What? Who?
The following is a handful of our recent doings - both dicey and dithering - all of which are satellites to moments in time, rescuing respite from that which not be overstated hereparts, you know, the bulwark of glum, grime, and politistattregurgitarium that seems to preschool indoctrinate, and fux sake, overly concern itself with toxins, brines, and spouting sump pump ideologies. We pride our skeins on bellowing below the underdumb, and so, read on, fellow vertebrate!
July fries.
Goddangles, it's a juice. The fortitude goes on clinking cliques and looking shoulderwise, and after many toils with shitmagnet attraction, we returned to find our thirty year clumber under the scrutiny of purity valves, that rinse from a sneer that only professional management types, likely drunk on their buckstars, could embellish with niceties and other fill-in-the-blank funk shuns. But? Eh. And meh. On with the trucks and doilies we heft, and leave that left lingo sworn perfumery rot and whaddabout-me-man-isms behind the theater, back where the humping bed lay. We have been here long enough on this lump to know shit's never good enough when one has gone for broke (minus the brick toss) and gets their intention pre-whiled and sculpted for their noovo-reesh tatty big arm bruce. In other measures of similar ilk and thumb-pewing booger heists, we have also put to mulch the torpor finger of Patreon, that fuckin dump that for so long had fooled us (not really) into winking that capital sins will fuel one into market economies. Likewise, do take note that all our new BC releases will forever-be under a coupling of a few dollops, too. We will still use its platform but really, years of snaking our pennies, well, you know - ain't enriching our endeavors. Besides, sneaky ones amongst you know damn well the same stuff flies for free at our SoundCloud moniker. Heh. Anyway, all of which begs the pregunta, are we really that grumpy? Click the pictures for full disclosure, won't you now.
June inasmuch. The month sees a spin easterly, hurtling words and uncovering data, as well as old combs, logos, squarely placed idioms, and tired batteries that come with warnings not to be offered as Halloween treats - all that which smells and taste tests like a brackish squarewave stuck in some kelp and oyster piss and ample toxic runoff, and yet, this presses positive, as where else would this uptick transpire than a trundle up the stairs in Sturgeon's Barn. And, as one can see, a tankard of radon water even induced the following breeches below. Go on, click a pic - like moths to flannel!
May 2o25. If you can find it, get this book. Obtain it, borrow it, buy it, plead with your local library to carry it, encourage that last remaining record or DIY bookstore in your neighborhood to have a few on the shelves for that one persistent teenage audio explorer who might be in search of something beyond the numb and dumbening despair of doom scroll, and by all means, have one ready on the coffee table when the thugs break down your door looking for their fahrenheit 451 moment of glory.
We are ever grateful for this document of noise. It reads better than any memoir on Ayn Rand or Aldous Huxley or the band, Alabama. It betrays the present state of objective toothlessness, too, with revelry and truisms about love and joy. And what better, our dear old friend Ron gave us ample nods - good loarde, he dint hafta - plentifold grins and regales and tales about our times together in the late 9o's and early aughts. Our best guess is that nobody would believe it were it coming from these particular gums, receding as they are. We get that a lot, too, from the ones who were too young to remember, that, yes, we were and are still are pals with Ron, GX, Pat, Mark, Chris, Jessica (the list goes on); we have simply gone on with our own times on planet blue, full of memory, and wary of coming off like a grandfather clock in the corner, chiming the creak and gloat of better times, when the sins of the signatures still accompanied our chins. What better read, though? We would offer a few recipes, were it up to us, but the droll lines read like a day in the record store - all the banter and laughter and cringe - and community, the most important thing we noise folx got, that tangible and sublime sense of uplift that brings out the best in human. Thank you, Ron and Frans.
In the interim, at the time of this writing, i.e., the midst of May, we reckon that we did at least witness some damage - not only to the pills, but their fokkers, too, shooting straight into the thyroid, all the while booting ginsome dithers into scoops of forage with a mighty swear-sword, a fuggem-all tutorial dictum edict, sending the pithy wanks scurrying, or so we told our cold elders much later in the timeline. Twofold hammers even anchored in, meeting our chalice of malware err to crud pressure lessons in thrusty encrusters, twin nips, like, whatever; a steadfast rollover popinward, poop hooting word adage incur cursory spurns such as: GALL, INK, and SMEH, the ponce of pump straps wearily withering once the rump ministers bellied up and finger middled the latent class fullfaced, were if they ever to, and machinations mooning, the day committed to the following disclosures.
April scripts, if you must know. What? Who? Why yes, and of course we have (or had) been steaming, silly. The ashes built up by neofissionist devivalism and their herr salud cacophonizers have also beckoned our finger selfies - the aforementioend middle one, yay - with the phollowing bitten pillow tithes and crumbling orchard of shipping valors. It is a beverage induced vertical cluckfest, all the snowmelts and oils leaving obvious diapers and oblivion coup from the murk we all knew about in thruple que, unique unqualified unabashed, and so, squeak the husksteria out of its grim spasm and stickly lingo, dammed up and frozen tills, all the figures given peeps and pepper lozenge, mightily, un-some, unitrue uncloven clenchers, benchsea aloof, fight truth with bales of bollux to rectango the ruly rue and sear their gout laden jowls through, sewer wet sung and fact failure, codify and redirect the semicolon, by gums, and in its wake a hake slapped and denounced. Interim deposit nightly: condemn them, period.
... and, were if that not dumb enough, times being whaaat they are and all, there is a something something lurking on this here text generated fisk, which is to say, click away and stay queasy...
Hen-hecked and hairy, a hoary reminder of tides (scripted simply as doug) bray a slowly ululating murm into rial tactilia and vorpal clung amps and shit. This rhyme, barely able to vamp and crisp, could not be less leary or larry of cheering axes and an axis bolt to row the ray. Gore the flesh? Cirmcumstanzas reprobation, by all steaks handled brimly and shunned, would and roar a wooden oar to pineline stencil gotter, a sin and seventeen work effrottage of guile practical et norms, worms, born againsts, and chesting, finest sins for a paramour pluck iDuct the eYes and soaring, boring, imploring placation holy rama, daze inward glamping shove, a busted lest we scary air the err in heirs, tongues pekid with green garment scales, time is a baste after toils, a boil one squeezes leases from at towards insurance failures to batten snatching gesticules, lumbar oils, frenetic genepool minus the dews of moutain lore, a purity behest to silo jaws atop the nearish fare farce value, yes we will repent to your foil, after signage along the watch glower fees are staid, stapled, and thripled.
Ahhh, whoops.
Needless to say, our link embed process was a bit too cumbersome for the mobile forecast, and so we have been compelled to split, divide, and continue said newness paging mechanism here. It goes to show you that our machinery is still not a dreamy foreshadowing of digitzed ghosts but a stiff lingo whose dialect lingers, rusts, and suffers from ample tankards of trust. All the same, it is a good thing to refresh.
Click on this here fisk to view the prior grims, if so inclined:
