would teach to pray, 
after me, 
‘Our Father, which art in Washington…’

And then I’d get organized. 

I’d educate authors in 
how to make lurid literature exciting, 
so that anything else would appear 
dull and uninteresting. 

I’d threaten TV 
with dirtier movies 
and vice versa. 

I’d pedal narcotics to whom I could. 
I’d sell alcohol to ladies and gentlemen of distinction. 
I’d tranquilize the rest with pills.

If I were the devil 
I’d soon have families 
that war with themselves, 
churches at war with themselves, 
and nations at war with themselves; 
until each in its turn was consumed. 

And with promises of higher ratings 
I’d have mesmerizing media 
fanning the flames. 

If I were the devil 
I would encourage schools 
to refine young intellects, 
but neglect to discipline emotions — 
just let those run wild, 
until before you knew it, 
you’d have to have drug sniffing dogs 
and metal detectors 
at every schoolhouse door.

Within a decade I’d have prisons overflowing, 
I’d have judges promoting pornography — 
soon I could evict God from the courthouse, 
then from the schoolhouse, 
and then from the houses of Congress. 

And in His own churches 
I would substitute psychology for religion, 
and deify science. 

I would lure priests and pastors 
into misusing boys and girls, 
and church money. 

If I were the devil 
I’d make the symbols of Easter an egg 
and the symbol of Christmas a bottle.

If I were the devil 
I’d take from those who have, 
and give to those who want 
until I had killed the incentive 
of the ambitious.

And what do you bet 
I could get whole states 
to promote gambling 
as the way to get rich? 

I would caution against extremes 
and hard work in Patriotism, 
in moral conduct. 

I would convince the young 
that marriage is old-fashioned, 
that swinging is more fun, 
that what you see on the TV 
is the way to be. 

And thus, 
I could undress you in public, 
and I could lure you into bed 
with diseases for which 
there is no cure. 

In other words, 
if I were the devil 
I’d just keep right on doing 
what he’s doing.

Paul Harvey, good day

- Paul Harvey (1965)

Ref: https://www.wordandwork.org/2018/02/paul-harveys-if-i-were-the-devil-transcript-from-1965/

Paul Harvey was born in 1918, a time of great conflict.

Paul Harvey DIED in 2009, a time bullshit and pain.

During his time on the stage, with tempered rage and wit to balance, he silenced critics with his wispy homespun perspectives and his Cadillac style vibrations. Some say he INVENTED that CALM TALK DRIP, that AFTERNOON CHAT TRIP, that VOICE over AM RADIO that soothed you, as you yelled about GAS PRICES and urinated on pictures of Jimmy Carter.

One might contend that the PAUL HARVEY EFFECT is about this NEW WAY he invented, for engaging with HI FIDELITY listeners – but this is misleading. Paul’s dark craft swerved further under wraps, as CASE MONKEYS and other DORBAN HUSTLERS moved WEST from Philly.

Paul was born in Oklahoma, the son of a COP. His dad was killed by robbers in 1921.

Paul made radios as a kid, and attended the standard public schools.

Paul SERVED in WORLD WAR TWO and sailed the ocean blue, he met thieves and pirates and wayward travelers – in 1944 he met Jorgen Tull, a NAZI defector and crystal meth manufacturer. They got cooking.

Paul moved to CHICAGO after WW2, where he and Jorgen set up their first METH FACTORY in a cavernous sewer below the FIELD MUSEUM. Paul used his cover as a “radio guy” to make connections in the then GROWING DRIVE TIME RADIO world; in that world you have helicopter pilots, and SKY WARRIORS, weathermen and pimp lords. This is NOT KNOWN to many, and is denied by most – so you never know, right?

CIA was BRAND NEW back then, and ALLEN DULLES wanted to inject LSD into the scrotum sacks of priests and nuns and the pope. Paul worked with the CIA to get a USAF home-cook up and running for METH PILLS – them F-86 pilots in the Korean Theater did better against MIG-15s if they had some meth … as it happens, the same formulation that goes into ADHD drugs today.

In 1951, ABC news debuted PAUL as their “noon time” lunch guy. He’d speak words to those animals, working their hours in the coyote mills and ash factories, and thereby maintain a level of PEACE and CONTROL over those teaming masses of the future. Baby boomers, still kids, would eat chocolate ho hos and chuckle, not knowing the secrets, barely understanding the rumors. Paul was a groomer, he was a loomer, he LOOMED LARGE over AMERICANA, as it grinded out babies and nukes and cars.

Paul was an avid pilot, and was responsible for distributing the METH that he and Jorgen cooked each week. Sometimes Jorgen would come along for the ride. One trip, in 1958, they were delivering METH to Stoogsville, ARKANSAS, and a young man, Bill Clinton, made $50 a day setting up landing strips with flashlights and bonfires – guiding in the planes to drop of METH, weed, coke, and various trafficked men/women/children for the torture factories in LA and NYC. Jorgen and Bill became good friends, and later facilitated the coke pipelines in REAGAN’S AMERICA, ensuring the flow for the burgeoning crack epidemic. At one point the BUSH FAMILY bought nearly HALF of all Paul’s weekly batch, and this troubled Jorgen, but Jorgen as a former NAZI understood – the lust for power and its synergy with METH STYLE living.

In 1965, after 20 years of continuous METH use, Paul had a psychotic break. He began talking in riddles, and eventually his “PAUL HARVEY EFFECT” was felt. During a broadcast in 1965, he URGED ON the “true race” to HOLD BACK against the dusky masses. And Jorgen smiled.

TAKE DOWN that ANGRY BLACK SCAR,
you sit at the bars drinking watermelon cider,
eating BBQ pie?

Your HATE is TOO LATE my friends,
because the TRUE RACE NEVER ENDS,
and our WHITE POWER glows,
our white powder flows,
and MAN will STAND TALL SOON,
when we let go of tired sorrow.

- Paul Harvey, 7/6/1965

THIS RADIO TIRADE ENRAGED BLACK AMERICA … General Hutu-Bomgabbi of the EAST LA GONDO-LORDS spoke out against Paul, and demanded “immediate street action and gutter style violence”. A few weeks later, WATTS was in flames, LA was groaning under the weight of 500 years of oppression and the “Middle Passage” and other kinds of sideways bullshit.

You see, Jorgen Tull was Danish. Jorgen new HATE SCREECHING and RACE RANTING. He felt the pathetic rush as the vitamin-D deficient prance around in funny costumes.

Hitler recruited Jorgen in 1934 after a “tasting party” at the annual Thule Society soirée and sex banquet. Hitler knew the DANES had the darkest spirits, and could reveal the twisting ways of physics and interracial love affairs. You see, Hitler was in love with a young woman named Debra Hastings – Debra had escaped Oklahoma after the TULSA RACE MASSACRE of 1921; the same time period when Paul’s dad was killed. Debra had been LIVING IT UP in BERLIN, and at that time very few cared about her dark skin.

Debra was African-American, sweet and smart. She was chesty and had smiles. When she hugged Hitler, Adolf forgot about his pain and failure. He forgot about his oaths of revenge. He forgot about his failed career painting postcards, he just saw her, bathed in her light. BUT, HITLER was leading the ARYAN RACE towards TOTALISTIC VICTORY against the GENKEN-BROOD and the other lost forces of Mistress Vromm of Beef Torpedo fame. Hitler had promised “racial purity”, but he only knew one thing when he looked into Debra’s eyes – that he loved her, that he wanted to plant pretty little babies in her.

When Hitler tried Jorgen’s METH, this opened up conversations about “24 hour military operations” and “dive bomber STUKAS” and all kinds of things meth-heads talk about when they’re HIGH.

“Jorgen, what can I do about this love?”

“You must free her and remember BRAVE GERMANY …”

“But I can’t stop loving her.”

“You will, if you want my METH.”

Now, years later, Hitler defeated, Paul meets Debra – and falls in love too.

A fiery 1960’s meth fueled ROMP through the dungeon keeps of old America. Debra was older than Paul, but she had experience with love-squeezing and body juice sharing. Paul would GO DOWN on her like some ancient dirty diver, swimming for that pearl in her onyx soup. All of this is to say that JORGEN did not fancy this at all, and HE was going to stop it – again … because HE SECRETLY LOVED Debra too … fuck … fuck this is sad.

This was a love triangle that stretched across time; because unknown to Paul Harvey and his meth freak friend Jorgen, Hitler was NOT dead.

In April 1945, as part of a secret NAZI experiment with relativistic effects, Hitler was transported 20 YEARS into the future – to Kecksburg, PA. The device or “Bell”, was hyper-chamber utilizing dual-plasmatic EMF immersion with QUADROPHONIC sound and sexy results. The device glowed before their eyes, as HITLER slipped two decades beyond the WAR and all of its terror.

Hitler showed up in 1965 and was experimented on by the CIA: his arms were ripped off and then sewn back on, he had roach gelatin injected into his skull, cobra venom was put in his food and his testicles.

Hitler spent months in ONE MK-ULTRA experiment after another, being jabbed and isolated. He had loud noises at HIGH DECIBELS directed at his ear drums. He had sulfuric acid injected into his spine. But in 1969 Hitler escaped and after a few months of wandering America, he ended up in Chicago at Roger’s Cabaret in Boy’s Town.

It gets more sordid …

Because PAUL was with DEBRA at Hooglies off of Dirgen Street in December 1969. They were at a CHRISTMAS PARTY being hosted by Barbara Streisand, when HITLER and JORGEN showed up – they were both SUPER DRUNK and super belligerent. It got saucy. Hitler, filled with cocaine and whiskey and rage, grabbed Debra by the arm and shouted “you’re going with me”, but she didn’t want to. Paul was none to happy either …

Paul was carrying a switchblade and pulled it. He shoved that knife deep into Hitler’s chest, and blood sprayed all over the club – as the TEEGLIE boys and “late night shoppers” went running back home to Evanston, to play “daddy” again.

Jorgen stood by and just watched these beasts go at it, and then he moved closer to Debra as the fight turned into madness …

“Hey baby.”

“Jorgen, you BASTARD”, Debra slapped him across the face.

“Baby I know … I’m sorr …”

“Stop right there, you tore me away from my first love … you got Hitler addicted to crank and racism and setting shit on fire … FUCK YOU JORGEN.”

Debra walked away, she was tired of their busted up minds.

The bar shut down and it was Hitler and Paul Harvey and Jorgen the DANE, alone, sharing a booth in the darkness, drinking stale whiskey and smoking damp cigarettes.

Hitler got real silent, with toilet paper shoved into the hole in his chest. But then after several minutes, he mumbled:

“What did I do it for, the war, the death, the hate?”

IT WAS AT THAT MOMENT that PAUL had a revelation …

Paul got on a plane the very next morning, he was HEADING TO CALIFORNIA to meet with his friend Ronald Reagan, THE GOVERNOR of the state.

Paul went directly to Reagan’s compound in Pasadena, where Reagan kept Mexican slave girls and ran a nightclub for the militarists and pederasts of LA. It was a skeevy place, filled with those swollen-lechers that are typically found near the SLEAZY WHARFS of San Francisco. Paul was shocked by the blood shakes and the long-pig pizza.

Reagan brought Paul to his secret room, a special office for eldritch rites and experiments on French bulldogs. They talked for HOURS and then Paul went back to his hotel. On the WAY to his hotel, Paul was run off the road by the Manson Family, and taken back to Spahn Ranch. Charles sang songs for Paul, and they shared ideas about black people and Jews and Danes and the Beach Boys.

It was within this KILN of AWARENESS that Paul’s mind baked …

Paul had been pressed to the ultimate point of ripping and he had a VISION, this is a fragment of what he told Charles:

If GOD arrived,
covered in ants,
morbidly saccharine,
like the ancient burly beasts ... 

If GOD came back,
for a lightning attack,
taking with him the sinners,
taking with him the slackers,
he'd have backers: like Gen Westmoreland.

We could CAVE RAPE the VIETCONG,
but our blood merchant fantasy soon ends.

Our friends abandon us to the silk parlor,
for hours,
for love,
the steam fills every CRACK,
and we're DONE with Charlie Swift,
and we're through trying ...

This is a long winded way of saying:

THE PAUL HARVEY EFFECT was to SPREAD METH and get bikers addicted. The bikers, listening to Paul and Hitler and Jorgen and Chuck were infected with a mind virus that spread. This led to EASY PAYDAY LOAN businesses being opened up in many cities, in the poorest parts of town; and later, led to strategic land purchases for building convenient Planned Parenthood abortion shoppes.

THE VIRUS of RACISM went everywhere: into books and crooks and old crones, baking coffee peach scones, and making their bones off of HEROIN CAKE.

All the nation caught fire, and racism led to META-RACISM and META-RACIMS led to CRITICAL RACE THEORY and that led to BLM-ANTIFA and CHOP / CHAZ and LORD RAZ making a gable closet of loose women with big tits ….

You don’t KNOW because no one told you.

Hyper-Racism is the ACKNOWLEDGMENT that the PEOPLE are WHITE-TRASH, even if their skin color is BLACK. Black, yellow, green, white, brown, blue, we DGAF. We don’t care, you are part of the same meat pie as the rest.

Paul Harvey doomed us.

We didn’t come this far because we’re made of sugar candy. Once upon a time, we elbowed our way onto and across this continent by giving smallpox-infected blankets to Native Americans. That was biological warfare. And we used every other weapon we could get our hands on to grab this land from whomever.

And we grew prosperous. And yes, we greased the skids with the sweat of slaves. So it goes with most great nation-states, which—feeling guilty about their savage pasts—eventually civilize themselves out of business and wind up invaded and ultimately dominated by the lean, hungry up-and-coming who are not made of sugar candy.

- Paul Harvey, 6/23/2005

G.M.F.Y.I.L.Y.

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20241024_BTANL_CHAPTER_1_HOVERCRAFT.mp3

Donate: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/doctorfreckles

YOU CAN FLOAT ON AIR,
YOU CAN RIDE THIS AIR CAR,
around your HOME ...
around your school ...

It floats on air,
powered by a vacuum cleaner ...

It floats on air,
powered by an electric motor ...

If it needed electric power?
Or some kind of magical SPRITE?
They'd tell you, right?
They'd include those words, amazing.

Infinite energy drive, what a time to be alive.

IT LIFTS 200 POUNDS!
THIS FUCKER LIFTS 200 POUNDS!

You will fly around,
all over town,
your woman will wear a gown,
the old men will frown ...

IT'S YOUR BOY'S LIFE HOVERCRAFT!
It's your key to future bliss!
This one time offer so surprising,
you don't dare miss.

For PLANS AND PHOTOS? - send $4.95 ...
For love and HEROES, give us your coin.
Your loins will flare,
you'll kill a bear,
your daddy WILL SWEAR to never take the ATARI away ...

PITFALL PETE.
PITFALL PETE.
STRUGGLE SO SWEET.
IN A JUNGLE SO WET.
You can bet mother fucker,
good old Pete,
wished he had a hovercraft,
to beat bricks back home,
to beat his meat.

You can float on air.
It lifts 200 pounds.
They'll never hear a sound,
when you sneak up on their BOY'S LIFE LIES.

The skies turn dark,
but you still have time,
for plans and photos,
send four ninety five.

FREE INVENTORS CALENDAR!
It's fun.
It's free.
With order ...

Low COST,
EASY TO BUILD,
YOU CAN'T BE KILLED,
YOU WON'T BE DESTROYED,
YOUR LIFE WILL IMPROVE,
one day you'll find YOUR GROOVE ...
Am I right Pete?

You still swinging Pete?

You still alive?

Or do you live with UNCLE CLIVE,
in HELL ...

Does that ring a bell?

We're going to Hell.

In late 2019 I had a tingler latched to my back, sinking its bug teeth into my spine. It whispered things like “fuck, shit’s about to get real” and “dude, the Lord’s Church will be driven underground soon”. And all of this is in the rear view mirror, as the COSMIC race brings us closer to a photo finish and British underwear models grab their feline spices and leave grease marks on the crescent metal sofa where their “third world guilt” banged them last night. Like that, and it’s fucking annoying, but it’s JUST LIKE THAT.

It reminds me of when I was a kid, at the barbershop with my dad …

In addition to slightly out of date Popular Mechanics and Popular Science, there was always that one ragged copy of Boy’s Life on the table at the barbershop whilst you awaited your trim. You’d flip through and see articles about boys fishing for trout, and starting fires, and the story of “young hero” type bullshit. Some bear was chasing some fucking Holden Caulfield down the dungeon pit of life’s little tragedies, but the boy STOOD up and made a SPEAR, and tossed that wretched thing in the bear’s ear. That boy’s life was saved; Boy’s Life was like that, and more.

If you stayed long enough, looking at those brownish yellow papers, that low quality ink on pulp, you might happen upon an article promising something AMAZING. COME ON: GEN X was RAISED on TANG and APOLLO STYLE BODY ORGIES. We expect the BEST, and our disappointments MOUNT. But back then, we’d look at that beautiful thing, and see in IT the reflection of our true American can-do selves. But that’s the GRIFT. That some kid during the stagflation heydays of the 1970’s might cobble together enough lawn mowing coinage to build some functional HOVERCRAFT … because that’s what they were selling. A hovercraft miracle.

Looking at that space vehicle you could imagine being General Patton, storming the BEACHES, fighting them NAZIs in your HOVERCRAFT DREAM. You might pick up Farah Fawcett and hang out at the WHISKEY BAR listening to the EAGLES play happy sunshine Saturday music bullshit. With that HOVERCRAFT? – the kids would stop making fun of you. Your dad might stop yelling at you. The world might stop calling you fat, and stupid, and a loser … if you had that FUCKING hovercraft. But instead, disappointment.

I think about the waning days of 2019, and out of that misty memory I conjure that demon from my youth, that impossible force, that summertime dream that some wise scheme could bring into existence; “the summer doesn’t end friend”, is what that HOVERCRAFT FANTASY said to me. But the summers must end and we drift deeper into the darkness scrumbo brothers and sisters.

WE ARE THE SCRUMBO, WE ARE THE LIMBO, we are the ones cleaning up after the baggage handler white lightning parties. We MIX DIESEL and BROKEN GLASS and OLD ASS with our sawdust and metal shavings, we are ready to guzzle it down, without a frown, so that the WHOLE TOWN, bejeweled and in gowns, might COME OUT THAT NIGHT and make it a happening. What a sight it would be, if that HOVERCRAFT LIE didn’t die.

THE HOVERCRAFT LIARS are the scourge.

They’ve morphed and sell iPhones now or reverse mortgages, but they’re still out there, grifting, sifting through the landfill of these intemperate masses finding goblets and glasses of tired old wine and Orson Wells’ ghost marking the way to peace. Will this madness ever cease?

They’ve changed into lawyers and voyeurs, glaring at that sticky alley fort life. Taco people wrapped in tarps, sleeping with roaches and rats and earwigs laying eggs in their ears and laying siege to their inhibitions.

I flourished before the time of LIES, when the FRENCH FRIES arrived and Ronald gave everyone a HAPPY meal. We were donuts and cake, we had an EZ bake oven and sold crank to the spiders at the Harley Davidson store. Kennels, filled with waifish bar maidens fed that lust prison and kept us from HIGHER UNDERSTANDING. We were trapped, and unfree – the HOVERCRAFT was a shackle and a hassle and the end of our youthful bliss.

2020 ARRIVED with BLUSTER and BRAVE FEAR.

Every crazed nurse-ape on TWITTER was advising you to MAKE YOUR WAY to the HOSPITAL respirator, for the necessary care of your magic monkey herpes or virus or pandemic. And you’d look at the nurses, as they danced in G-string style panties, and rubbed their BRAVE HERO MUNCTOUS upon your forehead blessing you, YOU SPECIAL YOU with WARP SPEED LOVE and BUMP STOCK BUSTINESS. The mind fuck didn’t end, no matter what you pretend or avoid. They keep tossing bullshit, but we know, my fellows, we know as HANG GLIDER MADMEN, that this is STILL the play; the intermission is nearly over, the FINAL ACT will be quite real.

You’ve tested the waters, and found that the sea is a roiling mess of carcass getaways and sailors lost and alone.

You are MAKING changes in your life, to become encrusted and trusted; various reef wardens have marked you and your time to SHINE is SOON!

When the fury cast is met by a skull dragon and the sky bleeds yellow, a fellow with a hearty laugh and a golden staff will arrive. He sells musket balls and catcalls and German cars and martini bars. You will meet that looming fate, and GREAT will be the scream as you meme and dance. An ORANGE KING has come to play and the sand castle queens will go away. For TODAY, this DAY, is THE DAY you turn up the volume on your life and get rid of the strife.

Boblimptock is almost ripe, and those cavern slugs you’ve been running from cannot hurt you any longer. Your fists are raw but filled with fight. Your eyes are consumed by the RED LUST of vengeance. You know what’s up, and you’ll take the FIGHT to them: the JACK-APES, the DURG-BUTCHERS, and FARMER TED. The whole GANG of framed mantle jacks can be YOURS for 6 EASY payments of just $15.99 … kind of feeling that hovercraft love again, ain’t ya?

Ominous …

In May of 2025, following the first full month of JD Vance’s presidency, a great object, glowing and special, will be seen in the sky. In April 2025, President Trump dies of a stroke. JD Vance takes over, and starts doing shit you’d expect him to do. Maybe we get WW3 no matter which chunk of human waste is tossed at the wall. Maybe there’s a ugly monster coming. Boblimptock was only ever going to last about 5 years … it all comes to an end, BOBLIMPTOCK does, the 5 years does, in May 2025. At that moment we enter GRINKEN TIME.

GRINKEN TIME will be a merciless pain flood. The deluge of old will take hold, in new forms. Humans, so called, will devolve into mongrel hoarders and old style weasel knights. The best among us will be taken swiftly by the first great herald, as skies turn brown, then orange, then black, then red. Many such horses and portended things can be felt, as the Pope talks about beach blanket bingo, and your grandmas tell you stories of salty BOOMER STYLE 5 ways in FRISCO back in 72′.

DOOK MINKLER, the TULIP STALLION, will take hold of what’s left of California, by the year 2033. Scoop gals, with torn dresses and jagged smiles, will carry knives about Sunset Boulevard and horny-Mc-Chesty types will run in fear from those rage driven morblies from Quadrant-83-BRAVO. Scourge forces and shock armies will surround your plans and nothing you expected will manifest. And why? – because YOU are living in 2019.

SKAG FISHING will be our FUEL ENDEAVOUR. Hunting coyote-elk and jungle-beaver will fill our days, as drinking and merrymaking FILL OUR NIGHTS. We TOSS that rancid place into the great vortex, we cast out remorse, regret, and sullen obsessions about pointless desires.

You want to go back? – STOP IT!

2019 is SO FUCKING OVER.

All your grievances and plans.

All your dollar faith and rule of law homage.

All the “respect” the institutionalized used to get, and is now gone.

All of it – leave it behind puddle flower.

Leave your pain with the blistering sun and that dead horse named Joovis, and just go …

Stop bringing up what “might” have happened – it didn’t, so what?

To be a LORD of BOBLIMPTOCK, you must transcend the ancient ways and embrace the new melodies. Songs played today resonate with the third eye and the green crystal. Pirate spirits will chase you, and try to take you away, but if you can LET GO of 2019 thinking, you can GET ON WITH Boblimptock style loving. And that’s a real nice moist warm love, fits well, you can commit to it.

Say goodbye to your hovercraft childhood.

Say hello to your meat pirate future.

We will get past the scrubly.

We will become GRINKEN FOLK.

And remember some old time wisdom …

“Boblimptock has made Helter-Skelter seem like Woodstock.” – Dr. Freckles

HISTORY HAS BECOME UNSTUCK!

CHEERIO GRINKEN FOLK of the FUTURE!

G.M.F.Y.I.L.Y.