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”.
I’ve just created a new occupation: pharmaceutical sales rep AND flight attendant.
Getting treatments for my splinctus, preparing for my own unraveling … the groglion-zone is filled with blymph … my thyroid-degenerator-tone is off kilter … it’s bad
I’m back to wrestling coyotes for 50 cents a day … I live in a complex near Vernal, called the Grinken Arms … my girlfriend, Jadie, has crabs …
I was contacted by Zim, the 3rd Resupplicant Gunt-Herder, and he let me know it was my job to form a temple, at the burial ground in Scompton, and to charge people fees for salvation … no money? – no heaven … like the “wealth and abundance” preachers …
A few weeks ago I was hiking in the Uinta Mountains. I came across the scat or sign of a wookie creature. I tracked that smelly mongrel beast to the edge of the Dingy Forest, not far from Shligdon, which is where the Mormons killed them other Mormons to cover up the truth about the death of Joseph Smith.
I’m researching that PHIL DONAHUE EPISODE that was DESTROYED back in the 1980’s concerning Procter and Gamble and their corporate satanism.
I wander the fields, dreaming of wanderers, wandering fields …
Sit down in your quiet space, in a comfortable chair, and imagine a world: a world full of magic and life and consciousness and people … of lands, fields, cities … of all possibility.
In that world, there is a person, in a quiet room, imagining a world … and in their world there is a person, imagining worlds …
MIND BREAKS
Weird …
“Trust: something a hooker uses to clean our her boovula.” – Dr. Freckles … do you know me? Do I know you? This idea of 3rd parties verifying relationships? – it was never going to work. Problem with crypto: it pretends it supports peer-to-peer transactions, but in reality it is a 3rd party trust platform … and sorry … no amount of tech fixes the asshole problem.
not FUCK, but fuh-luh-luh-luh … YOU
“Every city has a strip club.” – Dr. Freckles
There’s 100K tons of gold in the mountains of NE Utah …
Reality is only real because there is a God that makes it so …
Please donate money to my Seattle-Cocaine-Fund … or SCF … I also need to renew my Bluehost sub … fuh-luh-luh-luh’ker …
“If you are still worried about the debt, inflation, muh oil? – you are not remotely prepared for what is coming.” – Dr. Freckles
New product “seems just like a pandemic” … JUST LIKE A PANDEMIC, as seen on TV … available NOW at WALMART … just in time for CHRISTMAS …
I don’t expect anyone to contribute to my poorly planned and self injurious behaviors …
However …
I am heading back to Seattle soon and I need to raise money for cocaine. I will not drive a vehicle or operate heavy equipment. I will, maybe, podcast … who knows … but I NEED IT!
So, if you’re “cool”, get me some cocaine money …
You don’t have to …
But it would be great to do a little coke before this world is broke, for good.
HOW:
get some cash, about $1,000 bucks my man
go down to Pioneer Square, in Seattle
find Scrumbly-Bear, the NO. 1 dealer down there …
ask Scrumbly for 2 or 3 8 balls of HIGH QUALITY COKE …
take coke home and just start snorting that shit
maybe I start dialing numbers of old high school friends … I’m 52.
(but maybe I’ll just use the money for food and beer and weed, amirite?)
Very close to calling BULLSHIT …
I’m not that far from calling bullshit on the UKRAINE WAR. It seems the main purpose of this “war” is to block arctic researchers from reporting on the true state of the arctic ocean, specifically the ice extent and the monitoring of methane release.
The best move, as of YESTERDAY, for Russia is to first strike NATO forces. Longer Putin waits, the closer he gets to the same fate as Khadaffi …
MAD or Mutual Assured Destruction does NOT apply to scenarios where:
multiple and separate conflict zones with belligerents possessing nuclear weapons.
where more than one belligerent can be considered mentally incompetent or insane.
China/Russia would be best served by a strategic first strike, no notice, against key command and control in the USA. Using swarm EMP attacks to take out civilian command and control. They wouldn’t invade, they would simply wait for the “next asshole” in line to begin a process of rational conversation.
In this scenario? – WA DC is toast. Probably NORAD in Colorado as well, and many other command and control bunkers. Perhaps they will selectively NOT target certain bunkers, thereby “selecting” who they will negotiate with.
THE BIG SPACE FUCK! (from 3/13/2021)
I do not believe we EVER LANDED ONE FUCKING PERSON on the Moon.
The last time a human left low Earth orbit? – 1972 … I was a couple years old … with all the techno-babble optimism being ladled on me since the 1990’s? – seems like Moore’s Law does NOT apply here … need not apply, amirite?
The total number of people who have been to “space”? – about 600. About 116 billion people have EVER LIVED. That means that the naive likelihood of “space” for any given human is the tiniest fraction of a percent. See image below. Even if you restrict it to the number of people since 1945? – the percent is still very very small … so small a chance, that a rational person applying the rules of betting might say … it never happened or happens.
I believe there’s a good chance that when they say “people by 2024”, they are telegraphing that the “show” will be over long before then … whatever is coming? – we will be too busy trying to survive, best case scenario, to care about this bullshit.
“Something that rarely happens according to data, and seems absurdly impossible? – might be impossible.” – Dr. Freckles
Starting out in Roosevelt, Utah. Being fed some story about lost Mormon gold some place up there, in them there Uintas Mountains … An old drunk named Nathan, who lives off of Main Street in an old trailer, tells ya “I’ll give you the map to Brigham Young’s lost gold if you buy me a pack of cigarettes …”, and you buy that nasty old bum some cigs …
I walked with the bum, back to his trailer, after I got him some cigs at CHEVRON. He started telling me about his ex-wife, and her pimp boyfriend, and her hooker-crabs … it was sad … all I wanted was the gold.
“You know that gold is guarded by the wookie people, and the indians, and the skin walkers and aliens … that gold is special … no one gets it, unless they want death”, the creepy old drunk left me with these prescient words and morbid thoughts.
That old hobo said I needed to start “here in Roosevelt”, for some wicked and sublime reason that he wouldn’t even describe for fear of being possessed by the skin walker demons at city hall. “The whole government of Roosevelt, Duchesne, Vernal, ALL FUCKING SKIN WALKERS … all of them …” But I was undeterred.
I packed up the necessary items into backpack, and loaded up my truck. The following was a recommended packing list:
12 gauge, semi-auto, 7 in 1, Mossberg tactical shotgun
200 rounds of buckshot, 200 rounds of slug ammo …
12 days of food, rice, turmeric, onions and eggs … potatoes and scroblin-protein
Munctis Oil from hooker avenue in SLC …
Cold weather gear, high altitude oxygen climbing equipment, masks …
Proper hiking shoes with crampons available for rock climbing and descending into caves …
A hooker girlfriend, you lie to her, you say you’ll pay her $1,200 a night for mongo-sex, instead you were taking her up there for other reasons …
All the equipment the hooker girlfriend needs …
3 cases of WHISKEY …
9 cases of cheap Mexican beer
23 boxes of CAMEL cigarettes
A portable espresso machine
Cocaine, a lot of cocaine …
LSD and SHROOMS …
A tent and a bed and maybe some condoms …
A portable shortwave transceiver, with antenna system … for emergency contacts …
12 guage semi-auto shot gun, with 20 rounds of buckshot and 10 rounds of slug …
I went to Vernal to pick up a hooker, “Sheila”, and then made my way to the first way point on the journey: Uinta Canyon Road and the Uinta River as it flows down from them there mountains …
“I thought we were heading to SLC”, Sheila commented as we parked the truck and hit the trails … we loaded up a cart to carry extra equipment and Sheila wore a harness to pull the cart. Sheila was strung out on METH and HEROIN so I needed to give her some cocaine, as a reward for her labor, about every 2 miles of the hike.
Nearing next way point, a saddle off of Mt. Emmons near the peak, Sheila spotted a hot spring … the woods were deserted and it was late Autumn. The streets had been hard on Sheila, but she was comely, and had nice boobs. She took the straps off, and left the cart by the trail. I simply stood there and watched as Sheila went down to the hot spring and began undressing. She pulled glimpset-oil from her backpack, and began rubbing her orbs and caressing her boovula. She did this for 30 minutes, and I sat nearby and drank whiskey.
We got back on the trail, and after 45 more minutes of hiking we found a nice spot to set up camp. We set up our tents, and laid out our sleeping bags. We made munsket-meat and grumble stew by the fire, we cooked Cajun style beast-bread and then the heavy petting began. She demanded I use tent spikes and 5-50 cord, I demanded she shut up … I wasn’t interested in her opinion.
The next morning we woke with the crack of dawn, orange light breaking through the tent and illuminating Sheila’s half naked body – her torso and head sticking out of the sleeping bag, her breasts firm and supple, her nipples hard and protruding. I woke up and my man tube was “ready for action”, so we spent some more time in that tent, playing little games, lathering each other in love greases and spunk-flesh …
At around noon, we were back on the trail … we needed to make our way to a spot near King’s Peak, but the hike would be over broken country, and the carts would be harder to pull. Sheila was smiling, and seemed like she’d forgotten she was a hooker, just a week ago servicing some “elders” from Park City. She was seeing something new, something fresh. She’d lived in Utah her whole life, and NEVER spent any time in the mountains, camping. She could pretend she was a different person, and this was liberating.
We came across an abandoned cabin near Lake Atwood, and that’s where we decided to cache some of our gear, extra water, and some other emergency equipment plus the carts. For the next leg of the journey we would only take essentials: one tent, one extra-large sleeping bag, condoms and sexual oils, food, high altitude breathing equipment, rock climbing gear … and of course, whiskey, 2 bottles.
We were able to make camp on the side of King’s Peak, and planned out our next leg. We were getting close to that place where “the great riches” will be made plain. I didn’t know if that old drunk was crazy, but I knew I wanted to believe the story …
At the campsite that night, Sheila and I ungroobulated ourselves in the woods – wandering the nearby brush naked, making love like wolf-eagles and coyote-bears.
We fell asleep, in each other’s arms, in that cold weather sleeping bag near the fire.
We woke a few times, early in the morning, to the noise of WOOKIES and other injun spirits approaching our campsite. Sheila heard the noises, and clung to me, her naked body pressed up against mine – I had the shotgun in arms reach, so I was ready for action.
The next day we made an early start. I’d brought some eggs with me, and was saving them for that morning. I made a scramble of eggs and potatoes and bacon, we mixed the last remaining whiskey into our coffee and rested by the fire, pondering what was to come …
“My mom … she read palms …”
“What?”
“My mother, she was a Mexican gypsy and she would read your palms and use tarot cards and make predictions using tea leaves …”
“So what …”
“I feel like something bad is gonna happen …”
“Nah … we’re a day away from being rich …”
Sheila shook her head, smiled, and flipped me off …
We were heading to our next stop, a couple of lakes near Red Castle. The ground was rocky and the air was filled with geoengineering gumptous and flavor crystals. The Wookies howled, as the sky hawks and border beasts screamed, howled. A blizzard was closing in, not a real one mind you – something brought to you by Raytheon. But the fake blizzards were more unpredictable, more dangerous, so many dying, freezing to death, in the grips of a chemical ice nucleation bombing run.
“It’s getting cold and hard to breathe”, Sheila looked at me, anoxic, lips blue. I took the breathing equipment from my pack and put it on her. I saving my unit for later, and I didn’t care …. as I told my friends at the Hilltop Bar last week in Ballard: “we’re all dying, the world is dying … nothing we can do … but at least I can buy my ranch, get my cabin, and live out my days in peace.” I was pretty drunk, and my friends were drunker – they didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.
We made it to a spot near Red Castle Lake, and set up camp. Sheila undressed herself and bathed in those frigid waters, washing her body, shivering and writing with soap dripping off her breasts. I made a big fire, and we placed the tent close – but not too close.
The next day would decide everything …
The next day we would have a reckoning …
The next morning we took only our short range hiking gear. We left our backpacks and other equipment hanging from some trees and then set off on the trail. We hung up our spare equipment to avoid bear encounters and to dissuade the wookies from stealing from us. Big Foot, Sasquatch, wookie? – they go by many names, but all are filthy thieves.
We walked along the trail, to the spot indicated on the map by the old bum …
He scribbled something there, and I had ignored it until now – “shamanic gateway”. I had ignored it for the same reason I mocked Sheila when she was talking about her mom – I don’t buy into that crap, the supernatural, the occult, the hidden world? – fuck that. I believe in things I can see and things that will give me cancer, I believe in sex with a hooker, but that doesn’t mean I believe in a hooker surprise. No “Pretty Woman” Julia Roberts for me … I wasn’t dumb, I was simply jaded.
The hike should have been complete in 2 hours, but by the 4th hour the sun was rising high in the sky and our water was running low …
“Do you think there’s a stream or sumthin … up there?”, Sheila wondered. She was thirsty and hungry and tired. I had rode her hard each night, and she’d had barely any sleep at all. It was a wonder she was doing so well, but then I had a magic trick: cocaine. I brought enough cocaine to keep her straight, enough to keep her going. She lived her live like a lit cigarette, and she didn’t care when that light went out as long as SHE was smoking it …
My watch read 7 PM, but the sun seemed like it was in the sky and indicated just after noon, maybe 2 PM. The sun should be going down, but instead it kept getting warmer, and the air became easier to breathe … as if we’d descended to sea level.
“I’m really thirsty man”, Sheila complained. I knew she was nearing her breaking point.
“We’ll hike for another hour and then turn back.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, we can try again in the morning …”
Continuing on the trail for 25 minutes, we saw something …
“What’s that?”
“I dunno …”
It was a bright red light, brighter than the sun that was still above despite the time being 10 PM on my watch.
We inched our ways closer and then we both stopped … because the light kept coming …
Within seconds the light was in front of us, and it wasn’t a light at all …
From the light a body emanated, and a voice spoke out:
“I am Yoron, the nephite, the last of trungis-sklurgs … I stand guard at this portal to prevent the destruction of the NEW JERUSALEM … when the tribes of Joseph Smith made it here, they split into different groups: some went to SLC to establish a ‘proper church’ … some went into the desert to practice eldritch sexual rituals and other kinds of blood magic and abuse … but a third group, led by Nathan Daggs, followed a map … a map given to Nathan by Joseph Smith, before Smith was assassinated by Brigham Young … I stand guard and prevent the evil ones, the outsiders, the whores and vagabonds and other land-volk, from getting to the NEW JERUSALEM within the portal … you must go …”
I just stood there … gobsmacked … dumbstruck …
Sheila sat down, and just looked, stared, at the rocks … She’d wanted to make a few bucks, maybe have a good time. I’d given her the rest of the cocaine, and she’d put most of it up her nose. But it seemed, in her crestfallen state, no amount of cocaine would help.
After a few minutes, I decided to take action …
I pulled out my shotgun and began shooting at Yoron. Yoron, using special BRUCE LEE style moves, deflected my buckshot and slugs … Yoron grabbed the shotgun and broke it in half …
“YOU HAVE TEMPTED THE ANCIENT CHERUBS OF ALL CELESTIAL REALMS”, Yoran, with arm outstretched, sent a fiery pulse of energy my way … it bounced off of some obsidian stone and ended up hitting Sheila … she quickly caught fire, it was at least brutally swift and she didn’t apparently suffer … but still … he burnt her to a crisp … this was also sad.
He shot a light beam at my head … and I didn’t catch fire, but I did lose consciousness. I might have been dead … I might never know.
I don’t know what happened, I awoke, with a headache, back at my truck. Sheila was gone. She’d lived that life and burnt for it, but why did that nephite spare me? I was the scum … I was the man going to them there hills to steal their fucking gold … I wondered why he killed Sheila …
I drove back to the Hilltop Tavern, I told “Old Buck” at the bar the story …
Some rough notes on Bruce Willis, Aphasia and Weather Control …
So I now have a plausible explanation for the last decade of Bruce Willis films, most notably: BREACH (which was terrible). It seems that Mr. Willis may have a degenerative brain disorder called aphasia, if so this would make being in film rather difficult – except in a highly managed and compartmentalized way. That would mean controlled scenes, a lot of edit-in work, and frankly turning what would be, normally, cameo appearances into feature roles.
But … I must caution you.
I don’t know how much of ANY OF THIS is true – it’s possible it’s all true, it’s possible that it’s cover for something else. We live in an age of lies, deception … so do your own thinking regarding this story …
The cause of the aphasia, in Bruce’s case, has not been revealed yet.
Theory (not totally original):
Increasing rates of degenerative tissue and specifically degenerative brain disorders may be connected to the use of certain chemical compounds, aluminum-oxide being one, that are currently being used to impact climactic patterns and the weather.
I believe, based upon what I was taught as an air defense officer in the US Army, and based upon my own observations, that whatever is causing the patterns that are observable, in the sky, prior to a significant weather change, are not contrails. I cannot be certain what they are …
My view is not original, but is one of many perspectives – probably the best documented source for this topic is GeoEngineeringWatch.org. Dane Wigington runs the site, and has been an activist, trying to raise awareness, for about 2 decades. I don’t know if he is real or not, I don’t know if he’s a “sheep dog” in PSYOP/propaganda terms. He seems to be sincere and well documented in his position – but these days, it’s hard to know. Hard to know who is really who they say they are …
Here is a good article to read, but I will leave it up to you to do further research … Bottom line: if the US government is involved in covert climate/weather control, it is unlikely they would show any more concern or be more circumspect than they have been regarding other activities – like covertly exposing US citizens to radiological and biological hazards, on purpose, during the Cold War, in order to study their effects.
I have an uncle who recently died of dementia, and as with cancer: I’m knowing more and more people at younger ages who exhibit brain deterioration symptoms.
Bruce was/is a traveler, jet setter. My uncle traveled a lot. According to one theory, the male brain is less able to effectively prevent toxic exposure than the female brain, so you’d expect to see more of this in men than women.
But another impact of this poisoning from the sky is increased cancer rates … so every gender gets something …
One more thing: if the US government is covertly using nano-scale substances to impact climate and weather, then there is a high likelihood that this material is in EVERYTHING … food, water, in addition to air … it would accumulate in the body over time, flying frequently would only increase and concentrate exposure, since the air you are breathing on the plane is coming from the outside, where the spraying is happening … and planes fly through this polluted air, continuously.
And another final thought: what if the separate “systems” operating on planet Earth are not disconnected, but rather integrated. Which means: if the US government is “messing with the climate”, is it possible they are also impacting geological activity? Perhaps the same technology, like HAARP, which is being used (supposedly) for weather/climate control has other purposes, like directing waves of radio energy to key tectonic regions, causing earthquakes, eruptions, tsunamis.
And a super dooper final thought: there’s been some references to “Dark Winter”, and it makes me wonder if in the final stages of geoengineering, will they use so much material that they trigger immediate toxic reactions, like some old man or woman walking down the streets of Wuhan, and just falling over, dead … China has had a recent history of weather engineering mishaps, what if they used “too much” in 2019/2020 and the “Monkey Herpes” psyop was designed to cover this and other nation’s increasing geoengineering activities.
