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 . . .