Rumblitis--Chapter Fifteen (Jango Fettology)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   FIFTEEN:
  
   Ray, deep inside a bottle of Southern Comfort, randomly paging through Harlan Ellison's prophetic piece "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream", him having, maybe, chatted it up with the linguistic genius Thomas Pynchon once or twice; also, denying George Lucas' "Bad Space" teachings, architecting as a creative consultant the sheer, cosmic mysticism of BABYLON 5--a pulsating Space Opera for the Underground.
   Alas, Ray knew Jango Fett didn't need the double-edged luminosity of ancient weapons, nor junky religions, yet to only possess pure confidence in his corporeal abilities, eating white bread and getting buff, denouncing the low-carb doctrine of Dr. Oz for a trek towards the greatness of girth, easily bench-pressing Obi-Wan; furthermore, James Tiberius Kirk would kick Yoda's ass, doing a double-handed crunch of the green alien's vertebra--the frog-like creature having an uncanny resemblance to the talkative Larry King, though not a raging libido like the Hebrew Prophet of them airwaves, somewhat reminding Ray of the testosterone-driven Brigham Young.
   And Ray Rumble was gracious for the physical epiphany of Jango Fett, thinking religion might be useless.  Timothy Francis Leary, as told by Doctor Basil Loveflesh, himself a Harvard-educated neurologist/psychiatrist, explaining:
   "No matter how enlightened the LSD made Leary, even if it made him the Buddha, he soon realized that you still have to do the dishes.  Yep, even Moses had to wake up, take a shit, shower, shave, and be a man about it all.  Ray--life is not about chasing ghosts and religious comprehension.  We are INCARNATE--in the fucking flesh.  Now go get laid or something."

Rumblitis--Chapter Fourteen (Chief Me)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   FOURTEEN:
  
   Ray Rumble snapped into the venomous vibrancy of AWAKE--Xelba's profane utterances driving him consciouswards, for he should've religiously retained a sturdy sanctity for her resonating soul; however, he was filled with mirth yesterday, and that grants ominous payback from any haunting ghoul, no matter how gorgeous or loving.
   "Shit--I'm sorry Xelba."  Ray cried.
   So, wishing he had put cannabis in the medically free peace pipe of Montana, known as "The Last Best Place", 4th in American Size, yet 48th in population density, singing Shamanistic songs, perhaps poltergeisting Ray a bit bizarre.  Furthermore, the ex-punter recalled certain, non-canonized Saints of the American Indian Variety, especially WHITE MAN RUNS HIM--the enduring Crow Scout having braved and survived George Armstrong Custer's 1876 expedition against the ultimate human fighting machines dubbed the Sioux, this further fabricating a high cheekbone Montana legacy; moreover, WHITE MAN RUNS HIM would've been selected by Andy Warhol's wild and wasted mind if corporeal existence had thrived him into the buzzed 60's; still, WHITE MAN RUNS HIM entered the mystical trance of sub-cultural Hollywood in 1927, briefly appearing in a fabulous flick known as RED RAIDERS, all while possibly residing near Lodge Grass, yet mythology lurks around the red-hued warriors, and Ray granted reverence to altered states of consciousness, though knowing that rarely did the Red Man arrive there by way of the frustrating FIREWATER.
   As a result of all this historical implantation of Montana memory, if it was really Montana, Ray figured he may take a break from the booze, getting off the sauce for a bit, finding a local Shaman to reveal introspect and shit like that.  For those crazy ass Injuns have sincere creativity in contacting the sublimity and malevolence of spirits, disregarding Buddha's Neutrality of it All, yet Ray did not want to interact with Real People, knowing a Psychopomp "Guide of Souls" would enlighten in a more pragmatic sense for the psychotic activity of his common sense-lacking mind.  But would the Hebrew Engine known as Christ be pissed, or open an alternative direction into the Father's Heart?  Regardless, Ray put a feather in his salt and pepper hair; then, blew a kiss to Christ, doing the synergy of mysticism, knowing:  "What the Hell."  Something Jack Burton, confined within the internal cockpit of THE PORKCHOP EXPRESS used to say, lov'n them Chinese.  And again Ray recollected:  (NKJV) John 14:6--the Holy Fabric of Christ expressing:  "No one comes to the Father but through Me."  So, maybe he would start, immediately, drinking again, finding favor in intoxication like JIMBO and them DOORS, for that was Christ gone Shamanistic, totally, though culminating in a Serpent's Kiss.

Rumblitis--Chapter Thirteen

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   THIRTEEN:
  
   Lieutenant Commander Spinoza scattered across carpeted suburbia, the frigid chill of a Montana Winter clinging to the cemented red brick outside; plus, penetrating the interior of the spacious household, driving a tame , loving, and CONSCIOUS hedgehog to get frisky, playing the part of a true rascal, eagerly hunting for a package of LIFE SAVERS or something in any nearby trashcan.
   Ray came in from his jog.  Elated.  Smiling Sunshine amidst the overcast Alaska of it all, knowing a country with a Bigger Sky eclipses the sexually attractive Sarah Palin's House of Worship.  Anyway, settling into a mediocre loser-like lust for life, Ray got on the Internet and decided to chat up the ladies.  But first, personally insisted, as possibly the asshole author of this toxic tale, praying:
   --Dan Dierdorf --I apologize.  You said that the multiple-named, teleporting Rob Johnson was just as good a running-QB as the divinely dexterous Doug Flutie during the Tennessee Titans' "Music City Miracle" Game; moreover--that is Egyptian balderdash.  Still, while playing for the lightning bolt ornamentation of the now powder blue, sometimes, San Diego Chargers, you offered the illumination of intellectual speech concerning the swift-elfness of the fast-footed Flutie, somewhat proclaiming:  "Doug Flutie just won't go away.  He may not be the best, but he just won't go away."  Awesome, Dierdorf.
   I just hope the NFL doesn't tragically morph into the NBA--it only highlighting the genetically obscene, while pro football remains the only sport without the axiom of a definite weight and height class, more or less--get me?  You got David Beckham weight guys mixing it up with the freakishly large "J.J." Watt of them Houston Texans, him on his way to the Hall Of Fame.  Sincerely, the most common of men would be wise to shoot steroids all night if having to play against that gigantic, smoldering fortress of defensive domination.
   Then, Ray crashed.  This uplifting brainstorm of life soooooooo much better than things macabre; alas, he huddled close to his hedgehog, beeping the sweet sounds of its ambiguous noisemaker, Spinoza offering a "Vroom" of the cute soothe for a pet owner.  Next, Jimmy Kimmel erupted on live television, and Ray was soon sleeping like a rocked-to-rest infant underneath the celestial shimmer of a neon-glittering night.

Rumblitis--Chapter Twelve

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TWELVE:
  
   Ray was not yet defeated; specifically, he had yet to engage in the totality of an intoxicated destruction, for the sheer hell of it, loving God.  Still, knowing tangible enlightenment is an impossibility, the British philosopher, mathematician, and social critic, Lord Bertrand Russell announcing:
   "I will not die for my beliefs, because I may be wrong."
   Nonetheless, Ray had hope.  It didn't matter that no supersymmetric particles have been overwhelmingly discovered, for SuperSymmetric String Theory outshines its own self, offering a forever function of everything--though the more Ray studied it, the more he didn't understand it.  Regardless, in its own way, everything is connected, such as:  Time, space, the crude matter of an indecent Luke Skywalker and his robotic, masturbating hand, him disgustingly having hopes for creamy copulation with his own sister--and Darth Vader was a sinner (WTF).  Indeed, everything has already happened, yet everything will rear its rancorous head again.  And Ray was wickedly wise concerning his personal ignorance, knowing he wouldn't have casually snorted cinnamon years ago in a clumsy attempt to usurp the Drug War and find personal elation due to the crises of his protracted humanity.  Alas, he reflected:  (KJV, Hebrews 12:2):  "Looking unto Jesus, the author . . . "
   Yep, God has clearly, already, written the novel of existence.  We have been born, died, resurrected, everything--it has all cosmically happened already, and will again.  There is no Free Will, for we are crafted characters in God's literary, somewhat Pantheistic masterpiece.  Thus, Ray felt better.  Drank the cold flow of bull piss, it being over-processed American beer.  Next, he cranked on the cancerous mystery of his menthol E-Cigarette, thinking about going for a jog to embrace the beauty of life, having the reverie of remembering Gregory Widen's storyline of HIGHLANDER (1986)--the best of the sci-fi drama being:
   "Feel the Moose Highlander!"
   Yup.  And as he poured his package and somewhat muscular thighs into a pair of neon spandex, he sang, praising God and the Best of Men:
   Rob Roy--
   The Highland Rogue . . .  

Rumblitis--Chapter Eleven: Virgin Mary's Hue

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 

  
   ELEVEN:
  
   Staci Rumble, slapping little brother Ray into consciousness, him almost dead and definitely drunk, lazily lounging on the cruel comfort of a Kennedyesque rocking chair, hoping to heal his mind with a little motion, remembering the Cuban Missile Crises and President Jack's Steel Intentions, like Conan's father kinda/sorta saying:
   "Men will make mistakes and let you down, but you can always count on the steel of a sword."
   Ray threw up.  On Staci's Reebok footwear.  She laughed.  Cried too.  Gently removing the chunky-discharged tragedy of it all.  Found a towel and spot removed after trash-caning the foul evacuation of Ray's insides.
   "I'm sorry sis."  Ray blurted.
   Staci, tears flowing from her eyes:
   "It's almost time Ray.  It's almost time for you to die.  Then, it will all be better."
   Ray like:
   "I know."
   Staci:
   "Don't fight death when it comes.  Merge into the entropy of it all--your decency and living determination to love the life of Christ will pronounce you solid--if ya get me ."
   Didn't matter to Ray.  Sure, he loved Christ.  But why?  The anguish of it all--a devil's creation out of hand.  A reason for greatness.  The evolution of stupidity or not, the important thing being humility.  Dead to pride--pride being rebellion against God.  Only live to do your best, no matter how screwed up you are, whether suffering from a Learning Disability or dangerous due to Crystal Meth addiction--yes, we are all children of God, Satan too--and that's what freaked Ray--the duality of it all.  The escape of the crimson-horned adder as mentioned in the Book of Revelation.  You can't kill it.  Then, the WOMAN in Blue offered ease, reminding Ray:  (Genesis 3:15, A Translation Of The Latin Vulgate):  "I will put enmities between thee and the woman, and thy seed and her seed:  she shall crush thy head, and thou shalt lie in wait for her heel."
   Ray felt better.  Burped sobriety.  Sobriety being a cruel bitch clothed in a botched existence.  And he was glad, glad that Staci would always love him, this easing his modern absence from Xelba. 

Rumblitis--Chapter Ten

  
   As Always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TEN:
  
   Staci Rumble was casual with Her Almighty power to Superposition Her Holy-Constructed Self.  Like Mork to Orson, she communicated with the Hebrew God; moreover, kept a cosmic eye on Ray.
   This was the Castle Christ spoke of.  (See KJV, John 14:2)  The many-roomed mansion.  The Rumble household haunted by Xelba, a torturous churn of paradise, promising euphoric culmination.  God Himself is beyond the fabric of fantasy or mathematical equation.  Like Saint Thomas Aquinas blinded by his last mystical vision, this causing him to offer cessation to the quill, Ray was lovingly murdered by God.  He (God) is a slippery Orca in the sea foam-green of it all--it being an all-encompassing lagoon of lucidity. 
   "Damn."  Ray hesitated.
   The Ex-Canadian Punter was phobic about falling into the Caribbean-themed water and getting eaten by the Holy Killer Whale.  Worse, passed through the intestinal tract and turned into poop.  Everything cursed the mind of Ray, and he hated his own stupidity and emasculating imagination.  But he had to continue on, for Christ never gave up on him, and he would be wise to return that remarkable favor.

Rumblitis--Chapter Nine (X-Men Of Canada)

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
 
   NINE:
  
   Ray Rumble swiftly awoke from the vividness of phantasmagoria, only to enter the immediacy of an ashen daymare; as a result, he goes to his pills, popping one in the thrush (oropharyngeal candidiasis) of his mouth by way of a Fran Tarkenton Pez Dispenser; indeed, he knew Canada's Department Of National Defense had the uncanny goods on him; therefore, the golden-haired Sasquatch and mercurial midget known as Puck may come hunting for him--ALPHA FLIGHT being the Canadian equivalent to the American Legion Of Super-Sophisticated Toxically-Wasted Avengers; regardless, the castrating trauma of Real Life thwarted Ray's evolution into human normality, him voicing: 
   "Christ save me."
   Ray hated himself.  Was mistake prone and stupid.  Still--he tried baby!  Wasn't no punk.  Totally remembered the oncoming rush of "special team" players assaulting the kicking grace of his left foot.  Yep, punters matter, and it doesn't mean a rat's ass what Dan Dierdorf thinks, for while some men are like unto the Super Villain Rhino (Aleksei Mikhailovich Sytsevich), having mutated muscles galore, others are brilliant engineers, and some are rogue-wasted poets, too dumb to save their own drunken asses in a bathtub full of lukewarm water, doing the decay of Chief Mojo Rising (Jim Morrison).
   "Shit."  Ray knew.
   He had to have Xelba.  Right now.  Found the gleaming edge of Ginsu Cutlery, took it to his wrist, knowing to go vertical with the laceration.  Yup:  This is the End, beautiful friend the End, of our elaborate plans the End--I'll never look into your eyes, again . . .
   But, he would.  Even though:  Lost, in a Roman Wilderness of pain . . .

Rumblitis--Chapter Eight

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   EIGHT:
  
   Ray Rumble reclined in relaxing fashion, his pointer finger inserted into an icy, kosher pickle jar full of Clan MacGregor, smoothly stirring while casually paging through the past of print media; moreover, bewildered by America's submission to advanced, hypnotic control--us under the bestial influence of something celestially maniacal; regardless, Ray cautiously continued to absorb the printed information, comprehending the cruel truth concerning American Politicians, knowing:  There is no greater narcotic than holding political power in the United States--John Kerry's surgically enhanced face, which squints with brain-scattered eyes, having a diabolical determination to devilishly bomb the smaller-sized Syria, showcasing the insidious might of a mind-controlled America.  Verily, this country's leaders have recklessly evolved into sanctimonious bullies, pestering people less buff, yet shitting the golden aesthetics of cream-filled Twinkies when Mother Russia or the "Eat Anything On A Stick" Chinese folk flex their militaristic muscle; specifically, Navy Seals are tremendously tough and undefeated in the combative arts, for, like the Incredible Hulk harassing a kindergarten class, there is not adversarial counterpoise; as a result, if Navy Seals had to heroically engage more than mere Muslims modestly living in the perpetual poverty of mud huts and armed only with slingshots, such as the brutish strength of the Sleeping Bear known as Russia--the Navy Seals would become enlightened as to what a fair fight is, them, for the first time, having to physically punch someone their own size.  Nonetheless, Ray knew America remains haunted by the Holy Spirit of 1776, and that there is heavenly hope for redemption in such a God-Blessed country always at the aid of star-kissed Israel.  Still, the dastardly demons of the Clinton Administration gelled with the uncouth management containing "Waco" Reno and the asinine ATF, sort of, murdered the psychotically prophetic David Koresh, though not before the equality of a historical and morbid gunfight--soon, the American Political Machine will retreat further from the promise of liberty, making mental illness a Federal Crime.
   And if Ray had been blessed with the birth of a son within the benevolent womb of Xelba, he would've instructed the prodigious person, offering:  "Don't ever fight anybody weaker than yourself.  Only fight someone stronger and faster; otherwise, you're simply a bully, and that is why Nietzsche picked on the Living Christ, not out of hate, but because it was an equal match, both men inhabiting the same spiritual weight class, or so the mad philosopher brilliantly believed."
   So, into the inclusion of his theatrical mind, Ray was wise to the theological maxim that God was entertained by the smallest of men, and that he himself might be Bat Shit Crazy, now entering a sophisticated symposium--it deliciously delivered by Doctor Basil Loveflesh, or was it really the inebriating effects of Scotch poured straight from the winking bottle; regardless, here wends the dialogue:

BASIL
Pac Man inserted into the vascular system--most likely a decade from now, cleansing bad cholesterol and fatty blockage, reversing the modern normality of cardiac trauma, due mostly to lazy crazy, and the quick fix of processed foods.
RAY
Yeah Doc--I hear ya . . .
BASIL
Next, Artificial Intelligence--machines endowed with consciousness, transcending Descartes' lack of animalistic vision; still, the beautiful births of these robotic souls will hatch within the next century, them vying for the victory of Totem Pole Hierarchy.  You think the Abrahamic God is all just your pseudo-ascetic containment of Saskatchewan-punting cerebral shit?  Take your damn medication, and pray that we all aren't bio-mechanical organisms laser blasting our eternity away with Terminator-Spawned Computers Of Death.
RAY
Ya, I think I need a pill now Doc . . .

Rumblitis--Chapter Seven (The Jesse Jackson Question)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   SEVEN:
  
   Art is the most magnanimous energy of man--available to all.  Ray totally knew:  The dashingly handsome Bill Clinton explaining the Montenegrins and their intrinsic elation to Serbia--Boris Yeltsin spiked high and possibly patriotic concerning the DNA of his cousin-like relation to them Serbs--and Jesse Jackson rescuing, what a tale . . .
   Anyway, the resonation of Christmas continued, and Ray Rumble reveled in the religious aspects of it all; nonetheless, he strongly sought intoxication--for the long-lasting buzz derived from drinking the continuation of beer, a Canadian Lager, having the wild and free imagery of a prancing pronghorn tattooed on the green-tinted bottle, making his vein-filled lips bleed by way of not having a bottle opener, doing it "Man Style", cracking up the ghostly vixen known as Xelba--the perennial twosome outside of Ray's suburban stronghold, night nearing, and the most individual of precipitation falling furiously, painting Terra's Surface and the sprawl of households an elegant white, an no, this did not forecast a passionate desire to snort the frontal lobe euphoria of Obama's adolescent drug of choice--we're all going to hell.
   So, Ray held an Internet-Ordered football, practicing his punts, courageously kicking the screaming swineskin over his multiple-storied, Montana house; then, calmly driving his pulsating cardiac system to a modest level of repetition, building a stronger love organ, it always beating for stealing a glorious glimpse of Xelba's glamorous femininity--her angelically aglow in a trans-corporeal corduroy number, reminding Ray of 80's sci-fi television, when Buck Rogers boasted a bold broadcast, him ornamented in a body glove ensemble sewn awesome in futuristic fabric, Gil Gerard birthing the American astronaut into televised reality.
   Xelba correcting:
   "This is a Godly Blessing.  You and me--here now, though not a chance of ever lovemaking again."
   Ray, wise to the abstract reality of ectoplasmic possibilities, bit his lip, further producing the mild leakage of gore, yet he did not damn God, knowing soon he too would be dead like Xelba; next, alive in the perpetuity of her eternal embrace.  It was all good--as they say, if you can denounce the devil and restrain your sexual lusts, evolution from horny homonids driving us into the dream of dirty minds, but soon Homo sapien magnificently morphs into Robo sapien, proving the realistic vision of the intellectually innovative Isaac Asimov, him knowing that the good gel of man and machine will beautifully birth immortality, or at least offer a lifespan long and sophisticated enough to grant a better vibe of contentment.  And Xelba smiled always, watching her favorite guy trek towards her eager destination--one day baby, one cosmic day . . .

Rumblitis--Chapter Six

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   SIX:
  
   Ray Rumble's wasted reality was never more dangerously distorted than now--being alive in this flat-surfaced Earth, years from today the brain's intrepid growth revealing our well-crafted souls to be the agony and imagery of being within an ethereal microchip intellectually stashed within the beastly belly of a super computer--possibly.  Regardless, Ray, after his mystical cruise with the Living Christ, now horizontal on the spinning intoxication of a living room couch, like leathery butter, depressing the blue-hued body of Krishna as he adores the tortured nature of cows; still, Ray accepted his varying failures, brainstorming the worst suffering of men, like this:  5 Worst Human Catastrophes:
  
   1.)   Facial Mutilation--dubbed "Men With Broken Faces" during World War 1, dealing with having to face the severity of burns, chimpanzee ruination, or tumor growth destroying the central location of countenance known as the Nasal Cavity.
   2.)   Genital Distortion--whether testicular cancer, or worse, penile leprosy, forcing the agonizing amputation of the fleshy shaft; also, women within the African Continent enduring the thieving of their orgasmic clitoris'.
   3.)   Kidney Stones--especially if the size of a razor-edged walnut and in the urinary tract of a male, like giving birth to a bloody tragedy, having to painfully piss razor blades till anguish overwhelms, forcing the need of God-Blessed opiates to reduce the feverish pain.
   4.)  American Capitalism--incarcerates every singular soul into the random flux of schoolyards and 9 to 5 laboring for the diabolical dues of offering taxes to "The Man" without questioning such omnipotent authority; otherwise, become a street bum, get arrested for vagrancy, and cope with sodomy at the hands of the American Prison System.
   5.)   An Adulterous Wife--this, psychologically punishes the potency of man, for nothing is a larger monster than having to deal with another man's behemoth genitalia being inserted into your favorite dame, star-bursting the literal construction of Irish-Spawned ULYSSES; also, cerebrally castrating your carnal confidence, reducing men to masturbating goblins.
  
   Alas, men suffer more than women unless she is overly obese and denied the gazing attention of a twinkle located in the orbs of the other sex--thank God for Dr. Oz and his altruistic compassion towards the wide woman defamed by having Junk In The Trunk.   Though not mentioned, Ray also knew that a 20 inch tapeworm located within the anatomical residence of the large intestine always offers tragic turmoil; as a result, thank God, and he did, for living in Jehovah's Country, Montana allowing medical marijuana that soothes the suffering of anxiety-ridden cowboys dealing with mental demons and the chronic, gore-splattered diarrhea associated with the crimson circumstance known as Ulcerative Colitis.
   Indeed, marijuana grants numerous explosions of physiological reactions, being an anti-oxidant (like smoking broccoli), an anti-inflammatory, a mild amphetamine, a benign tranquilizer, a sublime pain killer, and a non-freakish hallucinogen--none of these pure, chemical reactions overwhelming the user, yet offering smooth solace for almost any medical condition, never being a gateway to the evil of Crystal Meth, yet the miraculous wonder of Mother Nature, blessing a body cursed with the cruel reality of human pain.  So legalize and tax cannabis; next, pay off the Chinese and architect a better Health Care System without the legal insistence of ObamaCare, though Democrats are not brave enough to prescribe that which offered peace to Jack Kennedy's War-Torn spinal structure as prescribed by Dr. Feelgood, and Republicans hung up on their lack of knowledge concerning the poetic psalms of King David as mentioned in the King James Bible:  "Herb for the service of man."  Hence, Ray dozed off into a dreamy slumber, his drugs of choice being alcohol and anti-psychotics, these things manipulating a personal mercury into altered states of awesome.

Rumblitis--Chapter Five

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
  
   FIVE:
  
   The Birthday Boy was ALWAYS arrived--alive in the eternal discharge of a Good God's Holy Phantom; moreover, Ray Rumble was sipping from the reckless resonation of an F. Scott Fitzgerald pewter flask, the alcoholic substance contained within yet to be determined, though possibly a vodka/cranberry mix for healthy bladder walls and the easing evacuation of urine through a non-inflamed urethra.
   So, Christ, pulling into the plush garage of Ray's suburbia, the day gloomed by an overcast of cumulus cloudage--it being a 1969 Camaro, stunning in diablo-black with inviolate-white racing stripes, not having the Mexican-American Cool of a cowl induction option, and bragging a rare and bizarre amount of cubic inches, like 301, a 4.9 Liter, Turbo-Charged flex of American Muscle, bored out to the mystical numerology of 309 cubic inches--this offering decent gas mileage; plus, a thunderous potency to damn any exotically engineered German Import.
   Christ, manually rolling down a barely-tinted window, revealing Pilate's non-canonized description:  Jet-Black Hair, a Dark Brow, though not the bushy overkill of superfluous hairs, a Perfect Hebrew Nose, and Lips moist and fluidic--verily, Christ was the mirror image of His Undefiled Mother, being a 50% Genetic Match to Her Awesome Ancestry, for:  Forty Days paint a beard on a pretty face!
   Ray was like:
   "Happy Birthday Lord."
   Christ back with:
   "Thanks man."
   Next, Ray got shotgun into the synergy of Camaro Jesus--so cool, Tebowing over the angelic asphalt of picket fence suburbia, even up here in mountainous Montana, the Living Christ cranking on the revealing radio, the over-the-border sounds of the Canadian Babe proclaiming:
  
   Saint Nicholas is laughing with Light Speed Travel,
   Making the mind of a nerdish physicist unravel,
   For the fat, jolly man is a wing-booted stampede,
   Quicksand carousing with the sublimity of need
   To share the charity of packages wrapped in gleaming color,
   Blessed by red ribbons and green bows--like happy to see your Bank Teller;
   Indeed, Christmas is the flu season yet over the top,
   And so is the resurrecting thump of Peter Cottontail's hop.

Rumblitis--Chapter Four

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
  
   FOUR:
  
   The velvet cake of Ray's Imperial-White Couch besmirched by the sanguine circumstance of an exploded hemorrhoid, matched by a Hulkish Hangover that hurt in hellacious fashion--Ray's consciousness ignited with dreary disdain for the eternity of an always-evolving existence; as a result, he brilliantly pissed himself, soaking a pair of Snoopy boxer shorts in Eskimo Snow, fumbling for a menthol-enhanced E-Cigarette--yes, he will die!  Any vaporous matter repeatedly ingested into the tissue of the lungs, however mild, could possibly cause the curse of cancer, or offer a moisturizing effect; regardless, follow the obsessive rants of Dr. Oz all you want--you're still going to experience the earthly culmination of being a dead bunch of bones, rotting away, like food for the Earth, a vampiric worm eating off your nose and lips, unless you're cremated, though those fleeting atoms might not be royally resurrected by way of cloning, an idea soon to be embraced by the futurity of the Democratic Party.
   And Staci Rumble down the spiral of a fancy staircase, hair platinum bleached, crowning a godly face promoted holy, including the transparency of weird-gray eyes, a semi-aquiline (hawkish) nose free of blackheads, and kissable, China Doll Lips; indeed, she was not only Ray's older sister, yet the Holy Ghost Itself, offering Siren-screamed inspiration, the Angelic Twin-likeness of Manichaeism squared, and the excellent aim of a determined direction into the loving arms of the Always-Living Christ.  However, she spit the rancorous crap of tough love towards Ray due to his stubborn inferiority complex--a punter's lack of gung ho.  Still, suiting up for the Canadian Football League might transcend the regularity of Franciscan Humility, unless you're the scrambling Flutie, a career cruelly castrated by Bum Phillips' moronic offspring, benching agile brilliance and determination due to lacking juggernaut size.
   Staci greeted little bro:
   "Hey dude--you hung over again?  A perpetual repeat of your stupidity?"
   Ray, offering counterpoise:
   "King David and his son Solomon were both champions of the grape; plus, not just Dionysus, but Christ was a God of Wine, wearing many mystical hats."
   Staci glaring with gruesome disgust for the brother she loved, hoping to pedagogue acceptance in modesty, even more, saying:
   "You're a good man Ray.  Too, you know that death isn't the end.  Cheer up dude.  Don't hang onto ghosts, but let them embrace the light and cosmic thrill of God's entertainment."
   Ray cried:
   "I love Xelba--always . . ."
   Staci like:
   "Merry Christmas bro.  And may God grant you life and health." 

Rumblitis--Chapter Three

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books
  
   THREE:
  
   Yuletide dreaming daringly--them chivalrous days concerning the monastic art of a gallant Green Knight armed with Wolverine's Healing Factor, decapitating poetry for the pulse of EverLast; alas, Ray's doorbell chimed, pulling his lazy slobber off the creature comfort of a cushioned getaway, directing him throughout a well-groomed household till upon the cherry wood floor of a brilliant foyer shimmering in the fiber optic Saintliness of Santa Himself; then, greeting the guest by way of revealing his inebriated essence, opening the front door, letting in the illumination of the celestial ocean that sparkled behind an eyeful of Doctor Basil Loveflesh, him as erect as an out of work meerkat, smiling like the sensually wicked demon he was.  And thus, he spit out a joyous jingle:
   
   Christ is born yesterday and forever,
   Making me wish I had worn a reindeer-patterned sweater,
   For the miraculous mirth of Yuletide and all its elves
   That are the charity known as classics upon my bookshelves,
   Being Proust and Joyce,
   Making me blessed with the best literal choice
   To enwrap my mind 'round a damned dime novel,
   Reading the past like Obi-Wan is an old fossil.
   
   Doctor Loveflesh wrangled Ray's intoxicated saunter to the epicenter of a dandy den--yes, Green Bay versus Seattle bright upon the animated shine of Reality Television, sort of.  So, Basil with:  
   "Ray--what's up with that ugly ass Seahawk uniform?  Total non-linear, asymmetric art like Warhol's shit.  Give one of them birds an antacid tablet and they'll flat out explode in mid-air."
   Ray rattled:
   "And we can drown puppies later."
   Basil pushing:
   "Where's Lieutenant Commander Spinoza?  Probably taking a toxic dump in one of your shoes."
   Ray snorted:
   "What's up with everybody and my hedgehog's bowel function?"
   The twosome into the symposium of a spirited night, talking of Xelba's uncanny phantom, more prescriptions written, and an imperative urgency to deny all traces of mystical hallucinations in order to conservatively promote a healthy American Society, whether that is bullshit or not.  Ray reminding his visiting physician:
   "It's Christ's Birthday for Christ's Sake.  I want some mysticism here--get me . . ."

Rumblitis--Chapter Two

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TWO:
  
   Back within the comfortable confines of a stereotypical residence near the Canadian Border, Ray recklessly reclined upon the fun squish of a Lime-Green Beanbag, observing the artificial bleach of a White Christmas Tree billowing bright by way of Rudolph's nose-like neon hung within the fake branches.  Xelba coming and going as benevolent ghosts usually do, haunting with the sophistication of saving energy for the most epiphanic information, and Lieutenant Commander Spinoza, the family pet, a hedgehog no less, gleefully dashing over the confederate gray of carpeting, putting a parental smile on Ray's drunken countenance, him feverishly pouring eggnog spiked with Captain Morgan's mind-altering bite into his awaiting gastrointestinal tract, it rolling down his elongated esophagus from the pristine likes of a kosher pickle jar--Ray a frugal patron of the cunning capitalism.
   Xelba sliced into corporeal reality, smirking in flirtatious fashion, running an intangible finger over Ray's receding hairline, his 50ish physicality and facial features reminding her of Luke Perry's thin yet handsome magnificence. And she blurted:
   "Does Spinoza crap on the carpet?"
   Ray like:
   "Has a litter box--you know that."
   Xelba cackling coolly:
   "Just testing your intoxicated status--you always did have a soft spot for excommunicated Rabbinical Scholars."
   Ray knowing that Christ Himself was tossed from the Temple, spiraling eternally down a large hill in theological defeat, embarrassing His Immaculate Mother, though the apex of awesome, granting the glorious gift of soothing salvation for all the freaks and geeks of planet Earth.  Xelba then reminding: 
   "The Packers play the Seahawks tonight--gonna watch?"
   And Ray, exiting into the theater of his mind, having the remembrance of reverie, him taking the long snap from an upside down center; next, putting the top of his foot into the desiring pigskin, lifting the odd-shaped ball near 60 yards skyways and like rolling thunder into the astonished arms of an adversarial return man.  Yet Ray did not dare hate himself for having modestly played in the mysterious CFL, for only the enchanted talent of anthropological androids get to mix it up within the monstrous might of the NFL.  Regardless, Ray, back into reality, focused upon the angelic face of Xelba, grinning a chipped tooth amidst the dental decay of yellowing stains due to menthol merged with nicotine, it making him all the more human, wishing he could run a loving hand through the dark energy of her spectral hair, having had loved her like a champion before suicide enlisted her into the ranks of Empyrean--truly, Xelba loathed dealing with Clinical Depression due to the Federal Government inserting its monopolizing self into the States' Rights of marijuana-free Montana, thieving away the much-needed medicine that could tame the demons of despair.

Rumblitis--Chapter One

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Dramatis Personae:
   Ray Rumble:  An inquisitive quasi-stallion, having heroically played within the romantic isolation of the Canadian Football League located beyond Green Bay's frozen tundra, punting with Herculean performance--now:  A mystical inhabitant of an undisclosed Montana suburbia.
   Xelba:  A spectral apparition armed with the corporeal reflection of a ghostly glow, offering Ray the sublimity of solace, though unable to physically pour him a life-easing cocktail of the vodka combination.
   Basil Loveflesh:  Ray's Freudian physician; specifically, a well-lathered shrink ornamented in the finest of intellectual gifts bestowed by a Loving God.
   Staci Rumble:  The Holy Ghost, and how having adulterous imagery of carnal copulation concerning Her Awesome Self is the only unforgivable sin as mentioned in the methodology of the New Testament.
   Lieutenant Commander Spinoza:  Ray's pet hedgehog--allowed the freedom of roam throughout its captivity being a suburban habitat.
   All The Rest:  I haven't created you yet . . .
  
   ONE:
  
   If the Almighty, Abrahamic God knows the fateful future; next, everything has already happened, and we are upon the pulsating perpetuity of a Super String Wheel, it craftily churning our architected and always intentions, this repeating in rapid rhapsody, allowing:  There is no Free Will; as a result--God is the Author of Life, and so also says the War-Battered Bible.  We have been constructed by the awesome art of intelligence, proving evolution exists in the fabric of man's physiology, yet human consciousness is a gracious gift granted by God, allowing a devil's creation to get out of hand.
   Ray Rumble regretted retreating from the official roster of the now known "Rider Nation" hidden within the frigid brag of Saskatchewan; nevertheless, bumming his soul Southwards, searching into the Native America that forged his essence and made him an Injun--his casual Caucasian mix of over the pond and beyond making him a compassionate creature created for the American Spangle--this being a luscious country grown towards opulent cravings, and he was like:
   "Damn."
   Glaring at the glowing gleam of effulgent Neon-Green Cheese hanging in the star-kissed sky--yes, Ray was taking a piss, dousing a ground-dwelling fern flinching from the passing incarceration of inhabitants once residing within the urinary tract and a bladder upwards . . .  Again with profane utterances:
   "Mother of pearl."
   It was all like a dream, Xelba aglow in the cascading elegance of a blue-black mane gleefully peeking over her angelic shoulders, framing a vampire-like face made pouty by an anemic complexion pedigreed in the regal plush of flamboyant-red lipstick, eyes too gleaming great, smoky made, offering consolation for the humility of the color brown--so fine . . . 

Proust And Joyce: Sublime Synergy

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   James Joyce, desiring to be a vociferous vocalist, offered:  "Genius makes no mistakes."  And I'm a dipshit, determined by dyslexia or something synonymous, forging the drunken fabric of Made in China sewing, though their love of the authentic American Automobile beckons beatitudes amazing.  Regardless, my humility is not ushered in by way of unearthly piousness, yet portrayed sincerely, me knowing that I am the best of mistakes and folly concerning the faulty nature of man; alas, armed with a double digit IO, damned to be daringly different, I can only discipline myself in the apex of authorship, whether I might mimic the linguistic greats or not.
   Was it:  William Carlos Williams--the poet/physician, like a spy upon the intellectual copulation of Village People being gay like Proust, him mostly adorned in a fur coat no less, Joyce, a negro erection forecast from his pursed plum suckers, blowing ghostly billows of American tobacco into the European winds--or so I believe.
   All basketball players steadily thirst to be the genetic duplicate of Michael Jordan.  Football--totally Joe Montana.  But most of us are mediocrity at the end of the day, though we try, eclipsing the wisdom of green-hued Yoda because we're not perfect; thus, pencils have erasers--this, a Southern Baptist Deacon keen on the book of Revelation taught me.
   Nevertheless, our primary function is to perform at an ultimate velocity; hence, the 9mm usurps the .45; specifically, spraying prey with the German-Dreamed mercury of high capacity outshines the steel fist of bear-killing ammunition, though this is an African-American preference, as well as mine. As a result, I'd rather have 17 rounds than less if inhabiting a creepy cabin within the bucolic bush of it all, having to crazily cope with multiple invaders who might intrude upon the inviolate virtue of my adolescent daughter yet to be lovingly tamed by the hands of desired coitus from a similar soul caged within her complete category of self.
   So--Proust and Joyce are the best.  I'm a douche of yet unknown flavor, and yes, yeast infections are prone with the irrigation of overused cleansers, though better than the piston-like entropy that promises hazardous reincarnation making you migrate, always, in the hellish direction of Pandemonium's promising mire, bleeding scabs like Wolverine, healing into the forever of mistakes made by the repeat of bad karma; hence, create your own brain, being determined and damned to make no mistakes. But we all do--and I'm a prick for mentioning this . . . 
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Tebow: Definite Defensive End, perhaps . . .

  
   As always-my books:  King's Books
   Known as completely "the Freak", Jevon Kearse was robust quicksilver upon the glimmering spangle of a grassy green arena; nonetheless, Tebow wears the mystic might of Perseus' winged scatterboots, if Zeus was his god of worship anyway, moving like mercurial dynamite as he strongly stampedes into the attacking upper body, corporeally wounding suffering defenders.  As a result--Tebow could play Defensive End in the NFL--imagine the glorious glee of intentionally annihilating the rocket arm of Peyton Manning, tossing his less athletic self to the floor of the field, though not with the unlawful uncouth of bullshit bounty, yet sheer athleticism let loose on Game Day.
   Kearse "40" and height/weight:  4.43, 6'4" 265 lbs.--the apex of approximation.
   Tebow "40" and height/weight:  4.71, 6'3" 240 sumth'n.
   And remember, Tebow runs like the ravaged Rocky Bleier, damning tacklers, proving my point that he wears brass bones underneath a determined dermis; also, resonates from High School action, remembering this:  High School Coaches ask their possible Special Team Players:  "Can ya hit!?!"  The athletically amorphous, charging crazily down the field as if Sir William Wallace berserkering into the beauty of an animalistic zone, hunting tailbacks like a beloved SEC coach feeling important since playing in the most competitive college football conference.  Too, Tebow could "take" Big Ben Roethlisberger, not minding that the Steeler is like Gene Kelley in the ever-collapsing pocket, dirtily dancing with the "push off" strength of being a human sasquatch, and soon he will do Beef Jerky commercials.  But what do I know, only having played Gremlin Football till thunderously stunned by the anthropological transformation known as puberty, where adrenaline drops, revealing the necessity of a cruel fit concerning the perpetual torture of jock straps that continually offer cramping by way of a notorious motive terribly uncomfortable and able to entertain with "scratch and sniff" possibilities.  It can be hell to play with balls in your teens, testicles churning you stupid . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The Art Of Death--Part 2

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Like the mighty menthol to bacteria--religion kills the psychological trauma of death.  Krishna, adorned in the effulgent azure hue of Smurfberry Blue, shimmering colossal against the giant, this mimicking David's Goliath takedown, whether in futurity or before the mass exodus of a Torah scripted, me thinking:  Time like a curvature of SuperString Theory Forever, a perpetuity of rebirth and suffering Hellenization, agonizing at the hands of comedic gods.  And what did the Hebrews ask of Christ:  "Is he Elijah?"  As if the transmigration of souls might haunt the Abrahamic Religions, birthing a super flux of forever, or scattered atoms and gathered into the Borg Collective, though that bio-mechanical monster would not be clumsily cumbersome concerning its own self, yet athletically agile, like the liquid metal of T2 offering insight into the pulsating pectorals of Arnold Schwarzenegger. 
   Religion offers the smooth soothe of solace, especially Christianity, where bad karma can be constructed, yet a hint of Evangelical Pulpit-Pounding offers a terrific eternity through the unselfish sacrifice of Christ, that mysterious demi-god, fanatically forged for the sublimity of humility, meeting the damned devil, ignoring the tempting taunt of:  "Want all the women?  Whatta 'bout d' money?  Freak'n fame?"  The Christ Man denouncing all opulence, bowing down to the dictatorship of an awesome God--the Hebrew God, the most powerful of all the gods.
   Indeed, many a Roman Emperor, including that dude dubbed Marcus Aurelius, his auto-biography read every year by the now Vegan Bill Clinton, it offering:  "Yes, the gods do exist."  It wasn't mythology to Marcus.  His wife, hatching infancy without the aid of his spermy synergy, yet him low and modest enough to raise with intellectual copulation, mind-melding his brainiacish beatitudes upon a non-genetic lineage of love. And thus, the Vulcan prayer for the corporeally defeated:
"May you find a peace in death that you could not find in life."  Christ, Science Fiction is like reading the religious rants of Thomas Aquinas, blazing with spiritual insight into the gleaming ghost of beyond, if not then, architected into another, choosing your own adventure for a spare glimpse at the ever-turning wheel of life, Ezekiel spotting that circular craft, landing, Biblically, though obscured by modern theologians, them complaining:  The Priest of the age 30, stoned and stupid on the river Chebar, what idiocy, or concealing that Godly merge, them wanting to make it covert mysticism.  But it happened, or a crazy ass Jew was more of a modern genius than Tom Cruise himself, plugged into the symmetrical perfection of an alien religion, usurping the challenged minds of Hollywood Folk believing it to be an insidious cult that heals to thrill or some bullshit like that.
   All in all, our existence is intelligent design.  The atheist being the universal dolt in lack of imagination, at least, fabricating fiction where there is God.  Carl Sagan, in all his visionary coolness could not ensnare or wrangle the idea of an alien species traveling over such-many-a-light-year, yet modern physicists of today know that space can be folded; hence, wormhole availability for the Grays who are prone to anally probe the human rectum; plus, slaughter cows, like celestial cow tipping for those blessed with over-sized craniums full of space brains.  Look, it's all real.  Get sick--go to the doctor.  Get in trouble--go to the lawyer.  Get interrogative--go to a Priest, Rabbi, or Caliph.  And this is for a reason.  At least the Muslims conceal some of their women's curvaceous cunning, showcasing a sensitivity towards the beauty of creation--nothing is all bad, Islam meaning SUBMISSION, and Christ getting deadly for salvation--what is more unearthly, and real, than that?  So forget the art of modern proof, as through the Spanish Mystic Saint John of the Cross, scribbling a theological equation for ascetic entry beyond the Pearly Plush Of Always--it like:  Purgation +Illumination=Union.  The 3 Ways.  So don't just adjust yourself to the lengthy lectures of college professors, but find the counter-culture, going deep into mystical texts like THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL or THE EGYPTIAN BOOK OF THE DEAD, being brave enough to hopefully not be cursed for observing such radioactive material, your face maybe glowing, like Moses from down the mountain, having clearly communicated with the atomic elements of a technological God.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Human Sexuality: The Apex Of Folly

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Never would a righteous man be incredibly intrepid enough to tame a toxic womb; furthermore, the odoriferous chemistry of pussalicious contagion enchants them not; still, myriads of mild-mannered men are caught observing PLANET OF THE APES, peeling their peckerish bananas, eager to violently thrust within a reeking vaginal cavity, not minding that yeasty cream is always an infectious possibility--the modern girl gallant enough to dangerously deny the immaculate benevolence of peppermint douche, which also promotes healthy bowel function, beyond the lip-like labia, where resides a self-cleaning oven--what hogwash.
   I imperatively urge all foolish females to meticulously douche, imbibing the bacterial inertia of Live Cultures from Greek yogurt while dreaming of John Stamos; plus, take the dietary supplement known as acidophilus pills, keeping them refrigerated for an even fresher cleanse of gregarious genitalia--women enjoy sex since the 60's, the eager exposure of the clitoris deeming them anthropologically-constructed for multiple partners.
   Why do men thunderously thirst to hungrily spread the lesser sex, hoping for wicked entrance until the demon of discharge contorts their countenance like a country singer vocally animated by facial expressions of anguish and sadistic suffering?  Where is Free Will?  Sex commands man--makes him a slave to seduction.  Hence, ask a Freudian physician to remove a testicle, crafting you more docile, or plead for chemical castration--all in altruistic hopes of dismissing ape-like lusts to lasciviously lay the pipe.  Men are morbid monsters, deconstructed spiritually by a million nagging sperm spawned daily within their sacs of eternity.   Thus, to transcend the terrible trauma of humanity outshines the admiration of your own ejaculation, denying the magnificence of a low rent Moll ornamented in talocrural region tattoos and shiny-pink pumps, wanting to be ogled by masses of men; next, ravished till stupidly squirting, as if this type of fluidic climax makes her lover the best of men.  Verily, Big Deal if men grossly glare at your buxom blessedness or hearty thighs, for men will boldly bang anything--this does not make you special ladies.  Nor does back door entry, which is similar to getting a recreational colonoscopy for kicks without the tranquil effects of conscious sedation.
   Truly, there is no Free Will save in the awesomeness of asceticism, and we are all chimpanzee-like coolies without proletarian humility unless disciplined by a cosmic conscience constructed towards a targeted lunacy of Earthly denial.  I'm guilty of being Curious George as well.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The United States Of Entropy

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   America has monstrously morphed into a political design that sinisterly caters to the genetically gifted; specifically, it was the obscure philosopher Popper taming the vociferous futurity of the ebony ectomorph Tyra Banks, her curvaceously claiming to have won the Genetic Lottery for simply being corporeally pleasing--what I'm say'n:  Not only is the brilliance of beauty a blessing, yet the sophisticated suavity of intelligence is an inherited gene, meaning:  Success within the American Machine relies upon the pulsating parts of talents and genetic gifts--hard work reaping success, while somewhat a sublime standard, is pure mythology crafted by the Republican Party, denying the minimum wage soul, him disciplined by a steeled determination to stay afloat economically; moreover, hard work minus talent and intelligent introspect reaps nothing save mediocrity.  If Steve Jobs was only armed with a 87 Intelligent Quotient, he would've been the "Work'n Man's Man", yet not architected a fat wallet and legendary status.
   Verily, if you are intellectually challenged, morbidly obese, or asymmetrical in facial features; then, your only chance at success in America is to be the remarkably rare case of Forrest Gump, and modern media will shake this unique success story in front of all the STUPID, blaming the impoverished for not having worked as hard, these media hounds of hell not minding the fundamental truths of anthropological axioms that forecast a capitalistic champion.
   Just look at all the awe-inspiring athletes making millions--90% are genetic freakshows, gifted by an innate grace beyond the common man, or the pornographic princesses made sexually stunning by way of firm, symmetrical breasts, outshining the mundane modesty of cupcake cleavage, which drives girls to social phobia and limited access to economic gain--but there are always the exceptions, yet those rare birds scarcely fly highwards.  And to climb the scholastic ladder of academia means more than merely studying, but a brain blessed by a high IQ, which always eclipses the double digit studier suffering from the demons of something like dyslexia. 
   In America:  We proudly frame the gifts of inherited genes, incarcerating the mentally ill and denying that mental illness even exists, as if cerebral matter cannot decay, but is the foolish fault of the soul itself--to be blamed and tagged diabolical, getting a moronic tongue lashing from a pretentious prick of a Judge sentencing someone to a life of sodomy for their inadequacies that don't glamorously gel with a sinful society built for the beautiful--and how much more cruel and unusual is getting raped for a man, yet there is no female outrage for our macabre prison system that cerebrally assassinates the hopes of a redeeming futurity; moreover, Republican moralists giggle at the sufferings of the imprisoned, dumbly announcing:  "Don't drop the soap."  And then they believe that their pride and capitalistic success grants them access into heaven run by a blind and doltish God; still Democrats are no better, Obama and the insidious Elvis Clinton proof of buffoonery, both hornswoggled by their own status-seeking selves.
   ObamaCare forcing the impoverished to pay for his afro legacy, Clinton pushing the plan, ornamented in the falseness of intellectual eyewear, as if his shit doesn't stink, him having banged more yeast-infected beaver than Anthony Weiner, yet too proud to accept the comparison as if he is a better man--what arrogant bullshit, it all building another Tower of Babel for the luminosity of LEGEND.  The demonic domain has a special, rancorous residence for the self impressed, them denying the ugly and stupid mercy and compassion, forcing the disabled into the equal status of the gifted and gallant.  Just remember Bubba:  GOD HAS HIS OWN CELEBRITIES!
   Life is not a mirror image of death, Christ exposing the awesome eternity of the weak and weary, denouncing the bold and beautiful, unless they attack life with the mercurial merits of humility and decency, offering solace for the suffering instead of damning them for their genetically-inherited differences.  So, be proud America.  And now know your arrogance and success would be weakened by the chance of an extra chromosome, for the mutated constructed not their own physiology, yet endure the crimes being committed by the gifted.  Truly, I am an asshole.  Donald Trump doesn't give a woman with some chunk in her thighs a second look, but Dr. Oz does.  Regardless, the meek and weird are always outta breath in noble attempt to tread the wavering water of Earthly existence.  Yup.  And America is still the greatest.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

TEBOW: A Minnesota Viking?

  
   Adrian Peterson, ornamented in the mercurial boots of Hermes himself, dashing gallantly beyond the infectious ploy of a determined defense, while arguing his singular solace of adoring a scarce backfield, has been sweetly graced by an arsenal of boldacious blocking; specifically, Jerome Felton and T/E Rhett Ellison have architected a more SAFE passage for the gifted running back--not to crazily imply or say that Peterson can't do it alone!  My point:  Allow Tebow to block for Peterson--align the WICKED I; moreover, Tebow usurps Moose Johnston physically, surpassing a 6'2" 238 lbs. awesomeness by way of:  6'3" 245 lbs.--all approximates at the pinnacle of performance.  What I'm saying is that Tebow could probably take Daryl Johnston in a sense of combative anthropology.  As a result, Peterson might have genuine success behind Tebow--but that shit won't fly.
   Everybody loves the dance and dash of the charismatic Chris Johnson, him always offering a toothy smile gleamed with gold greatness, making the ebony ladies blush, and white ones too; nevertheless, watching the brutal Hulk known as Earl Campbell carry the pigskin should be a shimmering epiphany for Tebow.  Campbell:  5'11" 244 lbs.  My point:  The Great Houston Oiler adorned in something like a powder blue used ta', in hellacious fashion, offer direct impact upon defensive players, melting them down with the flowing lava of his Herculean stampede into their chest cavities.  Alas, Tebow could do this.  A bit taller than Campbell, around Eddie George size, Tebow has the theoretical possibility of damning defenders in Earl Campbell style.  The dude could do anything.  Fullback, Running back, End on either side of the ball.  Sure he might terribly injure himself and totally blow a chance at ever playing QB in the NFL; still, you don't put your best stallion in the stable.  An athlete of his caliber needs to play the game; moreover, chivalrously accept the humility of another position.  Tebow needs to get Saint Francis on himself, bleeding his bones to the ascetic core, morphing his mind mystical like Saint John of the Cross enduring a devilish Inquisition, accepting his rhino-like potency to powerfully play the game of football.  But I can't quit smoking cigarettes, so who the hell am I to say crap?

   Yes, Peyton Manning and little bro Eli (having the most talented hair dresser in football) are the best.  No doubt--pure passing poison against any NFL defense, Canadian too, perhaps.  They are the rocket arm.  Pete Sampras with the Big Serve.  But it bores you to death. I wanna see the late/great Steve McNair with his dodging dexterity.  Flutie dreaming Napoleonic.  This is exciting football.  Too, Michael Jordan always wanted to play baseball, yet his top-of-the-line talent glistened in the high pulse play of basketball.  I wanted to marry Britney Spears and ended up with the grocery clerk girl at WALGREENS.  We all have to make sacrifices.  The NFL needs good athletes--period.  Tebow should find a way, any way--to play the game.  For his fans.  For the Celestial Spangle of a Cosmic God birthing the luminous salvation of the Living Christ.  Every little boy wants to play the game.  But we are squirts.  Hence, we dream through these guys--I'm a fan, but that's it--and football matters damn't!
   Too, buy my books:  King's Books
   Sincerely, Mark David King

In Theological Defense Of Pope Francis

   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Pope Francis has ignited another unearthly case of controversy; specifically, he may back down from his reported vociferousness concerning entrance into the Empyreal Spangle (Heaven); nonetheless, his theology outshines his confused critics.
   The Gospel of Mark; moreover, Chapter 2 verse 17 of the King James Edition clearly explains the necessity of Christ, it boldly daring:  "When Jesus heard it, He saith unto them:  They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick--I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance."
   As a result of this effulgent epiphany, Christ offers up a theological maxim that those whose earthly motions are benevolent will inherit heaven regardless; it is the lewd and lascivious that need the attention of a spiritual healer in order to pass beyond the Sublime Perimeter of it ALL.  Still, all religions believe they singularly possess the axiomatic key to a perpetuity of a paradisal afterlife--what hogwash.  Ordained a priest in 1507, the most infamous Dominican Friar of the 16th Century, Luther was the ruination and retardation of a blossoming brilliance known as the Renaissance; specifically, even Nietzsche argued that the Papal Authorities had finally embraced the essence of art and science--all this to be sucked backwards into the ignorant vacuum of a man unable to endure asceticism, making Saint Paul's intellectual bullshit just as important as the Gospels Themselves.
   Are we really to adhere to the notorious notion that only a singular religion will, if properly executed, inherit the delicious domain of heaven?  Maybe the malicious Methodists?  But screw the polytheism of Hindu Holy Men, crafting excellent karma for their eternal ride into the celestial ocean, right?  Deny the agnostic Doctor who spends his whole life sweetly healing, yet cannot wrap his educated self around an omnipotent, loving God.  This is crap.  And Pope Francis has once again displayed his denial of these demonic traits that haunt supposedly holy religions--even if he shies away and regretfully retracts his statements.  Nobody knows the truth save for the most lunatic of mystics, denying earthly existence as commands a compulsion to know the truth of God; alas, Pat Robertson's cerebral arteries are clogged with the mystery beef of bologna; still, truth resides within his faith and determination to eagerly inject salvation into the monstrous masses.  The Torah, New Testament, Koran, Gita, Epic of Gilgamesh--all religious doctrines have truth and lies.  This is the dangerous dualism of humanity.  But we have to accept that--our imperfection, never blindly believing the balderdash of an umbrella theology.  Man is good; man is a son of a bitch.  Being a Methodist is not the singular path towards heaven.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The Art Of Death

   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Foolishly, the quintessential man prepares himself for life--not death.  Yet physiological life is just a fleeting glimpse of eternity, one page turned in the perpetuity of a soul's epic poem.  Regardless, people persuade themselves into becoming as human as possible, eagerly embracing their liquid-form existence, unaware that there is no Free Will--I am no better; indeed, I have toxically touched myself like an aroused chimpanzee, fantasizing stupidly, thrusting to not the true intent of my spiritual self, further castrating my fragile immortality, crafting crappy karma that will one day morph me into a dung-eating Beetle within the rerun of corporeal life--if that shit sails.  And the Hindu epics touch upon the illumination of light perceived after passing into a lack of physical consciousness, as does the Gnostic-like tradition of the Angelic Twin Himself, Mani, the incarnation of the Holy Ghost, the Helper Christ promised would arrive.  And Christ Himself, in the non-canonized Gospel of Mary Magdalene, pulling His female friend aside from the 12, whispering to her the secrets of death--the Light, the Darkness, the encountering of trans-corporeal entities, matching magnificently with the doctor from daytime; moreover, Dr. Oz's televised special on the essence of death, him having had a singular patient fade into the entropy of it all, encountering shame for all his ego and pride, before being divinely ushered into a celestial household of a zillion lights merged with the Pantheistic perfection of it all--if that shit sails as well.  Or Chief Mojo Rising, the chronically intoxicated Jim Morrison adhering to the American Injun symphony of swimming away from cerebral reality, into the void of delicious death, where you first encounter a hissing and venomous snake head, and if you ignite fear within yourself; next, you're blotted out of existence, though, if you kiss the snake--you choose to reconstruct yourself for a perpetual paradise of contentment.  Like this:  Ride the snake, to the lake, the ancient lake baby--the snake is long, 7 miles, he's old, and his skin is cold.  Could be bullshit.  We'll all soon be aware though; thus, it's imperative to prepare yourself for death and quit thinking about getting laid all the time.
   So when I see Miley Cyrus exposing her tongue, soon to be laced with the yeasty punishment of oral thrush, I hungrily understand that our lascivious loins control our cerebral capacity.  Freud knowing:  "It's all libido baby."  Still, better to metaphorically emasculate yourself then be a dumb fink, thinking you're the best, boasting your fleeting accomplishments and nastily nailing the seemingly plush opulence of creamy poonani, for you will be an old bitch soon, and then, dust and bones dude.  Until the Genetic Revolution offers a mesh of man with machine, forging us forever into a bio-mechanical existence, we will have to pass into the mystery of death.  Religion offers solace for the terror and trepidation of losing your last LIFEBREATH--though there is no maxim of truly knowing save for the most intrepid mystics.   But we all should be worried.  Worried about our personal pride and monstrous fascination with sensual ecstasy.  Loving our children simply because they are our own joyous ejaculations into wicked wombs needing the pulsating pound of a piston as anthropology dictates--we are fucking monkeys.  Still, a divine essence lurks beneath the fiery pubes and liquid discharge of it all, if indeed we are hybrids, housing a cosmic creator from within, and if that's true; then, we'd better architect some religion, remembering the humility of the most unusual demi-god, Christ, saying:  "He who is last shall be first.  He who is first shall be last.  If a man wishes to save his own life, he will lose it; if a man wishes to lose his life, he will save it."  What insane lunacy is this, yet sublimity squared.  Christ taunts us into humility.  He offers up an Earthly existence of denial and introspect of things ethereal.  He wants God, not fortune, fame, the scandal of sexuality.  Be safe.  Have a drink.  Have another drink, maybe.  Every hippie in their sensual ignorance knows that there is an afterlife, Thomas Pynchon reminding us:  "LSD gets you through the door; PCP pushes you through the door and locks it behind you."  Verily, a healthy brain ignited fantastic by the gateway of narcotics knows there is more than banging babes and getting a good job.  Truly, life be thataway.  Not here.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The Smok'n Vision Of Tom Aquinas

   As always, my books:  King's Books!
   Pope Benedict was weirdly wise waywards as his fade into the cosmic black of nothingness, like a Church Window politely surrendering to wax on and wax off, gleaming the cure of a nasty mire, offering up the benevolent charm of Pope Francis, swift with the stampede of a zillion ignorant Nations, offering the solution of solace on TWITTER, bolding beyond the beauty of JP the 2nd igniting MARY as the Co-Remdemptrix--which should'a been; regardless, Pope Benedict was vociferously known to interrogatively boast towards the near direction of humble, ascetic underlings:  "Have you ever heard of the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise?" This is the infinite formation of Truths in the Megaverse.
  Verily, Christ had no pie in the face for Pilate as Mel Gibson offered up a fondness for Ezra Pound, me too, but the guilt of the most insidious evil against mankind--the foulest and nastily toxic state of German hysteria trumping Luther's uncool and uncouth transformation of Jesus the Christ into the intellectual rabble of the salacious Saint Paul. The Gospels outshine all the rest--no matter!  Christ is the only positive demi-god mentioned in the entire Bible--let me think, I'm intoxicated, oh yeah--it's true.  Alas, Gilgamesh was 2/3 god, usurping the spiritual anatomy of the Abrahamic God in fanatically forging Christ; still, no other demi-god would humble themselves to the pussy of the Cross--and it isn't.   Jesus stupefied Nietzsche, and with sublime intent, inflicting upon Himself the shame of Creation, for He did it--He was the Hebrew God Incarnate, the most powerful of all the gods; as a result, He buried it deep inside His celibate self, offering up spiritual castration for His own reeking flesh and His Immaculate Mother, denouncing the demonic dance of carnal play for the thunder of asceticism, fasting till serpents in the wicked desert, doing the combative dance with the Devil himself--Jesus be awesome, and Oh My God--is Tebow Right?

   Regardless, Thomas Aquinas was transported or teleported into 1977, within the confines of a movie theater . . .                                                                                                                   

Tebow/Canadian Football: Do It Man . . .

   As always, my books:  King's Books

   Warren Moon is Captain Black Sparrow of symmetrical cool; moreover, Doug Flutie dodging with mercurial Spider-Man offers a dangerous game that outchills the Frozen Tundra of Green Bay; specifically, anybody can wrangle football in the States, but running through the vacant fields of Saskatchewan during times of BarleyCorning Civil War, Flutie transcends the rest; next, mid-thirties and again gelled with the NFL, architecting "Comeback Player Of The Year" with a dexterity determined to eclipse the spies of a mutated defense.  Yes, Peyton Manning is a cerebral assasin--an adrogynous android rocketing with the eternal arm, much like Pete Sampras (spell'n?) of tennis fame; nonetheless, Manning never gets his shirt dirty--no Mean Joe Green toss and a fizzy bottle of fabulous Coke, though better ingested like the free-lancing intellectual known as Freud to soothe the slain spirit of romantic decadence.

   And it is that:  The Saskatchewan void of it all, HOLE, vacuous yet voluptious with the mirth of a humble God adoring the Combative Anthropology of Man minus the sanguine spill of crimson guts and ruptured intestinal tracts. 

   Allow Tebow the GRACE of achievement, for he did more than both Cam Newton and RG 3 merged for immaculate respect; still, he gets nothing for his Moose Johnson ability to make horizontal the adversarial athlete lined up across from his Christian Gleam.  So chill, hit Canada like Chief was in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, daring the amber bush of carnal insanity, though besmirched better by an actor damned and destined to be the Joker before Heath Ledger's accidental insertation of legal medicines into his gorgeous corporeal aspects.  Regardlees, we must adhere to the futurity of continuance, allowing all Quarterbacks the chance at Kenny "the Snake" Stabler Fame even if a fifth of Vodka a day is drank for dangerous purposes.  God Bless the excess of William Blake, if understood for a sublime purpose.

   Tebow can hone his katana in Canada; then, inject his venom into the remission of the unathletic, passing QB, dumb and dumber to a Safety Blitz forged from the quicksilver of a 4.3 forty short man, weighing in at 170 pounds, but smacking the ass of gangly stars into the quicksand of recovery.  God Bless the running Quarterback!

   Sincerely, Mark David King

Nietzsche, Narcotics, and Jesus the Christ

  As always:  My books--King's Books!

   Nietzsche loved the Living Christ, preferred other unearthly incarnations of religion, fascinated by the glorious gleam of alien theology, though he would deny it; plus, a profound pull to envy the insanity of Jesus the Christ, adored by Tim Tebow, though misunderstood; however, the Gnostic approach to have Christ as a Savior is boldacious bullshit; otherwise, Tebow is clean, manifesting a brilliant glue towards the immortal cracker of Catholicism--the only real, Christian religion save the Eastern Orthodox.  Protestants, the modernism of Saint Paul, his intellectual rants dominating the New Testament and spoiling the rich in fuel resources of the Living Christ.  Beyond the Four Gospels homosexuals will not inherit heaven, and now:  Pope Francis the Great denying the ignorance of ill will delivered by an antiquated testimony, them not being the Words in Red; as a result, Paul is the consequence of a high cerebral capacity crafting cults like the Methodists, and other Protestant heretics; nonetheless, who are the Catholics unless they inflict upon themselves the stigmata like Saint Francis or fade mystical like Saint Johnn of the Cross into the devious though immaculate Dark Night of the Soul.

   Tebow should not showcase his effulgent awesomeness so immediately with the mercurial swift of Hermes doing a 4.3 Forty Like "the rocket" Chris Johnson from the tenacious Titans of Neon-Bright Nashville.  Christ offered the theological axiom that praying or praising in private usurps public demonstrations of religion; indeed, Jesus boldly bragged the brilliance of "locking the door" and offering up to the Father the insidious insides of oneself.  Still, Tebow is a quasi-demi-god in the sense that he is persecuted for ambiguous QBing, marching to the madness of Christ, Christ, resisting not His Adversary, inspiring Tolstoy to fanatically forge his own Gospel, and yes--Christ welcomed death like a madman.  Do you think Perseus would have been obedient even unto death?  Krishna?  Siddhartha who inherited the co-inhabitant and synergy of the Buddha (I'm drunk)?  Like King David (the Grandest of the Hebrew Heroes), him being insanely in love with God, Jesus the Christ punished Himself to the love of humiliations, and the Protestant Reformation offers the foolish folly of Him having died for our sins and salvation being easy--bullshit!  You gotta bleed yourself my man.

  Asceticism outshines the fabrication of futurity; indeed, lets die off and deny the long-suffering of a future promising euphoric everything, for that is the path to the immediate Most Potent of all the g(G)ods--the Hebrew God, aligned forever with the differing personalities of the 12 Tribes, and I can whatyamacallit wash and wax my pubes like a Levite Priest.

   We forget the mystery of God; we think we understand Him--but we don't.  Stephen Hawking, the most intelligent idiot of today proclaims that with mathematics or science we can read the mind of God.  Okay asshole, can you even read the mind of an ant?  What stale gravy and reeking-monkey shit garbage that is.  How retarded is Stephen Hawking?  Mentally challenged, and yes, I'm an intellectual gimp, or have been dubbed one; thus, I accept my tolerance for stupidity and continue to vociferously spill:  The body has natural morphine and marijuana receptors; hence, it was constructed for our nervous and sickly purpose, that is mortality.  Blow mimics a Frontal Lobe stimulant, never dominating the senses or becoming addictive; still, Dr. Drew would incarcerate Freud and make him manifest a mantra of horeshit for Dr. Phil and the masses of idiots who demonically denounce Paine, Jefferson, and Washington as the ideal builders of Total Liberty, it today, besmirched by people like Eric Holder and George W. Bush, yes dude, I'm comparing them as a synergy of iniquitous evil.  Let your neighbor LIVE!  Abe Lincoln:  "Prohibition goes against everything this country stands for."  So, legalize, tax the narcotics, birth a Drug Czar who spawns responsibilty and not the euphoria of a permabuzz.  We can do this like men of high intellect baby.  God Bless.

   Sincerely, Mark David King