Jazzmin Flush (87)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (87)"
    
   Donald Flush and Rascal had regally reunited--and it feels sooooo good.  Regardless, there was the whole vaginal stretch and no fooling around due to tissue sensitivity and fluidic, carnal ouchness such as that sloppy mess; still, Donald was the quintessential gentleman, adoring her, lathering her with a lion's pride, cleaning her benign beaver as it had birthed his litter of coydog pups.  He was not in a state of complaint; nevertheless, there was the absence of his daughter.  The Golden Jazzmin Flush on the insidious lam with Mister Merlin Pope, the gender-bending beauty armed with malevolent sorcery of the, possibly, quixotic kind.  Indeed, he had it in him to thrive in this future of a luminous, star-spangled America.  The Union Blue gelling States to a state of United, yet allowing autonomy for the collective individuals residing in the Magnificent 50.
   Thus, Donald invoked his Catholic heritage, talking to the Saints and eating herbs, totally and completely knowing:  Radical Remission is possible in every fashion of ill existence, regardless of Universal Webs Weirding, for existentialism and will have their place--so does invoking Saints and Arch-Angels to deliver your personal prayers, in trust, to the brilliant brain of the Almighty.  "God, Father--I love Jazzmin."  Yup, he was in a state of wanting grace.