Pic of me during my sonic youth; specifically, I was this age when having experienced what I wrote auto-biographically in Transcending Twilight: Angels Eclipse Vampires. You can purchase that bodacious book along with my others, here: King's Books
So, here's a list of my books--the ones published under the name: Mark David King
1.) TRANSCENDING TWILIGHT: ANGELS ECLIPSE VAMPIRES
2.) WEREWOLF SLUT
3.) A SOUTHERN GOTHIC WEREWOLF IN NASHVILLE
4.) SEAN HANNITY'S THEOCRACY; PLUS, VIRGIN MARY LIVES!
5.) ABOUT BRITNEY SPEARS AND MALE GENITALIA--AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL TREATISE
6.) BARACK OBAMA, DO CYBORGS DREAM OF ROBOTIC SHEEP? AN AMERICAN POEM
7.) KHLOE KARDASHIAN MEETS THE EASTER BUNNY: AN AMERICAN PLAY
8.) MY MOM IS A COUGAR--NASTY!
9.) ULCERATIVE COLITIS, MARIJUANA, AND WEREWOLVES
10.) ATOMIC GOD
11.) VAMPIRE METH. 1989
Some of these are available on iTunes. All available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble websites; plus, all Internet bookstores and the NOOK.
SUPER POWERS:
1.) Ulcerative Colitis: For over a decade I have endured the sanguine pain of inflammation and ulceration in the large intestine; moreover, numerous colonoscopies, blood transfusions, Remicade and steroid infusions, oral steroids, myriads of medication, crimson-hued fecal matter shooting outta my agonized anus like a LSD Locomotive, bleeding me severely anemic. My best story is when I got down to 117 pounds and was having close to 20 bloody bowel movements a day. After admitting myself to the ER, they hooked me up to an I.V. and put me in a gown; next, I made many a stampede outta my room into the bathroom, where blood exploded from my rectal cavity, making all the nurses in the ER giggle at my anguish--no shit.
2.) Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Ticks: Due to carnal fantasy in nasty detail, since adolescence I have mortified my senses after engaging in sin; specifically, I cut myself over a 100 times with a razor blade, locked myself in closets, starved myself for days, beat myself into minor concussions, put 13 stitches in my face with a broken beer bottle, set my face on fire with a butane lighter, and a bunch of other scandalous rituals of repentance; indeed, I am NOT out to harm myself, yet like a Levite Priest blessed to carry the ultimate Hebrew weapon (ya know), I have purified my corporeal essence due to my duty towards God. Also, there is repetitive washing, lots. If semen is sinfully discharged, that meaning fantasizing about anything save a non-conscious android, I have to lather my precocious pubes in a soapy cleanse, ornamenting my body with the fluidic flux of hot water. Holy Hell--I do plenty of weird shit, unable to fumble feces into commode, having to strip myself naked and lay upon newspaper in my parents' garage, where I push with unearthly will to evacuate my bowels. As of today, I am in remission after high doses of Prednisone for approximately 2 months. Too, dealt with sleep paralysis, lost time, abuse from the Empyreal Ranks of Arch-Angelity, having begged to be taken aboard the super symmetrical craft, like mentioned in the Book of Ezekiel; next, Transfigured in the might of Jesus Christ, and Virgin Birth is possible with today's technology--a heavenly hypodermic needle through the hymen, without breaking it, full of a squadron of sperm that impregnate a young lass; thus, if today's technology can grant Immaculate Conception; then, it is a theological axiom that Jesus is the Christ. Of all the demi-gods, he was the kindest. Was humble and full of benevolent mercy.
Regardless, I won't go on about my diseases anymore, for I want you gregarious guys and gorgeous gals to read my books. Yes it all appears scatological; still, sublimity haunts the pages inside, and I mean that. There is more; however, as James Bond boldly proclaims: "Always leave them wanting more." God Bless--and I mean it . . .
Sincerely, Mark David King
Lance Armstrong is not a villain. A-Rod is not a nefarious angel fallen from heaven. Barry Bonds doesn't drown puppies. Nonetheless, they are besmirched with the bad attitude of legalists and law makers. In the words of William Blake: "The moral Christian is the cause for the unbeliever and their laws."
If we strip away these legends of the game their well-deserved accolades; next, we must banish classic literature and the social sciences architected by narcotic use; plus, allow the Japanese and Germans to rule the world. U.S. Military pilots were pumped up on amphetamines during bombing raids, but that's okay. Jack Kerouac penned On The Road by way of using dextroamphetamine. Poe chased the dragon with opiates to awesomely forge his prose. Carl Sagan engaged in the benign use of marijuana, an anti-oxidant and performance enhancer, in order to morph physics into linguistics. Freud crafted many a snowman, getting his frontal lobe stimulated in order to cope with romantic sufferings. Should we censor everything due to drugs? Should we continue to incarcerate non-violent drug offenders in prison where they are brutally sodomized? Is this the once great United States of America? Eric Holder swiftly pursuing the incarceration of anybody different than him. Why doesn't President Obama step down since he used narcotics in his sonic adolescence? It's Anti-Constitutional for the American Government to declare WAR upon its own people--and that is exactly what the Drug War is: A Declaration of War by the American Government upon its own people.
Though this is a Libertarian stance, taxing legalized drugs would allow these here States of America to pay off the Chinese debt in a matter of months and recapture our country's economic suavity that thrived under Reagan and Bill "Elvis" Clinton. But the moralists pounce on liberty. Land of the free and home of the brave--you have to be brave in order to have freedom. You have to be able to not give a shit about what your neighbor does in the privacy of his own suburban habitat. Instead, the DEA, wearing bandit-like masks, break into the houses of peaceful US Citizens, shoot the family dog, and spawn the ruination of decent families. This should not be happening in America.
And look at former Governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger, he openly admitted on Letterman's Show that he used steroids--now how the hell did they fuck up his life? The dude thrived and made billions, married a Kennedy, and birthed numerous children from the fruit of his steroid-laced loom. It's not axiomatic that the ingestion of drugs will cripple a person. Sure there will always be addicts, but that shouldn't be the problem for the person who has no addictive personality. It's not my problem that Rush Limbaugh got hooked on pain pills and attempted to illegally score them, but because of losers like that, my physician will look twice at me before prescribing something that may give me comfort. All these weak-minded addicts and people like Dr. Drew are a bunch of anti-American scum. I'm sorry for their pain and suffering, more sorry for their nefarious philosophies that assist in the incarceration of non-violent drug offenders who are then raped in our shitty prison system. If I have a really bad headache on the weekend, can't get into my regular physician--why the hell can't I go to the drug store and buy an opiate-laced product for my excruciating pain? Then, let the government tax the shit outta it, making them trillions? Because of the pharmaceutical lobbies that wanna push Prozac on the foolish Nation--Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, things like Prozac and Paxil are oversold by doctors who can't prescribe things like medical marijuana if not in the Western States, and Eric Holder still wants to bust those people out there, no shit. Verily, SSRI's only work like this: 1 out of 5 people will have healing effects from this supposedly anti-depression medication. 60 Minutes did an exclusive on this anthropological axiom, showcasing how placebo was just as effective.
Regardless, here we go, butting into the lives of decent people, locking up our athletes because they took a performance enhancing substance. Not all people have the genetic jubilation of people like Shaq, and if I had to guard that dude in the NBA, damn--I'd want some steroids for the gladiatorial occasion.
So, that's me, and check out my books: King's Books!
Sincerely, Mark David King
The vociferous beauty of Fyodor Dostoevsky outshines the rest; alas, sometimes I think I'm a kindred Karamazov. Tolstoy entertained as well, but The Idiot proved to be mercurial sublimity, in passing, like a 427 Cobra Jet beyond the furious gallop of an import, bastard.
The days of Ronald Raygun and the Soviets cold-waring shit out to dry--that was incredible. Yet we survived, and thrived, drinking Coke watching The Cosby Show and simply dealing. We are America, yet we remember the adversary; thus, I love you Russia.
And an ode, from drunk'n patriot of 1776:
The Serbian Animal housed many sublime,
Offering up with a German rhyme
That such a culture would start some shit,
Like foolishly pinching Hulk Hogan's ex-wife's tit.
Thus, adore the Greeks and admire the fighter
Of the British Aisles who cranked a lighter
To the narcotic effulgence of shamrock vine
Making love a poesy-like rhyme;
Alas, I beseech you bye and farewell,
For wends the weird of LSD hotel--
No Shit.
Too, buy my books: King's Books!
Sincerely, Mark David King
And the greatness of The Idiot and the Karamazov piece is genuine adoration of a decent culture. That simple. And it should be hungrily embraced . . .
All the new health trends embraced by Pop-Cultural Physicians may be true. Last night I dangerously devoured a London-Broiled Roast Beef sandwich with Horseradish; however, it was on multi-grain bread. Still, today I feel the sour punch in my colon.
At only 40, I've had numerous colonoscopies, a blood transfusion for the Jehovah's Witnesses, Remicade Infusions, Steroid Infusions, a plethora of pills and all the rest. Nonetheless, the large intestine acts as if an adversary, flaring with inflammation and ulceration, bleeding me anemic, and what the hell can I do but cope.
Narcotic should not be a bad word. I've never abused pain medication, and there should not be a nefarious attachment associated with comfort. Having dealt with constipation for months at a time, it would be foolish to take more than 2 opiate-spiked pills prescribed by a physician, for they have constipating effects. There is no ethical blunder in being a stable patient, and people should not feel ashamed to ask for pain medication. It's not axiomatic that everybody will become addicted; specifically, there are a myriad of medicated people doing so properly.
Naps help too. Just stay tough and pray to God that you can have the smooth suavity of a normal bowel movement.
Too, buy my books: King's Books
Sincerely, Mark David King
Concerning my last Blog dealing with Trayvon and Zimmerman--I feel stupid. Look, with African-Americans and Whites there is this maxim: Some are good, some neutral, others, well, you know . . .
Whether black or white, there's always the dolts--like me. And the loss of an adolescent life (Trayvon) is to be remembered with prayer, and yes, rallies and such, for the youth is the futurity of our planet within the Megaverse.
I just hate it how people want to GET Zimmerman. Like punish the man. Lock him up and throw away the key. It freaks me out that there can be such hate, like with all the crappy white groups bent on exclusivity. We need to gel. Thank God black/white marriages are up in the numbers--we need to further have sublime synergy and be a united people.
I remember being younger and watching the late Steve McNair play Quarterback in the NFL. I freaking wanted to be that guy--the dude with awesome dexterity, able to scramble with sheer athleticism; plus, pass like an altruistically-drunken Kenny Stabler. Yes, having vodka in the huddle before the big game, drawing plays on the sandy turf.
I guess it comes down to tension and melancholy, seeming to resonate forever--I hope not. We just have to ignite our cerebral capacity, and gain wise insight into the lives of those different than us, imagining and brainstorming their trials and tribulations, like Clinton saying: "I feel your pain." But it's true in plenty of ways. So if you're pissed at someone; next--deal with that person, but not the whole world of different peoples.
Sincerely, Mark David King
It has been said that there is no different species of human; as a result, there is one race--the human race. However, the African-American community sees things differently, as if intrinsically thirsting for divine exclusion; still, we all as autonomous spirits do that sometimes.
But concerning Zimmerman: He had every right as an armed, American citizen to use deadly force; indeed, if someone was punching my mother in the face; next, bashing her head onto the deadly nature of solid ground--I would have no problem shooting that person. And this is how it was with Zimmerman. In MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) the fights are put into a state of cessation when one warrior is getting beaten in the face--this because he becomes defenseless, for the resulting beating could leave him paralyzed or forever hexed with a nightmarish neurological condition, forging a true gimp out of his once healthy soul. If Zimmerman would have allowed himself to be beaten, like might a magnanimous Jesus Christ; then, Zimmerman could have ended up a disabled citizen of these here shimmering States in America. But he didn't. He pulled his piece, ending the fisticuffs against his corporeal essence, saving himself from the nature of a thuggish attack.
Trayvon Martin was not innocently eating his Skittles and whistling the song to the Andy Griffith Show, or maybe he was; nevertheless, like all young, adolescent bulls armed with the mercurial quicksilver of youth, he most likely thought he was a bad ass. The anthropological axiom being that he assaulted Zimmerman with the physiology of teenage fury. He could've retreated. He could've ran away. He could've apologized and said he'll never take this path again--but he didn't. When confronted by Zimmerman, he allowed his testosterone to fuel an attack. And boy oh boy, he attacked the wrong guy.
The Second Amendment is pure sublimity, protecting the rest of the Amendments. The reason no other superpower country has ever invaded our glorious shores is because not only would they have to cope with our military, but because our citizens are heavily armed. If the Chinese or Russians attempted invasion, not only would they have to deal with our monstrous Armed Forces, but also the African-Americans in the Inner City who are locked and loaded with their 9 millimeters; plus, the rural and pastoral peoples fortified by way of their hunting rifles, shotguns, and yes, assault weapons. Alas, America is made golden by the right to bear arms. And guns are architected primarily for the purpose of death. We legally sell them; thus, they have a right to be legally used if someone is beating the living snot out of you, to the point where you may become paralyzed.
This being said, why is the African-American Community protesting violently? Did whites tear up the streets, throw rocks at cops, and vandalize private property when O.J. Simpson got a "not guilty" verdict for wasting two white people in savage fashion? And was the Zimmerman Case not affected already by the hype of Obama boldly proclaiming Trayvon could have been his son? The odds were stacked against Zimmerman, yet he broke free of the racial noose. The African-American Community is spawning a number of radical racists just like the mean-spirited whites. Even after the majority of white people elected a black President, watch predominately black sports and television shows--the African Americans still want more. Myriads of Union Soldiers went to their deaths in order to abolish slavery; specifically, more white people sought sanguine circumstance for themselves in order to help the blacks than blacks did for whites. But still--the white man is the monster. Sometimes.
Eric Holder has no right as a person who has climbed the scholastic ladder of academia to believe that Zimmerman should endure more trial and tribulation. Verily, a teenager was killed and that brings melancholy; nonetheless, millions want Zimmerman to be lynched and infused with perpetual pain because they believe white people are racists. Look--this is the United States of America. A Free Country. A melting pot. And logic should outshine hatred. We all have the right to defend ourselves. Prayers and positive thoughts should be with Trayvon; at the same time, they should be with Zimmerman as well. Only if we gel and have sublime synergy can we get past hatred of one another. A white is no better than a black and vice versa. Lincoln was correct in comparing us all equal; hence, we should not see color, but the divine nature of humanity.
Too, buy my books @: King's Books
Sincerely, Mark David King
My book, (I'm Gay, And I Hate Myself: American Loser), offers the sublimity of criticism concerning Oprah; specifically, Oprah has been witnessed commenting: "God is Love." She is thieving away this theological theorem from the likes of the New Testament, inspired by Saint Paul. Moreover, I have no idea why the Holy, Roman Catholic Church canonized Saint Paul's scribble more than the plethora of other Gospels able to choose from. Verily, there is a reason Christ's Words are in Red. He usurps Paul; alas, His Gospels trump the religious might of all the New Testament.
My point is this: Pat Benatar had it right, angelically singing: "Love is a Battlefield!" Verily, when a girl is young, ripe, and hot; next, she will be pursued by a myriad of males, them offering up their genitals and cerebral capacity; plus, bank accounts and ability to score the good shit. The female decides what boy to choose based on the boy's ability to Bring It.
My wife left me after almost 20 years of being together; alas, I lost the fight to another man. Nonetheless, I don't blame this man, for if I was him--I too would want to have had sex with my ex-wife. As a result, what would beating his ass accomplish? Prove I'm the superior fighter, a true scrapper at heart; at the same time, he still would be the voracious victor and champion of my ex-wife's vagina. He beat me. He nastily nailed her better, and I have to coolly cope. He had more money, more fame, better looking, lasted (sexually) longer, was bigger, a better comedic spirit, whatever reason--he fucking beat me. He took her. So why the hell be bitter? Gel with the defeat, and let it spawn you divine. There are plenty of lewd and lascivious women who desire my attractive thrusts in the arena of intellectual symposium; plus, bedroom skills are decent, as the ex-wife trained me, forging my actions talented and architected by carnal couth.
Look, even Iron Mike Tyson got worked over a few times--that doesn't make him a pussy. Abe Lincoln was anthropologically correct in stating: "All men are created equal." For some men look like Brad Pitt, others endowed like Ron Jeremy, others funny as Johnny Carson, and others as smart as Albert Einstein; indeed, it is a level playing field concerning how to make "smitten" a gorgeous lass. And that is why love is a battlefield. Girls are pretty. Too, they're plentiful in nature, so even if one dumps you; next, there's a bunch of magnanimous bush waiting for you on the other side. Don't hate your ex, but adore her angelic curves and butt fantastic. For staying friends gives you the mercurial ecstasy of maybe making love to her once again someday--even if he is the BEST, for your second place Silver Medal promises you a chance of forever in her heart. No shit . . .
Too, buy my books: King's Books!
Sincerely, Mark David King
Date: Late 1980's . . .
Location: Little Rock, Arkansas . . .
Holiday: Halloween . . .
Prank: Bowel Movement inside Jack-O Lantern.
He talked me into doing it. His name was Stephen. A redneck suffering from sublimity. Loved Hendrix. When he'd trip white blotter, he'd stick it under a headband; next, cut his suburban grass underneath the shimmering, yellow Sun, the LSD sweating into his joyous cranium, driving him elated in 60's fashion.
Anyway, it wasn't summer. That season had passed--now it was the time of crisp foliage fallen, ornamenting the suburban sprawl with the crunchy walk of autumn hues. And Stephen had an idea. He always wanted to prank somebody with the clandestine art of scatological warfare; moreover, his plan: Gut a pumpkin, sit atop its throne and fumble fecal matter inside; next, put the top back on along with a Burger King paper crown, stick a cigar in the pumpkin, and put it on his adversaries front porch along with a few empty beer cans scattered around it. I'm like, "Stephen dude--how do we know they'll open it up?" Him back with, "Are you serious man--of course they'll open it up, and see a big pile of shit inside." And he cackled.
When I arrived at Stephen's mini-mansion on Halloween the first thing I had to do was urinate. Going into his bathroom, besides noticing a few pubic hairs across the linoleum floor, I saw the pumpkin. And I fucking opened it, greeted by a well-formed piece of chocolate brown stool--it was fucking disgusting, and I moaned in unexpected agony, Stephen cackling outside as he knew curiosity had slayed me, just as it would be for the victim of his prank.
I kept insisting that we might get arrested as we drove through the suburbs with a pumpkin full of shit. Was all, "What if the cops get their CSI Unit and test the crap, matching it to yours? And we'll get busted dude." Stephen told me to chill, comfortably smiling like the Joker from Batman, allowing himself to have a soothed conscience--being a trickster god like Loki was fine with the low-leveled guilt complex of Stephen's bizarre psychology.
So, approaching our prey, I cut the headlights; then, Stephen ran out amidst the effulgent night, neverminding the illuminated porch that was highlighted by the sweet kiss of the glistening Milky Way. And with meticulous passion, he gently placed the pumpkin on the victim's front porch, placing a few empty beers cans around it, fixing the Burger King paper Crown in symmetrical style, and making sure the cigar stuck out boldly. Afterwards, he casually sauntered back to the van, me shitting Twinkies, and he got in--I switched on the lights and hauled ass outta there.
We sat at the end of suburban sprawl and drank Pabst Blue Ribbon. Stephen proud of his devilish deed and doodoo. We never got to see what the culmination was concerning the shit-fired Jack-O-Lantern, but surely there was an unhappy customer of trick or treat that night. All in all, we were assholes. But hey, there's couth here somewhere.
Check out my books: King's Books
Sincerely, Mark David King
Being the patriarch over a daughter usurps the joyous wonder of having had spawned a son; specifically, if you have a son, you don't have to worry about anyone riding them like a jet ski, unless he's incarcerated in a Less Free America everyday. Regardless, a father raising a daughter is a gut-wrenching venture; alas, when releasing the primordial ooze of carnal discharge within the foundation of a woman's womb, there is always the possibility a daughter will be ignited in this eternal play known as existence. Her to forever be reincarnated or blissed into awesomeness in consistent fashion, elated perpetually by the soothing comfort of a silky cloud.
And if I was married and the wife was launching a daughter, vaginal style, into the world, I would insist upon my wife: "Her first name is going to be Liberty. And I'll pick the middle name as well--oh, no, sorry honey, you pick the middle name, but the first has to be LIBERTY." Too, she would keep my Irish surname of King, even after marriage, resonating it onwards to the title of her child as well, for she would be a stronger soul than her husband, this due to the anthropological axiom that her mother is hotter than her husband's mother, or at least I could dream. Still, the idealism of her in my life would command me for her not to take her husband's name after marriage; she is an independent, altruistic soul, entitled to be the singular leader of her household, if it is her money and good looks that support the family--bread winner I'm talk'n.
I've been called misogynistic; I like Guns 'n Roses; plus, I once bitch slapped an imaginary female, pretending I was Clint Eastwood in some primate-based movie concerning bare knuckle brawling, for a good man desires fisticuffs in order to having had felt his testicles drop and glisten in the silky comfort of boxer shorts. And my daughter would wear boxer shorts, though this has been linked to more yeast infections claims the televised wisdom of Dr. Oz, on everyday in Nashville @ 2:00 PM!
So, if you have a daughter; next, be the ultimate man, and aim her in the direction of machoness as well, though she shouldn't enjoy the endeavor of sex as much as a man, or so you should inform and teach her. Verily, having a daughter can make a man out of you. It is the ultimate adventure in matters of biology, and in a spiritual sense, there is always the Virgin Mary and the sublimity of Catholcism, chasing her celibate and into the arms of a benevolent God.
Also, check out my books: King's Books!
Sincerely, Mark David King
Origen was never sainted by the Holy, Roman Catholic Church; specifically, he deserved as much, emasculating his corporeal essence with the slick steel of a sharpened razor. Verily, Origen castrated himself to free his mind of lewd and lascivious endeavors. Thus, why was he not canonized? Pope John Paul the Second is undergoing the process of canonization as I forge this twisted and macabre blog; still, Origen is resonating in Limbo, holding his severed testicles in immaculate fashion.
This all has to do with the futurity of humanity. The creation of artificial intelligence and the liquid nature of intercourse. Verily, the Real Doll, available to purchase on Internet Sites is the silicone flesh of utopian masturbation; alas, she is real, though not animated by an intelligent mind or fleeting euphoria if induced to orgasm. Nonetheless, she is real in all her corporeal features, offering up the brainstorm for sex with androids.
Consciousness is the key here. Will androids develop consciousness? Obviously, robotic life is a zillion miles away from breathing the clean air of human consciousness, though with a web-laced brain and the knowledge of the Internet bull's eyed between its ears--androids will soon have consciousness; hence, they will have souls, and physically copulating with them will be regarded as sincere and genuine sexuality.
This is our tomorrow. This is the evolution of man mimicking the divine nature of a Supreme Being spawned for our elation and creation; indeed, God was crafted to architect us. He was lonely and curious; therefore, our births were thrust onto the scene, given birth by vociferous action. It was His words that engineered our existence. And for the polytheist, it was a Hindu dream, though fabricated by vocal command.
Indeed, all the gods exist; however, the Abrahamic God seems to contain the most raw power within His majestic frame, furiously igniting humanity with fervent desire and mystical manipulation. But what about our creation? What about when humanity spawns the axiomatic truth of androids? Will the lovemaking be true sublimity, or just a futuristic version of a man with his gym sock?
Totally, it will be divine. Orgasm inside the womb of a woman or machine is just the same. Climax will not disrupt a man's hornafied intention. If she is gorgeous; then she is gorgeous--pure simplicity. The only fabric of fear is if the android wants to usurp the human. If trumping humanity seems wise action for the machines. This will lead to sin. This will lead to nuclear war and the rest of Pandemonium. Man is a gentle fool in his creation, but the thinking android is pestilence, offering exile and destruction for its robotic purpose.
Be well. And crave the infamy of tomorrow. Too, buy my books: King's Books!
Sincerely, Mark David King
It has been mentioned: "Without the quill of Paine, the sword of Washington never would have swung."
Verily, Thomas Paine, alcoholic and altruistic author penned Common Sense--this was what ignited the great American Revolution. The Colonial Press couldn't print enough copies. And even John Adams, who detested Paine, purchased a copy.
Way back then, when George Washington was growing hemp and Samuel Adams drinking large amounts of grog while agitating the British with his rogue group The Sons of Liberty, America was promised greatness; alas, we might have lost true liberty.
The men who architected the magnificent American Revolution were true Libertarians. Yet if you grow hemp today, the Republican judges will put you in prison and you will get sodomized--this is the great liberty that has attached itself to the Conservative machine. Conservative people fancy themselves patriots, yet they might be blind concerning the Holy Spirit of 1776--an actual incorporeal entity brought down from the ranks of heaven.
Conservative means to limit. To pace oneself. It is not synonymous with the fundamental meaning of liberty. For instance: The Drug War, spawned by conservative thinkers violates the Constitution. It is Anti-Constitutional for the American Government to declare WAR upon its own people, yet that is exactly what the Drug War is--a declaration of war by the government upon its own people. DEA breaking into houses wearing masks, shooting the family pet--all for what? Because somebody ingests a substance that gives them temporary euphoria. Big fucking deal. What would the hemp-growing machine General George Washington say about that?
Democrats are no better with their hatred of firearms. Or Bloomberg making the Big Gulp illegal. What happened to: "Live Free Or Die!" It should all be legal--guns, drugs, hookers, firetrucks . . .
This is the United States of America! The greatest country on the face of the Earth. We need to remember our historic nature of LIBERTY and pursue it with as much muster and mojo as possible. People try to duplicate what we once had. People are jealous of our beauty and intellectual fiber. But we are still the greatest.
Sincerely, Mark David King
POST SCRIPT: Oh yeah, my books, offering Libertarian idealism: King's Books!
Sir Mark Sykes, master of the Middle East (sorta/kinda) expounded about Muhammad this way: "The Four Winds were silent. The big neon glitter shimmered above in effulgent motion; thus, for Muhammad--there was no denying the existence of God."
What makes Islam so unearthly in magnificent fashion is the mysticism of Muhammad--mysticism meaning: The co-action of God and man; specifically, the synergy of organic Earth gelled with something supernatural. And this is how it was for the magnanimous Prophet.
Like a rapper was Muhammad. He was young and not literate, though could spawn poetry divine. A loafer of the desert. A second rate man. Just like might be some type of African-American thug who hasn't climbed the scholastic ladder of academia but is able to forge words in uncanny fashion, rapping better than a Harvard Scholar might dream--this is Muhammad; next, the arch-angelity of Gabriel does emerge, crafting monstrous mysticism; indeed, the arch-angel Gabriel gives the Prophet the gift of literacy. As a result--the genesis of the Koran. Unlike the Torah or New Testament where prophets and saints are filled with the Holy Ghost to pen theology, the Koran is direct dictation from the supermundane mouth of the arch-angel, being the exact words of the Abrahamic God, or so the story goes. Therefore, education does not fabricate good literature, but it is mysticism that scribes the highest awesomeness of the written word. The Koran is the apex of literature in that it directly descends from the mouth of the Supreme Ruler of the gods, given ink-tinted ode by the hands of an illiterate man. Nothing in literature outshines the Koran in its miraculous birth by a second rate poet made immortal by way of Gabriel's mystical communication.
But we are ignorant of Islam in the States. We dismiss it as stupidity in motion. We aren't educated or made the wiser concerning its mystical aspects. We label it monstrously macabre and deliciously evil. And some sects of Islam are; nevertheless, some are the Holy Sparks of sublimity. Jesus the Christ is alive and breathing in the text of the Koran, though not perishing at Calvary, yet ascending directly beyond the Sublime Perimeter and into the ranks of an Abrahamic Empyrean. Too, the Virgin Mary is honored more than the heretical mouths of Protestants who consider Her apparitions as Satanically-charged spiritualism. Verily, we are all a bunch of sons of bitches; hence, know your adversary. Study him. Love him. Forgive him; next, Christ enters. Like the most potent of all Catholic Saints, Saint John of the Cross boldly brags: "When all is emptied, when the window pane is wiped free of grime and smudged clear; then, the Good God can enter." This is the Union-crafted Way of Catholic mysticism, transcending the illuminative way. Why aren't soldiers masters of Islam before the battle? Why do we hate what we cannot see?
Truly, to dismantle the enemy is the sublimity of knowing him. Blind kills only birth more kills. The Abrahamic religions need synergy and to mesh mystically. It is all the same God--the superlative God. Hell, hate the Hindu faith or Buddha and his Middle Path, but the desert religions of Abraham are blood, spiritual blood. But like the Protestants hating the Catholics we fight amongst ourselves for no solid reason. We are deaf and dumb to the core of reason. Hating the immaculate nature of the Virgin Mary has caused many a Protestant in Ireland to gun down virginal, Catholic girls. And now, we are killing our own theological brothers instead of offering the Ultimate Reformation. A benevolent Reformation rooted in the Patriarch Nature of God Himself, not one spawned by a loser who couldn't deal with the rigidity of asceticism as was the flatulent Martin Luther lost to his own libido. Alas, gel. Just fucking gel!
That is all, and, as always, my books available on Amazon.Com, Barnes and Noble.Com, Apple iTunes, the Nook--buy here: King's Books!
Sincerely, Mark David King
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