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."