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