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 . . ."