Professor Chaos, follows Doom.

COPY DAT DARE… earlier in the programming, while Luc Fregón was playing his “don’t believe the HYPE” doom Brown–Out spindle (Very Kool, California version by the Güey who goes: Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, —Nah, Nah…) the staff was juggling no NEWS, at all, Dear Luc, in Central NATO Times. Brown–Out, nah, where Eye come from Oüi call those “little shit’s” SKID MARKS or “derrapones”. Be Happy, Luc.

It’s a Luc Fregon Festevus Miracle Break, and it starts, right now.

Almost Live, from the Russian War Room, with Peter Sellers.

but first:
Let’s Play Hardball.

On the East Coast it’s the ONE War Room after NINE 0 NINE that FLEW IN FROM MIAMI BEACH.

Walk a Metro Line in my Shoes, Luc.

Previously, on Luc Fregón y los derrapones de La Madelaine, Peters Sellers was being treated like a Sauvage at MI–6.

The Boys Are Back. They’re hanging out at Jean Lantern coffee pit-stop.

And Still to come, Fucking, Mick (lips NOT SAGGIN’) was having the Time of His motherfucking (drunk–ass) Life, in celebration of Mr. Jagger’s Brexit chaos on that Ile.

Mean, while Trump was going to jail before the motherfucking FISH in Zodiac made it’s motherfucking rounds in the field of view of our celestial backdrop, the U.S. military command was about to be tested for backbone and Esprit de Corps, now that it is Billy Krystal clear that the Commander–in–Chief is a spinless coward.

Courtesy of TRMS… veinte para las cinco, Luc, but who is keepin’Time, and what Flavor is Anthrax. Answer: Honey; as in “HONEY, where’s my  Attack of the killer B’s, ep”.