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Hiya, fanitude! I'm me in the house! God Poppa of Pop, sexycool muskrat-smelling Dentist of Love, scene seer for Laser Wacky Picnic, Tokyo's most loop-the-loop scene zine, making again the internet love spam on America! You are knowing, fans, some times at night I take off sun glasses and gazing at sky. Awesome! So many telecom satelite, floating in air like tin jellyfish, helping me celfax the love all over Gaia. But above satelites is stars, like holes in black velvet painting, uncold fusion so bright to give star tan. Self says to self, Self, how will self send the love shouts out to all the billions and billions of sentient party beings, billions and billions of bud lite year away? Ten year ago, America prejaculate "Voyager" satelite out of our planethood. Voyager had Golden Record holding gobs of Gaia tunage to interest/tice/press aliens. Voyager is first ad for Gaia, and like Head & Shoulders always say: You only get one chance to make a first stamping on eyeball jelly of new person with self's own person-surface. Stat-of-the-day: Aliens are mega state-of-art. They live in techno freedom utopia of no dayjob. Sleep all day, party rave all night. Wear only long white robe for total freedom utopia of genitals. Aliens have billions and billions of channels. Aliens make potato chips with healthy plastic fat. Aliens make sporting equipment from compressed dung. Aliens no sun glasses, giant black eyes already look like 50s spy sun glasses. Aliens have no tinny walkman, they glue speakers direct on giant bald egg heads. Each alien has own logo. Aliens want state-of-art mega-hip scene. But music on Voyager record is hundreds of years old! No synthesizer, no drum machine, no dance remix! No wondering that, in ten year, not a one alien has called! Aliens hear old tunage, puke out all kidneys from ear-pain. Say "Gaia beings are coma-toast lamo gilligans." If record had Michael Bolton tunage, aliens powderize Gaia with neuter bombs and other unclear weapons! Aliens have shoes of anti gravity, they don't need elevator music! ha HA! (My ouchful pointy wittings show no mercedes! I'm best-of-breed!) Sooty-aura soup-brain Voyager scientist, he sure has head wrapped in ski mask made of own rectum, didn't he? Ignore Amos. Make new plan, stan. Press self-deconstruct button on Voyager. Make new Golden Record with tunage from swanky nipponese neo-retro bands my friends are in:
Also use "Squeeze It Out Like Toothpaste" from Detroit mega rapper Dexter the Sinister. For alien kids, use "Lick the Alphabet" by lovable tv puppets, Bingo & Purgo. DJ will be self, to moisten alienettes. Glue Golden Record with primo content to new satelite, blast out to aliens in distant consternations. Cha-ching! New tunage will make egg head giant veins throb with beat, 120bpm! "Gaia tray shiek." I see it all now, like seeing ad for promo for music video for movie: Selfs micro-working rolodex-challenged booking agent suddenly gets billions and billions of calls, self and selfs friends bands gig the galaxy, rent X files frying sausage going speed of a light, sit in frij lozenge till mostly dead ("suspended cartoon"), use star trek person-juicer to squirt selfs to planet ground. Roadies become spacies! Universe-big party, hand join gripper join mucus tentacle in swaying love encore. Every universe being wear funky nearest-star glasses, wear elephant jeans of chillout. All can happenize, except selfs must not start thinking, but only action! Time past this time is not time past this time but this time! Car pay DM! |
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