Beavis, Butthead, and Bitcoin: A Gonzo Ride to $236,887 or Bust

Dispatches from The Last Sane Bastard in This Casino

“Beavis & Butthead Are Ready to Ride Bitcoin’s Gonzo Rocket: $49,487 to $236,917 or Bust!”

It’s June 2025, and I’m neck-deep in the crypto swamp, three Red Bulls and a bad decision past sane. Bitcoin’s a rabid coyote, gnashing between $49,487 and $111,954, while X howls with moonboys and doomers, all pretending they’ve cracked the code. The air’s thick with greed, FOMO, and the stench of Wall Street’s latest grift—Bitcoin ETFs, repackaging anarchy for your 401k. Beavis is panic-selling his last satoshi; Butthead’s HODLing, muttering, “Huh huh, this is cool.” Me? I’m chasing the dragon, man, a digital dream that’s half genius, half bunghole. This ain’t no market—it’s a circus, and I’m the ringmaster, typewriter smoking, ready to ride BTC to hell or the moon.

You crypto degens clutching your RSI like it’s a teddy bear—think you’ve tamed Bitcoin? Nah, your charts are dumber than Beavis trying to read a blockchain. Meet the diatonic price scale, a middle finger to your geeky indicators, ripped from music theory and smashed onto BTC’s lunatic ride. We take 2024’s bloodbath—$49,487 low “do,” where X doomers bawled into their ramen, to $111,954 high “do,” where moonboys leased private jets—and make it scream: do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do. It’s The Sound of Music for morons who YOLO’d their kid’s college fund.

We shred the $62,467 range into 12 semitones, like frets on a guitar strumming Satoshi’s hangover, picking seven notes: $59,898 “re” for dip-buying chumps, $96,337 “la” for ETF jackals, up to $111,954 “do” for smug HODLers. Markets don’t pump—they wail, you idiots, in a tone-deaf screech Beavis and Butthead would headbang to. And we’re going full nutso, doubling the octave to $174,420, then tripling it to $236,887—a moonshot so deranged it’d make Butthead puke nachos and Beavis torch $49,487 in a panic. No chart needed, degens—this scale’s your map to 2025’s madhouse, painted in blood and FOMO.

“$49,487—BTC’s low ‘do,’…”

The Crypto Abyss

At $49,487, Bitcoin’s low “do,” it’s a digital slaughterhouse, man, a neon-soaked hell where HODLers puke satoshis into the void like drunks in a Vegas alley. X is a shrieking choir of doomers, howling “It’s over! Sell the kids!” while Beavis torches his wallet, screaming “FIRE! FIRE!” like he’s auditioning for Satan’s blockchain. Picture that Steadman demon—fanged, bloodshot, chewing dreams in red-black ink—that’s BTC at $49,487, laughing at your stop-losses. I’m three whiskeys deep, scribbling this on a bar napkin, watching the market bleed through a cracked iPhone, and Butthead’s just grinning, “Huh huh, this sucks, dude.” Welcome to 2025’s crypto abyss, where hope’s a bad joke and your portfolio’s roadkill.

By $59,898, “re,” the dip-buyers swarm, dumber than a bag of hammers, YOLOing their mom’s IRA into this meat grinder. “Buy the dip!” they chant, like X influencers tweeting TA from a basement bunk bed. But BTC don’t care—it’s a feral beast, gnashing their 401ks and spitting out FUD. The SEC’s chasing this monster like a dog after a parked car, muttering about “regulations” while Trump’s tariffs—those economic pipe bombs—spark sell-offs faster than you can say “recession” (Flitpay, April 2025). Beavis is selling his sneakers, yelling “We’re broke!” while Butthead’s HODLing, dreaming of nachos. Mike McGlone’s ghost cackles from Bloomberg, whispering $10,000 (Finance Magnates, April 2025), but even that’s too kind for this bloodbath.

At $70,309, “mi,” a flicker of hope—like a match in a hurricane. Bargain hunters creep in, thinking they’re Satoshi reincarnate, but it’s a fakeout, man, a cruel mirage in this gonzo desert. $75,515, “fa,” and the X crowd’s still praying, posting rocket emojis like they’re casting spells. By $85,926, “sol,” there’s a whisper of recovery, but it’s like putting a Band-Aid on a chainsaw wound. Wall Street’s ETF vultures start circling at $96,337, “la,” sniffing blood but too spineless to dive in. These suits in loafers, repackaging anarchy for your Roth IRA, are dumber than Beavis trying to read a whitepaper. “$106,748, ‘ti,’—we’re back, baby!” some moonboy tweets, but it’s a trap, a fleeting high before the plunge. Even at $111,954, high “do,” the 2024 peak feels like a fever dream, with Butthead muttering, “Huh huh, $111,954’s cool,” right before the next crash.

This abyss ain’t just numbers—it’s a war zone, a circus of greed and stupidity where Bitcoin’s the ringmaster and we’re all clowns. The X herd’s googling “how to live in a van” at $49,487, while regulators and crypto bros bicker like kids in a sandbox. Beavis and Butthead are your prophets here, stumbling through the wreckage, one screaming “Fire!” the other chasing nachos. If BTC claws past $111,954, the second octave’s a new circus, with ETF suits and moonboys sniffing glory. But don’t bet your nachos yet, degens—this scale’s a map to madness, and 2025’s just warming up. Strap in, you HODLing morons, ‘cause the ride’s only getting uglier.

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The HODL Hustle

At $111,954, the second octave’s “do,” Bitcoin’s clawing out of the abyss, man, a neon-fanged beast shaking off $49,487’s blood like a dog after a bar fight. The X crowd smells hope, tweeting rocket emojis like they’re casting voodoo spells, while Beavis clutches his singed wallet, yelling “NACHOS!” as if BTC owes him a buffet. I’m four whiskeys deep, scribbling this in a dive bar where the jukebox plays blockchain static, watching Wall Street’s ETF vultures swoop in, suits in loafers repackaging crypto anarchy for your grandma’s Roth IRA. This ain’t a market—it’s a gonzo hustle, a 2025 casino where HODLers and hedge funds arm-wrestle over satoshis, and Butthead’s grinning, “Huh huh, $111,954’s cool.”

By $122,365, “re,” the rally’s got legs, wobbly but real, like Beavis after a Red Bull bender. Moonboys on X are screaming “LFG!” while VanEck’s suits whisper $180,000 dreams (CoinGape, April 2025), their Excel sheets glowing with ETF inflows. Trump’s Bitcoin reserve talk—pure political catnip—pumps the hype, making degens think they’re Satoshi reincarnate (Flitpay, April 2025). But don’t pop the champagne yet, you HODLing morons—volatility’s a knife in the dark, and tariffs could gut this rally faster than you can say “dip.” At $132,776, “mi,” HODLers are smug, posting Lambo memes, but it’s a house of cards, man, built on FOMO and hot air.

$137,981, “fa,” and the ETF grift’s in overdrive—Wall Street’s snorting BTC like it’s 1980s coke, while X influencers shill from mom’s basement, dumber than Butthead trying to read a whitepaper. By $148,392, “sol,” the market’s a fever dream, with CoinPedia’s $168,000 call (April 2025) fueling visions of private islands. Beavis is HODLing now, muttering “This rules!” while Butthead tweets TA, “$158,804 ‘la’—we’re gonna score, huh huh.” That’s where the pig-faced bankers come in, gnawing BTC in Steadman’s green-gold ink, a grotesque feast of greed while retail degens get table scraps. The SEC’s still barking, chasing this rally like a keystone cop, but BTC don’t care—it’s a digital outlaw, laughing at your 401k.

At $169,215, “ti,” the moon’s in sight, with X’s @StatelessKeon preaching $180k–$250k by Q4 (June 2025). But it’s a tightrope, man, one Elon tweet from a $50,000 plunge. $174,420, high “do,” feels like a HODLer’s wet dream, a neon-lit Valhalla where Butthead’s buying a yacht and Beavis is screaming “We’re rich!” Don’t bet your nachos, though—2025’s a crapshoot, and this rally’s as shaky as Beavis’s mullet in a windstorm. Wall Street’s ETF scam, X’s FOMO, and Trump’s bluster could push BTC higher, but tariffs or a recession (CoinGape) might send it back to $49,487 faster than you can say “rekt.” This hustle’s a madhouse, with Beavis and Butthead as your guides, one yelling “Fire!” the other chasing nachos. If BTC breaks $174,420, the third octave’s a moonshot, but strap in, degens—this ride’s just getting wilder.

‘$158,444—‘la,’…”

Moon or Bust

At $174,420, the third octave’s “do,” Bitcoin’s a gonzo rocket, man, blasting through a psychedelic sky in Steadman’s blue-red ink, dollar-sign planets exploding like cheap fireworks. I’m strapped to the nosecone, five whiskeys deep, scribbling this as X moonboys riot, tweeting “LFG!” like it’s the Rapture. Beavis is screaming “WE’RE RICH!” ($174,000), thinking he’s Satoshi’s heir, while Butthead’s cackling, “Huh huh, $174,420’s dope—nacho empire time!” This ain’t a market—it’s a 2025 digital Valhalla, with institutional FOMO pumping BTC like a Vegas slot machine gone berserk. Standard Chartered’s $200,000 call (2025, Capital.com) is the hymn, and every degen’s HODLing for glory.

By $184,098, “re,” the rally’s unhinged, a supply crunch squeezing BTC like a miner’s last breath (Benzinga). X’s @StatelessKing preaches $250k by Q4 (June 2025), and moonboys are buying it, posting yacht GIFs dumber than Beavis’ mullet. At $193,365, “mi,” ($193,387) the air’s electric—Cathie Wood’s $1.5M dream (Flitpay, April 2025) feels like a fevered prophecy, though it’s years off. $200,490, “fa” ($200,489), hits like a cocaine drop, with HODLers crowing and Wall Street’s ETF suits sweating, their spreadsheets now a digital shrine. But don’t pop the champagne, you HODLing idiots—one Elon tweet, one poop emoji, and this rocket’s back to $49,487 faster than you can say “rekt.”

$210,856, “sol” ($210,857), and it’s pandemonium—X is a digital mosh pit, degens screaming “TO THE MOON!” like they’re casting spells. By $221,223, “la” ($221,222), the SEC’s barking, chasing BTC like a clown on a unicycle, while institutional whales pile in, smelling blood and billions. $231,590, “ti” ($231,589), feels like the edge of sanity, with Beavis yelling “FIRE! FIRE!” not for panic but pure mania. At $236,857, high “do” ($236,856), it’s Satoshi’s revenge—a neon-lit apocalypse where Butthead’s buying a private island, muttering, “Huh huh, we scored.” Standard Chartered’s $200,000 was too timid; this is moonshot madness, a supply shock (Benzinga) and FOMO fever rolled into one.

But this ain’t no fairy tale, degens. $236,857’s a tightrope, with volatility, tariffs, or a rogue tweet ready to gut it (CoinGape). Beavis and Butthead are your prophets, one screaming “This rules!” the other chasing nachos in a digital haze. This third octave’s a gonzo gamble—moon or bust, with Wall Street as the dealer and X as the screaming crowd. If BTC holds $236,857, you’re a HODLer god; if it crashes, you’re Beavis, broke and crying. Strap in for 2025’s finale, you morons—the great bunghole of crypto’s calling.

“$236,917—high ‘do,’…”

The Great Bunghole of Crypto

Here we are, 2025’s digital wasteland, staring into Bitcoin’s maw, a snarling beast that swings from $49,487’s low “do” to $236,917’s high “do” like a drunk trapeze artist in a neon circus. I’m out of whiskey, out of hope, scribbling this on a barstool while X degens howl “LFG!” and doomers wail “rekt.” Beavis is broke at $49,487, torching his dreams in Steadman’s blood-red ink, screaming “FIRE!” like a prophet of doom. Butthead’s HODLing at $236,917, smirking “Huh huh, we scored,” dreaming of nachos on a private island. This ain’t a market, man—it’s the great bunghole of crypto, a vortex of greed, FOMO, and stupidity where Wall Street’s suits and basement moonboys wrestle for scraps.

The diatonic scale’s our map, a gonzo riff charting 2025’s madness: $59,898’s dip-buying suckers, $158,444’s ETF jackals, $236,917’s rocket-fueled lunatics. Standard Chartered’s $200,000 bet (Capital.com) and VanEck’s $180,000 dreams (CoinGape) fuel the hype, but tariffs, Elon’s poop emojis, or a recession (Flitpay) could gut it back to $49,487 faster than Beavis can say “bunghole.” HODL, sell, or cry—BTC’s dumber than Beavis at a blockchain conference, and we’re all suckers for it. This screed’s my middle finger to the casino, a love letter to the chaos, with Beavis and Butthead as your guides, one yelling “Fire!” the other chasing nachos in a digital haze.

So, degens, what’s your bet? $49,487’s abyss or $236,917’s moon? Drop a comment or Beavis’ll crash your inbox with FUD. This is crypto, 2025—strap in, you HODLing clowns, ‘cause the bunghole’s wide open, and we’re all falling in.

“$236,917—Beavis needs TP…”

King Cambo’s Fear and Loathing “Legal” Disclaimer: Alright, buckle up, you madcap truth-seekers, ‘cause I’m about to sling this disclaimer straight from the edge of a neon-drenched abyss, for you magnificent bastards, with a belly full of cheap whiskey and a mind like a chrome-plated slot machine spitting sparks. This ain’t no polite suggestion to buy or sell stocks, securities, or any of that Wall Street bullshit—it’s just my raw, unfiltered brain-droppings, spewed out like a busted fire hydrant. I’m a walking financial disaster, hemorrhaging cash on trades and investments like a gambler on a three-day bender. I might snatch up any stock I yap about here or dump it faster than a getaway car at a bank heist, and I won’t send you a postcard about it. This ain’t a pitch to buy or sell jack shit! I might own the names I’m ranting about, or I might not—could be bullish and empty-handed, bearish with a fistful of shares. Hell, assume I’m playing the exact opposite game you think, just to keep you on your toes. If I’m long, I could flip short before the ink dries; if I’m short, I might go long by lunch. No updates, no apologies—my positions shift like desert sands in a sandstorm. You’re out here in the wilds, solo, so don’t you dare lean on my blog for your big money moves. I’m a fringe-dweller, howling at the moon, and the publisher ain’t vouching for the half-cocked “facts” I sling. These ain’t the opinions of my bosses, buddies, or anyone else dumb enough to know me. I do my damndest to keep my disclosures straight, but I’m scribbling this after a few beers, maybe a shot of mezcal, so don’t bet your ranch on my accuracy. I tweak my posts after they’re live ‘cause I’m an impatient bastard, too lazy to proofread. Spot a typo? Come back in 30 minutes, it might be gone—or worse. And let’s get one thing crystal: I fuck up. “I fuck up a lot.” I’m saying it twice ‘cause it’s the only gospel I’ve got. Now go, you beautiful lunatics, and don’t blame me when the market chews you up and spits you out.

@KingCAMBO 2025