PLANETARY STATUS REPORT!

MP3: https://planetarystatusreport.com/mp3/20231224_MY_ANCIENT_ANCESTORS.mp3

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My ancient ancestors would cut off their toes, when the wind blew too hard, and they didn’t have meat for the winter …

My ancient ancestors would sew together amulets and treasures and donkey cocks and make necklaces and sell them on e-bay …

My ancient ancestors?

They would soak their penises in whiskey, and draw lots to wrestle hyenas naked …

Their lives were spent in fear, of not having beer, and being called queer and setting fire to midnight pleasure.

Our PATH was gruesome, but my ancient ancestors had gusto.

My ancient ancestors were known as “sword masters”, sought after by the busty maidens, making “hay” with those in the know.

My ancient ancestors harvested muck from the city, they’d drain out the poop baskets – filtering for “second harvest” …

My ancient ancestors were rad.

My ancient ancestors ruled over the PARROTS and the RAVEN …

They made baskets of seaweed and dead spiders …

Their eyes were red and glowing, their bodies emaciated because … well … they ate spiders.

But they had the PROMISE of a new day coming, when they could eat corn syrup.

My ancient ancestors were pirates and pimps, they never did simp, they rode on vacuum blimps …

My ancient ancestors survived the 1,000 Year War, and made off like bandits beyond the Kuiper Belt …

My ancient ancestors sung songs of the deep, that never did sleep, while we are chased by sky lords.

My ancient ancestors had torpedo style lovers, they carried Jersey switchblades, they had a good time in Vegas.

My ancient ancestors would carve their names on platypus caves, leaving behind urine and fecal matter, letting go of pain and loneliness.

My ancient ancestors cooked dynamite stew, and ate magic goo, and traveled at light speed to PLANET TWO … that’s VENUS crap head, where the dead have radar eyes, and only dolphins tell lies, and the skies burn hot.

My ancient ancestors spoke weird words to bad animals, they tracked muskrat-buffalo, they fed on twice cured wine.

My ancient ancestors had hooks for hands and made 11 grand pounding sand for the duke of Pakistan …

My ancient ancestors made soothing elixirs, they were known as fixers and achieved oneness with cats.

My ancient ancestors were known as STEEL CAPTAINS, their hearts were glorious and NEW, they sniffed super glue.

My ancient ancestors walked the streets near Grinken Town, hunted scuzz-flesh in S’compton, traveled to Splunkton and even Ohio.

My ancient ancestors had cable TV, and we’d watch SHANNON TWEED, LATE AT NIGHT, ON CINEMAX … after dark … while our parents got drunk at the Notty Pine.

My ancient ancestors burned RUNES on their skin, because they could never let in the sweet love of Jesus.

My ancient ancestors wore kilts, to the hilt, and enjoyed lusty sex in the meadow … just after springtime.

My ancient ancestors brewed the finest ale, made of snail grease and mutton and there was nothing more to say, OKAY?!?

VELVEETA: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10651

I’m Here: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10649

A picture: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10646

All trash: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10644

There’s fiber in it: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10642

Probed: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10640

You ever wish: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10637

If AI were real: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10635

Dive Bars: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10633

COTUS: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10629

Mockery: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10626

Men want women: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10621

In honor: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10619

Prohibition: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10615

Mark my words: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10613

Irish Hitler: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10611

It was night for the HURGIT TRIBE,
the dead slave did imbibe,
a heart broken by snow and sleet,
dark and muddy cold,
near the mold,
not far from Madison Square Gardens …
Where the hubbly people drink,
at the FLIX parking lot,
full of snot,
pimps and whores …

Stockings baby … stockings.

STOCKINGS FROM THE CARE BEAR … because he fucking cares.

CABBAGE PATCH KIDS from CARE BEAR!

CARE BEAR!
CARE BEAR CARES FOR YOU!

SANTA IS COMING …
SANTA IS COMING …
HE IS NOT YOUR FRIEND …
He IS NOT YOUR GUY …

YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY ARE ABOUT TO FRY!

In a NUCLEAR FIRE!

FILLED WITH MADNESS, and SADNESS, and GONOREA and STARES …

Santa has TECH …

he installed a panning camera,
in the stall,
at work,
he’s a jerk,
Santa watches you poop …

Santa likes to eat your goop.

Really want him stopping by, fucker?

Really want him getting high fucker?

Do you see Santa, pulled over, by the roadside, SMOKING METH!

With Lady MacBeth?

Who is on stage at Randall’s, the all night GENTLEMAN’S CLUB!

DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR KIDS ARE?

Do you know where your kids are?

SANTA SETTLED OUR BRAINS …

He did that …

After CARL the RELENTER left the Denny’s …

We ate the soda-cake, and made love to DEBRA the FAKE.

Our brains were brewing with that holiday spunk,
we were in a funk,
it hit like a clunk.

“It’s Christmas Dan”, that voice would say.

“It’s Christmas Dan”, and it’s not okay.

He came for the children,
to take them away,
he drugs them and robs them,
and turns them into slaves.

If your kid misbehaves,
and this is the key point,
Santa comes a callin,
and your kids will be ballin,
cuz working in Santa’s sweatshop is hell.

And those fucking reindeer …

Sector-9 freaks eat ass and smoke grass,
mortal deer fiends seek land from the Franks …

Chocolate pie hornets are flying to Spain,
to sell them cocaine,
tis the season,
and the reason,
for crack …

So GO GO GO you fucking REINDEER …

TAKE TIRED SANTA FAR AWAY …

TO A LAND OF CRIMSON AND CLAY …

BELOW THE GROUND, no more sound.

Santa looked covered in spazz grease,
as if he’d come from a wharf side hooker jail,
his sailing boat slowly filling with water,
a “fitch and gimble” style harlotry,
on the docks,
with stuff to give …

But WHAT DID I KNOW of this STRANGE ESKIMO …

He had green eyes and fried rice fingernails …

He had jaundice,
and his hands shook from an old tremor,
from some old pain.

Santa has to leave,
he says he’s sorry.

Santa has to leave,
he knows you are hurt.

He’ll come back once a year,
he’ll promise not to drink beer,
he knows he broke your heart,
he left you with a smelly fart …

Your momma is right, Santa lost his fight …

A restraining order has been signed, and Santa cannot find a lawyer in time.

Up Santa … Up you go …

Up Santa … GO mother fucker.

Santa is a scourge-burge …

He’s nothing but grey-menace and broken plastic.

(he’s gone)

(original by: Clement Clarke Moore)

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

SCHIZMUS: https://planetarystatusreport.com/?p=10691