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 . . .