“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.
