Intercourse with androids--is it a theological crime?

   Jesus the Christ boldly claims:  "If you engage in imaginative coitus with a woman--it is sincerely adultery."
   But there is a way around committing this adulterous and scandalous sin; indeed, imagining a girl that dislikes you in multiple sexual positions, doing naughty and dirty things to your elated genitalia is sinful, for you are besmirching that soul, wrapping her in the telepathic power of your human consciousness.  Think about this:  When Britney Spears was at the apex of her fame, myriads of males were doing hardcore things to her within the theater of their minds, engaging her sexually for selfish purposes--this most likely affected Britney Spears.  If millions of people are focusing their sexual energy upon your corporeal aspects; next, there must be logic that dictates it will affect that person; thus, Jesus the Christ is accurate.
   But what if you only fantasize about android women?  And that brings up the question whether or not androids have consciousness or will develop souls.  Soul in Latin basically means SELF.  A soul is the combination of spirit and body; specifically, when Christ died on the cross He did not give up His soul--for that would have meant His physical disappearance as well, but He only gave up His spirit, which is the intellect of the soul.  The soul is both ghost and machine.
   Most likely, the genesis of androids will be basic, and they will not have true consciousness; hence, no souls.  Nevertheless, as evolution of these machines wend waywards; then, they will develop consciousness, and souls.  So, if you don't want to sin, only fantasize about early production androids laced in a silicone frame; otherwise, you will be committing a mortal sin from the standpoint of Christian Theology.
   This is not science fiction anymore, for my Dad was a cyborg--no shit.  A cyborg differs from an android in that there is organic material (human flesh or parts) involved.  Having a pacemaker and other cardiac implants, under the rules of the English language--my Dad was a cyborg.  Androids are not far away.  The Chinese have already begun production on robotic machines capable of mimicking human behavior; plus, the REAL DOLL, a sex doll--offers the physical sensation of true, slippery intercourse.  Once these two trends gel and have synergy; next, the android will be up and running.  Men will no longer be lonely or need nagging wives.  This is our futurity.  God made man in His image, and man will soon duplicate himself as well.  The questions is:  Once the machines develop consciousness, will they thwart our existence by attempting to take us over?  All of this is really happening.
   So, check out my books:  Mark David King's Books!!! 
   All in all--anything will be possible down the road--including the Genetic Revolution.  Be watching . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Country Music Song: Medusa

   I like James Joyce and Fyodor Dostoevsky; specifically, not a songwriter, but I live in Nashville; thus, dug this diddy up from when I was 16--here goes:


                               "MEDUSA"

   Well I fell in love with Medusa

                               When she seduced me late one night--

   She stoned me then she owned me,

                               And it didn't take too much time . . .

   I see her behind the window

                               Though she has her back turned to me--

   I want to turn her around,

                                But you don't date Medusa for free.

   She's got a demon's tail and a smoky smile,

                                Burning like a kidney stone pee!

   I glimpse her within the shadows,

                                She's wickedly boxing with me,

   For I fell in love with Medusa
                
                                 When she seduced me late one night--

   She stoned me then she owned me,

                                  And it didn't take too much time . . .

Copyright 2013 Mark David King


   Living in Nashville, there are a myriad of songwriters, like brain-craving zombies, strolling throughout the neon-lit streets of the mystical Music City, dreaming of lyrical fame and the pussy galore that comes with it.  I never respected writers who could make a million dollars by penning limp linguistics on a piece of toilet paper with a red-inked Bic, rollable pen while spawning a fiber-floating bowel movement.  Still, short verse is impressive.  Look at the year 1922.  James Joyce's Ulysses was published, a monstrous, approximate 300 page piece of pornographic literature, being the best book forged in the English language; nonetheless, T.S. Eliot's Wasteland was also published in 1922, being an approximate 15 pages, equal to the monster Joyce created; as a result, a little diddy is a big deal.  Size doesn't matter.  Unless of course you're Cher or my ex-wife.  And where would we be without:
                                                    "The London Bridge is falling down!"

   All in all words, or even a single word, showcases brilliance, crafting many a bodacious bard.  Look at the mystical arts of Black Magic.  The singular name of the Abrahamic God can hex a multitude of men, offering genitalic mutilation and all the rest of Pandemonium that might injure a man to the point of suicidal culmination; alas, respect the songwriter, but do I, really?  Jack Kerouac once boasted, after numerous beers, probably close to 20, that he had architected over a million words.  Now how the hell does Garth Brooks get more fame for one paragraph about banging a bucolic Betty?  It seems a bit unfair if you ask me.

   All in all, I'm just a jealous prick at the end of the day.  Regardless, check me out--my books available on Amazon.Com, Barnes and Noble.Com; plus, Apple itunes, the Nook, and all Internet bookstores:  Mark David King's Books!

   So, God Bless, and for the love of Jesus, stop masturbating to lewd images of Sarah Palin--it's like you're pissing on the Constitution, and Abe Lincoln is sure to come back from the ranks of Empyrean and kick your Republican ass.  Democrats too.

Sincerely, Mark David King

Free Will for Jesus the Christ

   Free Will does not exist!

   A young and thriving female dog in heat will do anything to creamaliciously mate with a probing male hellbent on fornicating for the sake of his non-neutered testicles, dangling for the purpose of sheer elation.
   Alas, we do not have Free Will.  Whether animals have consciousness or not (according to Descartes).
   I am fine now.  Still, hours from now my cerebral capacity may forge an instinct to engage in coitus with a shimmering blonde female of the human variety; thus--I will do it, enjoying the Earth-Like, mortal image of a modern Freyja and the champagne yellow kiss of the Nordic gods.  Nonetheless, I must be realistic and embrace the university of EVERYTHING.
   But, c'mon.  Free Will can't exist.  Guys kill other guys for the love of hot girls.  Guys will do anything for a hot girl; next, wake up, realizing hindsight is 20/20.
   We are all incarcerated in the sum of nefarious hatred towards the Abrahamic God by way of our innate biology.  Indeed, life gets worse.  You get sick, maybe bowel cancer, pooping blood till sanguine death, carrying not the altruistic nature of the chopped-wood cross yet a toilet seat ornamented in the mire of a former bowel movement made at a local, bucolic cuisine establishment frequented by hillbilly zombies, or so I think.
   Regardless, we all make mistakes.  Zimmerman accused of murder when some young, mercurial adolescent with pulsating adolescence in his blood system, beating down the dude, proclaiming, "Hitt'n you in the skull cause I mean it!"  Still, should we imprison this man for decades, castrating his effect on American Nature?  And what about castration for the Moon Pull of diabolical rape?  Once, a wicked government castrated a flesh-driven man for rape as his punishment; next, he strangled a young girl and violated her with a broomstick.  Can't we brainstorm better; plus, treat our incarcerated brethren in a sublime fashion that will forge them into decent human beings not under the physiological spell of their desiring loins?
   So, check out all my books for theological, anthropological, and current event shit: King's Books!!!
   Be well, Mark David King.

Tebow versus NFL

   Verily,
   orgasm has no gravitational pull over Tim Tebow.
   It is all scrutiny and the rest of nasty crap; alas, Peyton Manning wends his weird to Denver, becoming a Bronco; however, resonating to the cyborg arm--the CYBORG ARM.  Truly, Peyton never gets his shirt dirty.  An All Pro and AFC Champion, Peyton has the right to feel the awesomeness of privilege; still, Tebow took his team beyond the AFC Wild Card, without the mercurial assistance of mini camp, nor the first starting dates defeated by the quarterback Kyle Orton.  Peyton started and culminated with an AFC Wild Card Victory though didn't eclipse Tebow in the progression of play-off wins.
   What if Tebow was African-American?  Totally, Newton and RG3 have eaten up the highlight films with their agile acrobatics carrying the beloved pigskin; nonetheless, Tebow's Invulnerable Doug Flutie protects him, giving sanctuary for offensive touchdown rushes--the best option man in football.
   All in all--does his Flamboyant Christianity eclipse his talented function on the grassy field?  Regardless, Tebow, and I am too drunk now to further expand, outshines the competition with the grace and humility of Saint Francis; plus, he is wicked, besmirching, becoming an Earl Campbell with an accurate left arm graced by the speed of Hermes--and Tebow will never get the Hermes Virus.
   Sincerely, Mark David King
   Totally, buy my books:   King's Books!!!

Gillian Flynn versus Thomas Pynchon

   It was 1922-the dualism of literary epics spawned.  James Joyce, drunk as an Irish-Cowboy Skunk, strolling down the dirtway with a MonteCristo aflame in smackalicious lips, knowing:  This is the superlative book in the English language, and its name is--Ulysses.  Still, though transcending the purity of poetry concerning T.S. Eliot's Waste Land, also forged publicly in 1922, the difference between 30 pages and 300 protracted  pages all determines on how you view the Django Unchained of Ulysses.

   Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl proves to punch out the sublime hysteria of Thomas Pynchon poised with counterpoise, offering Buddha's Best Fantastic; alas, we need to get serious.

   During normal days, contemplating the ambiguous words of Pynchon, though Gillian Flynn like a surgiucal knife, sincerely cutting away the fat of the lamb.  I like it.  Never had symmetrical foundation before, a run-on sentence, running-on and on, crafting cause for criticism, knowing Internet Eyes are  spying on you.

   Pynchon will always remain unclear and effulgent by the blinding radiance of poetry gods; still, Flynn offers the supermundane aspects of modernisn, meaning:  The casual killer remains un-outshined!  Story trumps the English Language.  Lord Bertrand Russell, beyond the control of linguistic axioms offering:  Common Sense does eclipse the Queen's Brit--her English Chords formed like F. Scott Fitzgerald being the perfect pussy, penning to the control of script, offering the most sane of manuscripts, though enchanting with the bliss of utopian suburbia.

   Gillian Flynn writes like a genius.  James Joyce proclaimed:  "Genius makes no mistakes!"

   And to hope for the sancutary of mercy--the evil undead and magnanimous living, hoping for fuel to the next life, a transmigration of dreams and desires, us them, illumintaed by way of our faith and hope.  Pynchon is the serious read, head crooked and intent upon unearthing the heated desire of personal passions.  I just really, really like Gillian Flynn's Books.  Better than anything written today, sculpted by a lady's hand . . .

   How was the THIRD Hangover  movie?  I was thinking about buying a Sugar Glider for my Wheaton Terrier to play with--nicely.  And I thought nobody could stun Pynchon, but Flynn with a Better-Than-Scooby-Mystery, NICE. 

   Mark David King

"My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY!" a nymphonic novella

   My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY!  @  Barnes and Noble.Com or look inside @ Amazon:  Buy "My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY!"

   Not a sincerely perverted piece of my own nostalgic matriarch, but an elegant telling of a cultural starbursting know as Cougarism.  What guys internally brainstorm about their pimped up, older ladies, lusting internally for the well-built behemoth of lazy youth, and for him, "May she be buxom, my blonde god."  I just don't want to eagerly admit that this nymphonic novella is a genuine piece of nasty shit.  But maybe . . .

   And when does it end?  When does the young guy generate cerebral mass and notice the creepy crow's feet?  But young guys can handle a little wrinkle in the tinkle--especially if she puts out like a Hong Kong Whore ornamented in the smooth of cool, spiked high on tramp heels, and having a seductive skirt offering many-an-enlightening glimpse all the way to Miami.  But I prefer for this "modernism" to be anthropology at its finest.  And with "Cougarism" the anthropological axiom dictates:  "When she gets them varicose veins, he's gone."

   Nonetheless, romance furiously flows best when something scandalous is to be gallantly usurped.  Or better yet--trumped in copulative (sexual) fashion.  There is definite chemistry between the antiquated older woman loosely armed with a tired twat and the crafted action of a young bull; moreover, she engulfs herself in the singular idea of sex as a sport, and love as the frosting on top.  Not bad.  Love can be unearthed.  Love can be fathomed and found.  Betty White likes to eat beef jerky.
  
   Romance is Bliss, and never should blame itself when two weird people are gregariously gelling for whatever purpose.   But about the book, My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY!  Brief intro:

   She's not a cat, but a middle-aged woman in heat; indeed, the wicked womb webbed with decay is the fart-feeding character in quicksilverish pursuit of her sonic youth and lost libido.  A pre-pubescent poet dubbed Jelly Roll and the inviolate Virgin Mary attempt to thwart the insidious pixes forging her internal COUGARISM, yet resistance is a cruel bitch clothed in the purpose of a better culture.

Here's an excerpt:  Nevada loved him--hell, she ached for him, all caught up in the pelvic enchantment of sport sex and long, sloppy French kisses till southwards upon her orgasmic attention and internal desire for the euphoria of timeless youth.  Verily, Randy was not her cake, but the icing on top.  Nevada could take care of herself financially, could entertain her intellectual wit with a circle of well-polished girlfriends, but getting laid really, really good and the glimmering effects of having eye candy as a boyfriend made her all the rage, and she delicately devoured the jealousy aimed in her seductive direction when she would go out to dinner arm and arm with her young stud--all the middle-aged Betties ogling the awesomeness of what she had underneath the physical pleasantries of silky sheets, it making her young forever, giddy constantly, and of course, she now wore only thongs underneath the thin layers of her outer garments, like a lucky slut, yet so divine.

Alas wends the weird way of culture, like a trickster god fornicating with us from the ruthless ranks of wicked Empyrean--just like them Hellenistic Deities to denounce an angelic aspect of humanity with gloom and doom; therefore, take your VIAGRA old man; next, initiate masturbating or dreaming of creamy copulation with Betty White and the cobwebs of a broken womb.

   It's a bizarre but cool read.  Yes, we all make mistakes and suck bricks.  But you'll like this.

Sincerely, Mark David King

Virgin Mary--the superlative Queen of Angels

   Even Jesus Himself would bluntly offer:  "You can say bad stuff about Me, but don't you dare talk bad about My Mother."  Regardless, Protestantism lasciviously lacks the sublimity of classic couth in knowing the Virgin Mary's inviolate awesomeness.
   Verily, Jesus was a demi-god; specifically, He was half God--thus, we call Him God; next, He was half human, or his Mother.  Jesus, as Occam's Razor does boldly suggest, has 50% of the exact same genetic material as His immaculate Mother.  As a result--that was Her gore and sanguine circumstance marching to Calvary and made defunct on the Cross.  And what is worse?  To die with magnanimous humility on the Cross yourself, or watch your only Son lose His precious lifebreath, succumbing to a state of physical entropy--for the moment at least?
   And all His Disciples abandoned Him that fateful day save the one He loved--John.  Yet the Virgin Queen remained intact and involved in Her Son's bizarre yet sacred life.  She was the original ascetic for Christ, alive in Him, just as He was biologically alive in Her--it was a symbiotic relationship--a soul sacredly forged for sublime purpose of redemption.  Jesus would not exist if not for the Virgin Mother.  She spawned Him into existence by way of virginal ovaries touched tenderly at the age of 14 by the Abrahamic God.  And once this proud God did so, adoring and loving the Queen of Angels, why would He allow that inviolate womb to experience the decay of Joseph's seed?  Alas, He did not, for Mary was His.  She is the symbol in the Torah stepping on the demonic head of the adversarial adder.  She is the Virgin mentioned by the Old Testament prophets, them knowing:  "And He shall have no foul in His mouth."  For it is all innate here.  The Genetic factor of Christ being a 50% duplicate of His adoring Mother.  They are the same as you are your mother and father.
   Nonetheless, only the Catholics and Orthodox respect and admire the perpetual cool of Mary.  Hell, even certain sects of Muslims praise Her more than Protestants, which goes to show you how uncool the Reformation really was, thieving away the virginal gleam of Mary, slapping Her Son, your Lord and Savior in  His beloved countenance that was the shimmering gleam of His Mother's mien; indeed, Jesus would absolutely proclaim, boldaciously so brethren:  "You can say bad stuff about me, but don't you dare talk trash about my mother."
   Most of the books I write have mystical communication with the Blessed Queen of Angels.  She is a character in Sean Hannity's Theocracy; Plus, The Virgin Mary LIVES! / My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY! / I'm Gay, And I Hate Myself:  American Loser / Transcending Twilight:  Angels Eclipse Vampires.  Verily, she is a staple of my poetry and prose--you can check out these books here on my Amazon.Com author's page or buy some of them on Apple iTunes:  Mark David King's Books!!!
   Thus, check me out.  And in time of sorrow, attempt invoking the miraculous might of the Queen of Angels--it's the apex of mystic mojo, poetic and divine, having a mother's love, eternal . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King