Day with Mom

Getting a cheeseburger

Lazy Caretaker sits at home

Strawberries with Mom

Memorial Day

Mom and me at the park

Her favorite holiday

Indigo Samson (1)

   
   "Indigo Samson (1)"
  
   When he was born--all of his skin burned bright blue, as if lit up with neon squid ink.  Samson Landon knew about himself:  "And no razor shall come to his head."  Yet his conservative father complained to his immaculate mother:  "All of my problems in life are caused by our Samson's long hair."
   He was a return man on the high school pigskin team, dodging with determined dexterity upon the semi-glacial tundra of Michigan's flowing fields.  Like with a jawbone, slaying their ass, if ya hear me, while others did the blocking and tackling, binding themselves in the heavens.
   Samson didn't need phony friends.  As a species, human beings form into tribes, his psychiatrist told him.  Everybody has an agenda, mostly--and the braggarts go here, the asymmetrical there, the pseudo-educated are all radicalized with the hostile left-wing fascination to euthanize, and the elves of the world mix with fairies, yet beauty can demonically destroy or bring forth the wickedness of pernicious plots to venomously vanquish the reflecting flower.  But no paganism here.  What you kill; next, you own it, but it may end up owning you.  It's based on PASSOVER Mr. college professor, brainwashing the children, while you've never dug ditches and been held in contempt by the rich man.
   So, Samson did his thing, and knew the words of JUDGES 15:11--like this:
   "Then three thousand men of Judah went to the top of the rock Etam, and said to Samson, Knowest thou not that the Philistines are rulers over us?  what is this that thou hast done unto us?  And he said unto them, As they did unto me, so have I done unto them."
   Samson Landon's hands turned blue.  He was in his room drinking a Sprite.  Felt no guilt, remembering those forged in stone words, them forever eternal concerning the mighty shining one:  "AS THEY DID UNTO ME, SO HAVE I DONE UNTO THEM."
   

'13 BOSS 302 vs '13 Mustang GT

Caretakers Feel Underappreciated

   
   "Caretakers Feel Underappreciated"
   
   Great article about this; moreover, was showcased on one of the wack-job networks, like MSLSD or the Cranky News Network; regardless, when the chatter you pick up from other people is:  "She'll be dead soon."  It's like these people are against the patient.  A doctor's say-so isn't axiomatic.  Ever hear of protracted content, or radical remission.  You fight as long as you can--to your own death, like a Saint.  If you choose.  But my Grandma taught me many things both German and Catholic, I'm totally talk'n.  Too, I saw my Aunt and Mom squabble over her, nastily, nobody was doing enough, and Grandma was put in a facility; however, my Aunt was a frequent visitor and kept the staff in line.
   Like your shit doesn't stink?  Yeah--I've given plenty of lip, but you started all of this with negativity and a false diagnosis.  I was just the weird guy that made fun of myself; also, was the phobic and bizarre clown.  But nobody pulled together.  It was all too disgusting to see, or pessimism caused by phony doctors, and they took her physical therapy away two years ago.  You guys are the officers, the successful ones, but I'm a grunt in the trenches, getting my ass kicked by Jackie Chan in the rice patty.  
   I'm not mad.  I'm just disappointed, but will block any attempt to make someone go to a shithole before their time.  You tempt him, yet say I'm the villain.  He took an oath, through sickness and health, and he's healthier than me--wanna see my shitty blood-work and large intestine.  So, I'm an asshole, but not a prick.  I can't live without hope.  Don't threaten me with silence or seduce the old man.  I do well for both of them.  Yes, I screw up.  Can't even find my own car in the parking lot I'm so frazzled.  Haven't slept in six years, but I own my insomnia and my sleep paralysis.  I shake.  On medication for over ten years that causes Parkinson's-like features.  If you don't want to hear me; next, turn off this channel.  Go to another website.  This is my therapy.  I've never physical assaulted anybody in the family--you know that's false testimony.  Just lip, here and there.  Yet my face has been punched in by members of the family, and bones broken, but I wasn't a wussy about it.  
   I forgive everybody, for what I see as sin, because all of you have lives.  I don't.  I've never had friends, my wife was the biggest, well, that wouldn't be nice, but you know what I'm saying.  I'm just a gimp with a few gifts here and there, but I'd rather live in Montana, in a little shanty.  No more from me.  I'll write about hot blondes and muscle cars.  I'll be a silenced redneck.  

Queen of Heaven

   
   "Queen of Heaven"
  
   The Queen of ALL Virgins, as the Litany wends, is highly toxic to contagion, as is menthol to bacteria; furthermore, in Chapter 12 of Revelation, or better yet:  The Apocalypse of Saint John the Apostle, She resides.  Even Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd put a bullet shell into Her Crown, that golden chakra, forgive me, but as Christ told the prince of this world:  "Man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God."
   Yup, the good-old-days, when Ronny Raygun and the Pontiff knocked it out of the park with the unearthly crack of the American Bat.  And they tried to kill Tebow with a 90 MPH fastball to the head; moreover, it was his mother that saved him, and she would name him Timothy.  
   So, Virgin most powerful, and Virgin most merciful--Mirror of Justice and Queen of Peace--the Chosen know you know how to Super-Position Yourself.  It has to do with physics, for those that have a Bush League college education. 

  

Virgin Ninja (19)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (19)"
   
   Covertly skulking, though for sublime purpose, Joanna Blanc secretly, though also in Socratic fashion had been observing an elderly woman being neglected and abused by her husband and caretaker, the son on his deathbed so many times--it was impossible to count anymore, always, slowly bleeding to death, transfusions, medicine listed as chemo, waking to find his mother on the floor, bloody and with contusions on her head, his father not alarming anybody, but going back to sleep after 3 or 4 drinks of Jack Daniels.  The boy weeping, wanting to tell, but phobic, though his physician did want to call Social Services, for the entire situation drove him to put his father's angry gun inside his mouth, his father instructing:  "Get me this, do this, do that, or I'll knock your 110 pound body out, especially your teeth, you retard--you're nobody, always wanted to be somebody else, you don't like yourself."
   The boy watched as his mother wasn't spoken to, put in the dark, like where a baby calf goes to die, a dark room, void of sound, light, vibration--there is no frequency of life in such a macabre and desolate place.  And always the pseudo-caretaker's lazy physicality yet spirited arrogance, her either dropping his mother in the shower, throwing wet rags at his face and calling him a scrawny fool, yet the boy endured, unable to say a word about God or hope to his mother, as his father further fabricated false mantras:  "Don't talk to your mother; you can't get through to her."
   The slick sale's pitch of slow poison, undetected on the radar, unless someone has eyes to see and ears to hear, or digs deep enough, taking a journey into mystery.
   Joanna Blanc would correct the situation, calming the boy's tics by bringing him into her circle, which consisted of Sister Nelson, Bobby McQuade, and herself.  He needed to stand up for himself, for nobody deserves to be a scapegoat save the cunning serpent that has no innocence.
   She rescued the boy.  He wailed for his mother.  Joanna said:  "They want her old and sick soul dead, and because you have excellent empathy--you're in their way; as a result, your death or exile would have been next.  My name is Joanna Blanc.  And I will be your pedagogue against a wicked hand's sinister shuffle before death is totally dealt."  
   The boy, like always, even as he had faced death, hoped against hopelessness, yet would perpetually continue his fervent prayers for Mom.  Joanna's uncanny empathy recognized his internal life's passion, and she knew that she had picked another benevolent student.  

Paying off: see it your way

   
   "Paying off:  see it your way"
   
   By nobody's grace does he reside within, yet due to singularity, armed with faith--that keeps her content and within the feel of HOME.  
   He is the boy.  The slave.  So what if he mouths off here and there--what is his completeness?  And he cannot charm with tens of thousands of dollars given, and illegal orders, not his fault, but yours for pointing the elderly in the direction of fraud.  He is a nice man, but old people can be mean and unstable.  A disabled weirdo who shits his own pants and sanitizes his packs of cigarettes, barely able to function in public, doesn't need shit either, especially fed to someone else by your own AGENDA.
   You have an agenda.  A history of bullying one halfway decent bro.  He doesn't want to get laid.  He wants to be a monk, at least metaphorically, adoring literature, prayer, baseball, birds, dogs, and the elderly.  It is not a bother to him.  The bother is threats and sale's pitches about putting her away in a CHEAP facility, where the death rate is higher than a Platoon Lieutenant in NAM.
   You sell the elderly instruction with money and promises.  You allegorically charm the snake, making it a snake, like yourself.  And for what?  To keep him from being himself?  To put an old woman out of her misery, when you've never extended a protracted visit in our direction, for nearly six years, not having empirical evidence of misery, and as he is disabled too, cannot he experience neglect too--years of solitude, locked away as a caregiver 24 hours a day, while you sleep in monstrous millions and the slimy silk of corrupt connections?  Who truly, and in twisted sister fashion, manipulates the old and sick?  Your family.   

The Anti-Freudian

   
   "The Anti-Freudian"
   
   King Solomon:  "Hearken unto the father that begat you, and despise not your mother when she grows old."  Jesus Christ, always running away from the Mother, as meditated upon in the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary, saying to Her:  "Woman, My time has not yet come."  Disobeying Her and revealing Himself; on the contrary, while hanging on Our Life @ Calvary, He yells to His Mother:  "Woman, behold Your Son!"  Then, to Saint John the Eagle, and ALL of us, He screams:  "Behold your mother!"  Acknowledging Her.  However, back to His Father:  "Papa, into Your Hands, I command My Spirit!"
   It doesn't get any better . . .

If anything happens to me--know why!!!

   
   "If anything happens to me--know why!!!"
   
   My audience, of beyond myriads, especially France, Russia, the United States--my country, I adore you all.  This is elder abuse:  To have a mother watch her meek son be put in cuffs in front of her, my brother and step-father bringing in the ignorant deputies and cruel contagion of swayed and pointed medical men--their guns near inches from my mother's face, though holstered, confronting me in front of her.  How dare you confront me in front of my mother!!!  Don't lecture me!!!  And all because I protected her from the neglect and abuse of two 300 pound African-Americans with gold and missing teeth; plus, protected my therapy dog, which they tried to kill with a peach pit, and myself--I love that which is within me.
   Bless the Lord O my soul, and all that is within me; moreover, praise ye the Lord, all the lands.
   At Mass this morning, the Priest asked:  "What was the word about Christ on the street?"  And of course it was false testimony.  I am not Christ, but He said:  "I am the vine, and ye are the branches--if you eat of My Body and drink of My Blood."  I always do.  My mother did too.  Her last ingestion of the Eucharist was on Saint Joan of Arc's Feast Day.  
   If I am silenced--read my history, and know the truth.  I would even undergo Sodium Pentothal injections to offer verbal axioms.  All the neglect and abuse of two disabled people--and for what?
   Everybody has a right to be here.  Unborn children retreating from pencil-like objects attempting to lacerate their lives, the elderly, the weird.  Get over Darwin.  We are Stardust Eternal.  And while Spinoza may have mentioned in his pantheism that God may not care too much, he did probe the question concerning a Divine Justice System; indeed, nothing is concealed from God.  

Rand Corporation--Remember your daughter

   
   "Rand Corporation--Remember your daughter"
   
   When she fell ill--first:  A false diagnosis; next, everybody departed.  Nobody did anything.  She has never been taken outside of this house save once, by any other soul.  Jacked up on Haldol, which I tossed; moreover, jacked up on Xanax, and my brother brings her his, because if I have to run to the grocery store, my step-father throws them down her throat like shut-up candy.  Taken to a Notary, of unsound mind and body, polluted on Haldol and Xanax, made to sign documents as directed by two attorneys and her husband.  Motive.  Intent.   
   Years of neglect and abuse from a caretaker.  More neglect and abuse of the disabled, me.  She's endured for near seven years, no thanks to them.  My brother said not to give her vitamins, spices, herbs, vegetables, or green tea.  My step-dad says not to read the Bible to her, and they continue their torture.  Who has wiped a tear?  Who has blown her nose?  Who has brushed her?  Who feeds her all day?  Who massages her and anoints her with lavender?  Who pulls fecal matter out of her, gently, for six years?  Who has taken her to the park?  Who has taken her to the library, bookstores, coffee shops and all the rest?  I have video.  Who showers her?  Who cuts her hair, clips her nails, and tells her constantly that she is strong and special, and that God loves her?  None of them.  Not one.  
   Rand Corporation--this is your allegorical daughter, Patricia Ann King, 3/15/1942.  NSA, CIA, FBI, know the abuse and neglect of two disabled people.  You know that when people fall ill; next, others want them to perish or be put away, so these selfish people can live their lives.  I don't want to live my life.  I only want to carry my mother, everyday, as I have been, while they all are against my genuine admiration of this woman.  For their elation.  They can't stand to even look at her, and blame me for loving.  They forge false testimony in legal and medical documents with their millions.   
   Motive.  Intent.  Who wants the disabled to be pampered and adored?  Not them.  
   Can anybody blame me for fighting back?  Just look at my brother's abuse and forked-tongue behavior concerning me. 

Android Creation--Why?

   
   "Android Creation--Why?'
   
   There are many theories, especially those that outshine Darwin's supposed complete axioms.  Is he axiomatically right?  Partially; however, does he have the DNA testing, strange theological theories that match astro-biology, theological and archaeological culminations of factual maxims?  On the contrary, if nano-technology is a thing of the future, or 60 MINUTES showcasing 20 decade old technology, when Kurt, Philip, Thomas, and waaaay back like Faulkner's Secretary, a Carmelite, celibate-schooled Nun, getting none, admitted the truth:  "Jesus, kinda said it WAS ALL about MONEY?"
   Follow the dollar, or where it doesn't go.  Tebow hit in the face with a 90 MPH fastball, and think the bullshit of coincidence.  As if.  Be a dumb blonde.  People hate, envy, and all the rest towards blondes.  Kill the blondes--they say.  Why?  Do you hate the golden of flaxen champagne made flaxen?  Indeed; plus, the blue, green, hazel eyes of angels, allegorically, yet truthfully in the sense that all men love blondes, that are Sunshine Gold.
   DANGER:  we created androids to have sex with them.  Selfish folks.  Women will only love the theorem of thrusts; moreover, men will have a helicopter of harm within the false and ferocious vaginal cavity.  DON'T DO ANDROIDS?  You'll get chopped; also, women will love the dildo machine's perfection, and assimilation of her Facebook.  Beware.  And I'm just the Fool Card.  A pathetic and little man.  Sport for the leviathan, yet pricks pinch, even if a plethora of plenty--yet, he who is first shall be last--Christ said it, not me.  Be pissed at His Pilate's described chestnut hair.   

Dutchboy Splendiferous (1)

   
   "Dutchboy Splendiferous (1)"
   
   FOREWARD:

   Not to make peace, but She is the Queen of Peace, and some people need reflection and introspection, getting the beam out of their own eyes, before attempting to take it out of their brother's or sister's, as Christ kinda/sorta mentioned.  Hey Mouth from the South, they did my blood work and took a urine sample by diving deep into my urethra; as a result--no illegal narcotics (told you); plus, the alcohol levels were nothing.  Wake up and smell the Folgers of False Testimony.  Too bad I have the freedom and liberty to get my medical records.  Anyway, I'm not pissed, and can say the OUR FATHER honestly, for I forgive all of your trespasses, because I know you drink the Kool-Aid--it is not completely your fault.

Here we go now--the story ignites concerning a rebellious and autistic-like youth affected by drama and comedy, especially concerning the Nordic Prankster, the only friend I ever had; specifically, I called him, Dutch.
  
   Dutch's mother said to him:  "Dutch, you're always walking around with that jocular grin, and Mark is close behind, in a state of amused trauma, wondering what you'll drag him into next, but be thankful that you have a loyal sidekick."
   I had my first beer with Dutch.  Smoked my first green tobacco with Dutch, back when I was a punk kid.  My brother always called me a punk, but he was just afraid that Mom loved the special baby more than him--it's not his fault to have such trepidation, not completely.
   Dutch was a rogue.  A prank-playing swashbuckler.  Han Solo with firecrackers, toilet paper, eggs, an XR 200, which ran like a scalded dog; plus, a bit of an arrogant bigot.  But can you completely blame him?  He had a big package, blonde hair like wheat, and the bluest eyes of anyone I've ever seen.  Too, his sister was definitely magnanimous and altruistic, and would drink a cold Bud with us on a hot Arkansas day, down there in the sticks of the Dirty South.  This backwards Yankee learned plenty form the Nordic Cooter.
   Thus, it will go.  Now and forever.  As did Kerouac write a story in a matter of metaphorical minutes concerning a friend better than him--so shall I.  

Virgin Ninja (18)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (18)"

   At the Carmelite Monastery, a very bucolic and Gothic atmosphere, Sister Nelson and Joanna Blanc were walking, and on the grass, though wearing sandals (Air Messiah), so as not to get parasites underneath the crispy feelings of their bare feet, yet to touch Terra, allowing her a kiss from their corporeal saunter; moreover, the conversation was--like this:

SISTER NELSON
People only want to win, Joanna.  That's their problem.  Mystics don't argue though.  Buddha said we suffer because we want things; also, King David said that the Lord is his Shepherd, and he shall not want.  You have to end competition, in the sense of bigotry; nobody is a loser.  Malcolm X statues are up, yet nobody tears them down.  Whites don't do that, mostly, save to their own people's freaking aspects.  So why tear down some crummy redneck rebel?  I'm from Buffalo--I could give a rat's ass.

JOANNA
(A shocked look on her face due to the honest vulgarities.)  Sister!?!  How can you cuss?

SISTER NELSON
They threw a 90 MPH fastball at Tebow's head the other day.  Knocked his helmet off.  If it would've hit him in the ear; next, he would've been dead.  I would've charged the pitcher, and definitely with the bat.  Rebuke your bother that sins against you and never apologizes.  We're all the same.  Stuck on this crummy planet; as a result, we should make the best of it.  So, calm your ninja, and quit kicking so much ass.  There's always Saint Michael, and he's just a trash-man, taking out the garbage.  But no rich man mocks his silent power.

   Joanna Blanc picked up the allegory of it all.  

Passion of Christ Trailer

Escape from New York - Duke dies

Burgundy

   
   "Burgundy"

   A just war is always a honorable war; however, control your power.
   They attempt to separate.  False mantras for years.  Brainwashing.  Thieve away axioms.  D-Day saved the day, yet it was the Russians who bled over Germany, mostly.
   They hate; as a result, the say you hate.  They steal your dowry.  Shakespeare spoke of this, as does the Book of Tobit.  Yet Raphael is there--catch the fish; moreover, the Fool Card and little white dog; hence, go Northwest--even the Iroquois instruct this.
   They tell you that you have no rights, yet you have as many rights as the President--and don't ever forget:  The President has rights too.  A President that won't transform America, but preserve it.
   Crazy Yankee say he drop big bomb on us--we have women and children.
   As Confucius says:  "An ignorant man is more dangerous than an educated man."
   And as the Greatest Son of Man boldly stated:  "If your brother sins against you; next, rebuke him, yet if he asks for forgiveness; then, forgive him."
    Nobody I know has ever apologized; thus, I do as the Virgin Mary said, giving the most potent of ALL Commandments:  "Do as My Son says."  

Star Wars: "Go To The Dagobah System" - Old Edit.

1968 GT 350

   
   "1968 GT 350"
   
   
   I had a weird and wily small block as an adolescent--a GLX, with possibly:  A 4.2 Liter armed with 255 or 260 cubic inches and a two barrel.  A cop pulled me over in the 1980's when LX 5.0's and GT's were all the rage--he said:  "Boy, what the hell is a GLX."  Weird and wily stuff, like Johnny Carson used to say, back in the day; moreover, he liked Corvettes.  So, here's the GT 350--like this:

V-8 and Water-Cooled.

Horses:  250.

302 Cubic Inches.

0-60:  6.3 Seconds.

Quarter Mile Gallop:  14.9 Seconds @ 94 MPH.

Top Speed:  119 MPH.  

The Passion of the Christ the best scene

Virgin Ninja (17)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (17)"
   
   Joanna Blanc felt the glue of groovy gel with Bobby McQuade; however, she knew the ninja's tactics for entrance, as it has been practiced by Christ; as a result, no intercourse, but a celibate relationship of kissing and heavy petting--no open mouth, for that is entrance as well.
   She informed Bobby of her intentions, and how far she was willing to go and why; next, the couth-filled redneck offered vociferously:  "That's cool."
   Learning is not about false mantras.  We get those from family.  Jealousy of beauty, brains, athleticism, rebellion against the first rebellion--all of it.  False mantras are to make you weak and doubt yourself.  Even your own sister wants you to die--if she has less beauty, even though she may be rich, for what has more worth than a flower ornamented better than King Solomon in all of his splendor?
   Joanna knew though:  Bobby could squeeze his scrotal desires and not quicksand Jesus away the life of a cunning warrior heavenbent on illuminating, secretly, the truth of justice.

His Fingerprints

   
   "His Fingerprints"
   
   When I was unjustly locked up in an insane asylum by my brother, his money doing the talking, but not for my mother save to lock her up and bring thugs into the house; moreover, like my earlier Blogs axiomatically showcase--Mom was given 27 Xanax in a week.  I have OCD and count everything in super-symmetrical fashion.  Next, my brother brought over a bag of his Xanax to give to Mom, and I have the bag, with his fingerprints all over it.  They don't want her to talk, for she is a nuisance, and they attempt to shut her up, so the evidence suggests.  And this from a guy who took my pain pills, an attorney, jacked up on numerous psychiatric medications due to panic, anxiety, depression, etc . ,    
   I've been threatened every day.  Told not to talk to my mother about Jesus.  Told not to bring the Priest over to give her the Eucharist.  Told I'll be thrown out.  Offered a mere $180.00 by my brother to leave and never come back, his wife attempting to put Mom in a cheap facility for years, threatening us both with that, while my brother and his wife are millionaires.
   Bring it on.  The NSA sees everything.  
   And Feds, read my earlier Blogs, as I know you have--remember the Notary Fraud.  Mom infused with numerous anti-psychotics and benzos; next, carried into a Notary on Highway 70, and of unsound mind and body, made to sign her life over.  Why are they doing this?  Because both her and me are burdens.  The unwanted.  Thanks Saint Joseph, and as your Litany goes:  "Solace of the wretched."  Wasn't Christ arrested and given the death penalty for helping people--so the story goes.  

Neglect of the disabled?

Triste

   
   "Triste"
   
   When they're all against you; next, you know you're on the right path--that path less traveled, not gelled into the gregarious toxicity of Internet porn, envy, false testimony, and all the rest.  Verily, sad is a man with no friends; sadder is a man with no enemies.
   For six years nobody has taken my sick mother outside save me.  Just one phony trip to Carolina, a big, fat red herring.  None of her grandchildren visit, nor her son.  The day of her false diagnosis, we didn't see him for four months.  Was in Europe too, neglecting his mother.
   That son takes a plethora of psychiatric medication for panic attacks, anxiety, clinical trepidation--always thinking he's having a heart attack.  Two of his children are jacked up on psychiatric medication as well, one having attempted suicide, and still contemplates it.  But contemplation is different than attempt--this dude actually attempted.  His father loves teen porn and drinks heavily on the grape.  In Vino Veritas.  
   The French film of 2012, Amour, showcases how a paralyzed woman is neglected and abused by her caretaker; next, smothered by her husband.  I've seen this movie in real life baby.  They detest my mother for being alive.  Doctors said she would be dead years ago, as they threw five Haldol a day down her throat; next, five Xanax a day.
   But I have all the footage of me taking care of her, Sheriff.  I brush, bathe, feed, massage, well, basically do everything, while they wait for her to die, hoping.  I have plenty of video.  Too bad your men wouldn't watch, and phony physicians call me bipolar when I've never been down a day in my life--a cabbage is too brilliantly stupid to be depressed.  I have no loss of interest.  I allegorically make wicked love to your wife and all evil women.   I'll post some of the videos, here and there, before I contact the Feds, if I haven't all ready.  
   Her son and daughter-in-law have done some real wicked shit.  I guess that's why their son was swinging from a rope.  And he's a nice kid, if he only had a father that didn't flog the bishop to teenage porn, but who can blame him, for his wife looks like she's been kicked in the face by a donkey.  
   And of course Rh negatives are nothing but mutations.  Even so, that makes us totally Homo Superior.  The rest of you are monkey bloods, swinging from trees.  Feed the monkey Sheriff.  If only your genitalia was as big as a banana.  Your wife will find me, only telepathically.  I'm kidding.  Or maybe not.  I can't do anything with my mind.  I have a 9th grade education.  Didn't ascend the scholastic ladder of academia and have an eight year vacation in high school and some Bush League college, taking vodka shots out of my frat brother's asshole.  And if I struck anybody with a cane--where's the evidence?  Where's the bruises or scars?  It's called false testimony--to get rid of my mother and me, for we are a burden to a man who doesn't want to honor his vows, and a son who despises his aged mother due to an Oedipus Complex.  If he only knew the words of Solomon, the anti-Freudian:  "Hearken unto the father that begat you, and despise not your mother when she grows old."
   

While the disabled are in the dark

Guns N' Roses - You're Crazy (Acoustic)

Empathetic Illness

   
   "Empathetic Illness"
  
   What you kill, if you are of it--you own it.  "Pick up your mat and walk woman."  Christ instructed the disabled lady.  He told her to take the mat, because the mat had owned her, now she owns the nasty mat.  Don't let yourself be labelled.  You are not what they say you are.  False mantras. Heinous hatred.  Envy.  That's why they tell you sex is a sport, and it is not frequency and vibration, but mere corporeal cruel--hogwash.
   I was dead as a baby.  Needles in my head; plus, incubation.  Talk about PTSD after I recovered; next, numerous illnesses and false testimony forged against me--thanks to the two men in suits that assisted in saving my life, as Grandma Bertha, the German, informed me.   
   My biological father let a sea hag sink her teeth into him.  Solomon admits:  "Beware of the harlot with painted eyes--she will kill you."  Indeed, remember the lady of your youth, and her bosom will comfort you forever.
   My bio-dad's fatal attraction said:  "I hope he lives."  But in her mind, she planted seeds of death, wanting him to leave my mother.  She then said she would kill herself if he didn't leave my mother; moreover, her and my brother shredded my inheritance, after my brother, an attorney and officer of the court, said my father would nourish me with an income, due to my sufferings.
   Oedipus Complex.  My brother's first words after my father died were:  "Dad is dead; I'm so relieved."  He was attempting to move to Nashville and be with his son, yet my brother rejected him, hating his father, and wanting his mother to be PROUD of him--pride:  Rebellion against God.
   I wisely surmise my brother's Freudian Bravo Sierra:  "Let the baby die; she'll love the strange baby more than me."  All that negative force, focused upon a premature, cooked to life child, due to envy and the bullshit of competition.  I'm not competitive; I only win.  For two have become one.  Thanks Saint Thomas.
   For 44 years, false mantras, neglect, abuse, envy, all in my direction.  I've been on my deathbed numerous times.  They've locked me up in psychiatric asylums due to false testimony, but as every warrior sadist, I resist not evil, embracing the pain, and allowing iniquity to make me monstrously stronger.  Thank God for G. Gordon Liddy--a coyote Catholic.
   Sir Charles Barkley said it the best:  "You will never have all people with you.  Some will hate you, some will love you, and some won't give a shit either way."  Thank you Sir Charles.  Run for Governor of Alabama.  
   Rh negatives are unexplained.  Science calls it a mutation.  So, nothing supernatural here, we're just mutants according to phony doctors.  And the great thing about one rich man, Trump:  Nobody can own him, for he has his own money.  Nothing owns him.  They can't buy him.  And those bastards just tore down a Saint Joan of Arc statue.  I'd like to screw their wives.  And remember Sheriff, I could screw your wife, anytime, and all night long.  Is it illegal for her to lust after me?  

-.best film scenes---The Fifth Element

Virgin Ninja (16)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (16)"
   
   After their first session of  ninjutsu training, Joanna Blanc and Bobby McQuade went into her well-dusted and meticulously clean trailer; next, Joanna brewed up some green tea, a drink favored by the ancient shinobi, and it was sweetly kissed with spearmint.  Sitting alongside one another, Joanna could smell his guy sweat, and it was spicy and hard-earned, making her crush, so gently, on her first guy in over forty years.  So, the conversation ignited--like this:

JOANNA
Trying to change her internal subject, which was that Bobby was really good-looking, and smelled like a wild and wily redneck with a touch of sophisticated couth.  Yeah, the world is screwed.  I liked it when Trump said America isn't that innocent.  Plenty of dirty filth going on in our nation.  I'm really a Yankee, before moving to this Dirty South, or Arkansas, or Hog Heaven, but I have no memory of being born or a child up in Michigan, before my biological father died; then, Mom fell in love with a brain-washing pastor, allowing his seductive techniques to crush my innately spiritual confidence--I mean he sucked it dry with coded insults and repetitive mantras that I was a crummy child.  Anyway, I really don't mind the taking down of statues, because I'm a Yankee, have studied my history, knowing General Tecumseh Sherman was the first modern general; still, I act like the Gray Ghost, Mosby, skulking around on the weekends and punishing the depraved--those that have sold their soul.  And nobody better take down statues of the Virgin Mother, or I'll really get pissed, in noble fashion of course.

BOBBY
Sold their soul?  How?

JOANNA
The tradesman is spit on, and money is used to manipulate and cause anxiety in people.  Status, wealth, bullshit, and Christ warned of riches, where moth and rust doth destroy, yet people listen to the prince of this world, and instead of mercy and sacrifice, they toss away the unwanted, the asymmetrical, and all those who won't conform beyond Christ.

BOBBY
Damn, a Christian ninja.

JOANNA
After years as a little girl having my step-father stick his genitals in my mouth, I learned quickly that most are out for their own elation, dismissing self-invoked justice, if ya are picking up what I'm putting down.

BOBBY
Kinda . . .

JOANNA
In less than a decade the whole world will be made to have computer implants.  The beast marking us, thieving away our promise of paradise, by exploitation, using the dollar, a false god, to offer holocaust to the sick, poor, and elderly.  These are the reasons I go to the library everyday after work, ignoring the mainstream newspapers and news; moreover, how I learned about stealth, and deceiving the deceivers.  The art of cunning.  But you gotta be good-looking, or nobody is gonna believe you, unless you have money, and all those dumb shit blondes that marry rich men--they just lay there, close their eyes and picture the dollar signs.

BOBBY
You're blonde.

JOANNA
I'm the exception.  

Cruising Nashville @ Night

   
   "Cruising Nashville @ Night"
   
   I'm practically an old man, for fifty is knocking on the door; thus, I usually don't have time to make like Tom and Cruise; nevertheless, armed with numerous types of sleep weirdness, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, listen to the radio; next, I realize I don't have any cigarettes and habitually know it's time to purchase some coffin nails.
   I carry a Rosary in one pocket, for I am a sinner and need all the help I can get; plus, I carry a blade in the other pocket due to the fact that people can be metaphorical monsters--as my son definitely and totally says:  "That's the way I roll."
   So, I piloted my vehicle, my dog in the passenger seat next to me, to a gas station at 4 in the morning, never leaving the house till that hour, for the bars usually close around 2:30; hence, I don't want to be pulled over, even though I'm not breaking the law, for while some cops are as cool as Starsky and Hutch, others can be real fruitcake finks.  My dog and me passed a mess of them after making our exodus from the gas station--four rollers, lights lit up like the Fourth of July, and all over a little blonde girl, alone and terrified.  The cops were either swamping her due to her beauty, or screwing with her.  She didn't have jack in that car--no guns, no large loads of drugs--she was just a little girl, and my grandmother could've taken her in the combative art of fisticuffs; as a result, there was no need for that many cops, especially since the gas station I just left to get cigarettes at almost got me caught up in a brawl, or so I kinda/sorta sensed.
   So, before seeing the blonde and the entire Police Academy, I parked my car at the illuminated gas station, rolling down the windows a bit for my dog to smell the summer air; then, forgetting my knife, I saunter into the gas station.  There, the cashier was yelling at a guy in his mid-twenties, cussing him out, and him offering profane vulgarities right back in her direction, all because he was supposedly with an underage guy, and she wasn't going to sell him the product he wanted; moreover, everyone in there was African-American save me, and plenty of glints in the eyes of the folks were upon me as I had modestly walked in, dismissing their mental probe of me, me showing no fear, for I needed a damn cigarette.
   I stood at the back of a long line, and a white girl, a bartender I know, was behind me, wasted, and stirring coffee.  She always told me about her younger boyfriend, and he ignored me as I spoke to her, a big black dude, but that's cool, for I'm a party type of guy, always repenting because of my lack of common sense.
   Ultimately, I got my smokes, shuffling swiftly back to the car where my blade was, cranking the automobile up, and the dog and me cruised away from the quasi-ruckus, and as I turned the corner, the cops were all over that little blonde girl, while a brawl was brewing right under their noses.  
   I don't go out at night anymore.  It's like Lord of the Rings out there, Jerry!!!

Death Star explosion Original

Virgin Ninja (15)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (15)"
   
   Bobby McQuade, mentioned before a lady, and Joanna Blanc were in her bucolic built one-car garage, working with the shuriken into the bales of hay; indeed, Bobby, the Irishman, could throw a blade, like a Mick playing darts @ the pub.  And he mentioned that he loved Notre Dame football, and that they never lost, for they had Touchdown Jesus.  So, in the ninja-training center, as we will call it, the conversation continued--like this:

JOANNA
Slicing watermelon with a bokken is brutal--it's not slicing dude, but cracking the melon open, like an alien with an over-sized cranium.

BOBBY
I don't do aliens.  Can we talk Moon Knight and underground Marvel characters?

JOANNA
You mean, like Squirrel Girl?

BOBBY
That's the ticket.  And no, I don't follow Pat Sajak on Twitter or anything like that.

JOANNA
I'm glad you're my age; plus, that you have those eyes.  Catty.  But I too sense dog in you  Le chien.   

Virgin Ninja (14)

   "Virgin Ninja (14)"

   Being in her forties, yet still acting as the rebelling adolescent, Joanna Blanc had hidden gifts, not merely the wisdom of fearing God, but a sense that Bobby McQuade didn't need the darker and more macabre aspects of training in Ninjutsu; on the contrary, he did need a Mr. Miyagi approach.  Waxing and waning like the Moon for a wondrous Wiccan, as long as altruistic and full of a sublime fairy's love minus the trickery, which happens sometimes.  Just ask Jack Burton about these types of things.
   So, Joanna decided to train Bobby gently and mildly, like a taste of acceptable salsa from New York City before going all Tex-Mex Hot on him.  So, she got a bale of hay for shuriken throwing.  An extra bokken to practice like a standing guard, always aware; however, no need for nunchaku due to a guy accidentally serving up his own scrotal injury, if he attempts to move the rice-beaters without Peter Pan faith.
   But beyond the poetry of learning defense, there are always the tears of Christ.  A truthful passion for mercy.  As the shortest verse in the Bible (Book of Ages) goes:  "Jesus wept."  

Virgin Ninja (13)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (13)"
   
   Bobby McQuade was Black Irish--looked like a damn gypsy, and with those hazel eyes, glowing a bit; indeed, some true illuminated-sparkle there, like a promised rainbow sending empathy, not the equality of weird--hell boy, weird will always be weird, and you can't change that shit.
   Try being poor.  Christ was right to tell Saint Peter:  "Times are gonna be tough dude."
   But as Bobby flicked off the noise on his Direct Current radio, being the retro pioneer of a genesis long gone exodus, he didn't mind Mexicans.  Women first.  No children, or men.  Send the sexy Mexican women in.  Screw over the pond.  Mexicans and Canadians are right here--Russians too, close to Alaska.  Let our neighbors, at least their hot women--let them in.  Women don't shoot up malls.  These were just Bobby's, and Bobby's alone opinions.  Moreover, all he really knew was how to be a janitor, and dream of a ninja girl, yet he did not yet know that she was a ninja--of course, the art of a cunning shinobi.  

SJWs Have Ruined Star Wars

Close the blast doors! Open the blast doors!

Virgin Ninja (12)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (12)"

   Joanna Blanc was in the Confessional Booth, getting the Sacrament of Reconciliation, which seemed necessary due to her dove-like loins loving the idea of Bobby McQuade's renegade spirit gelling with her own.

JOANNA
Bless me Father for I have sinned.  You don't have your cell phone turned on, do you?

FATHER
Joanna--I know it's you and your daring humor.  Still doing good, except for the cracking skulls part and all?

JOANNA
I haven't cracked any skulls lately Father.  Not since my last Confession.  This has to do with a guy.  A nice guy.  A poor guy.  A gentleman.  Very cool eyes.  Very humble.  Part of the family, as Jesus Himself might say.

FATHER
Are you having romantic feelings for him, after all your years of celibacy?

JOANNA
Not images.  Just a yearning to embrace him.  But not in brotherly fashion, but as a partner.  

FATHER
God will always love you.  Pray for the Holy Trinity to have mercy on you, and ask the Virgin Mary to pray for you, and Saint Joseph's protection; next, move slowly, and do things properly, so as not to offend the Church; moreover, not offend yourself, for you are an appendage of the Church.

JOANNA
I understand.

FATHER
One Our Father; plus, one Hail Mary.  Now, say your Act of Contrition.

   
   The ritual of mystic ceremony continued, and Joanna was feeling better; still, she was definitely crushing on Bobby McQuade--the simple janitor, the serf.  

Virgin Ninja (11)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (11)"
   
   Some may think it pathetically plain--Bobby McQuade's life.  Never got out of the rural aspects of it all, into the Big City, like a Country/Pop star crafting their own music and drinking Coca-Cola; however, Bobby did his job, pulling a locker apart at the junior high he worked at as a janitor, for some kid who'd lost the combination, and the wrench was tired my friend, after that challenge of tool versus machine, our problem when androids walk the Earth, if they are not already doing so--even in the mind of a mental patient at the highest level of government clearance--never can tell.  You think 60 MINUTES showcases all of the government's modern toys?  Perhaps.
   But Bobby just used mops and brooms, in his desert-brown fatigues of poverty, modestly smiling, and always with a bit of chaw underneath that smooth grin; next, driving back to his non- wireless and television free shanty save an old transistor radio powered by Direct Current, where he would read antiquated Plastic Man comic books he had collected as a kid and listen to NPR, having rejected Reed Richards due to Mister Fantastic's uncanny ability of repairing and rebuilding advanced alien technology; plus, Plastic Man had a sense of humor about himself.  But little did Bobby McQuade know:  Soon he was gonna learn the stealth-lathered and secret ways of the ninja.  

Bandidas (2006) Official Trailer #1 - Salma Hayek Movie HD

Virgin Ninja (10)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (10)"
  
   Sitting across from Bobby on a cheap futon, his footing on rustic carpet, in a way, sipping at his steaming glass of green tea smooched with spearmint, the beverage offering protection and energy for the spirit within, which animates the corporeal aspects, forging true soul.  So, the conversation was moving, like this:

JOANNA
I don't do this.  I don't like guys--no girls; I'm not like that, at all.  Couldn't believe she was totally opening up.  Had a bad experience, got over it, like Batgirl, go to Mass weekly, say the Rosary, and watch Ninja movies from the Reagan era--that's me.

BOBBY
Ok.  I'm average everything, hazel eyes with gold flecks, like dogs, work as a janitor at the school, find used rubbers in the trash, all weird kinds of crap, like science fiction, and have read all the works of Philip K. Dick; plus, go to Mass as well, but only on major Holy Days.

JOANNA
What makes for a MAJOR Holy Day?

BOBBY
You know--like Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July--that stuff.

JOANNA
Grinned, adoring his doltish yet debonair delinquent doing holy things to her mind's eye.  So Bobby, why don't we race again, but trade bikes.

BOBBY
No hesitation.  Deal!   

MUSICAL'S - Penelope Cruz Salsa Dancing

Virgin Ninja (9)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (9)"
   
   After the motorcycle race, which Joanna Blanc clearly won, Bobby McQuade followed her home to a humble trailer with a Saint Francis statue out front in a pastoral setting with plenty of platinum jasmine.  They both removed their helmets, unsaddled their bikes, and greeted each other--Joanna having a toothy smile, and Bobby doing the Han Solo half-grin.
   "You're pretty fast."  Bobby stated.
   Joanna blew her short curls of champagne out of her eyes, saying:  "But, you kept up--pretty cool, guy.  Now, are you gonna tell me your name?"
   Bobby puffed out his chest and used his extra vertebrae to stand two inches taller.  "I'm Bobby, Bobby McQuade."
   Joanna shook his hand, continuing her adorable smile:  "I'm Joanna.  And while I don't usually do this--come inside, and we'll have a cold glass of green tea.  You do like tea?"
   Bobby, surprised:  "Well yes.  I love tea."    

Luke's Lightsaber Training

Our Lady of Guadalupe

   
   "Our Lady of Guadalupe"
   
   Not my invocation, yet worthy of honoring the Blessed Virgin:

Our Lady of Guadalupe, Mystical Rose, help all those who invoke you in their necessities!  Since you are the ever Virgin Mary and Mother of the true God, obtain for us from your most holy Son, the grace of keeping our faith, sweet hope in the midst of the bitterness of life, fervent charity, and the precious gift of final perseverance.

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit--Amen

Johnny Be Good, in blonde fashion

   
   "Johnny Be Good, in blonde fashion"
  
   I'm talking true blondes.  A fake blonde is the real cheat, for she's not really stupid.  Lose a blonde; next, replace with a blonde.  Blondes are like the Real SUPERGIRL, not that channel 18 horse chunky, as love-made blondes are forever shining, but don't lasciviously lust, yet love what looks like an angel, just looks, merely nothing more.  And Fred wasn't even my favorite character on the animated SCOOBY-DOO, for I preferred the dog.  
   So, 1988, JOHNNY BE GOOD, the movie with Anthony Michael Hall and Uma Thurman, a blonde, showcases as how Anthony Michael Hall getting muscles, made him way different than the sophomore Farmer.
   But State or a better school to play football @.  He chooses State; then, Uma Thurman is on a swing set, and he tells her that he's going to State, afterwards--the camera contains her symmetrical blondness, which results in her smoothly saying:  "Johnny Be Good."  And if with Fonzy cool the fun film culminates with him strutting down the street, like HEATHCLIFF, the music playing, for he is sooo cool cause he simply walks the asphalt suburbia on bullshit--I loved the movie.  

Scene from Season One of The Rockford Files

Virgin Ninja (8)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (8)"
   
   Joanna Blanc raced down the side streets out in the bucolic yonder of pastoral praise, exclaiming a symphony of high-speed to keep her rubber grounded onto the green of Terra's gravity; at the same time, it was Friday, and her Joan of Arc cut with curls of flaxen had a cranium underneath, which probed beyond the meditations of the Sorrowful Mysteries, knowing the Resurrection arrives next, for a vegetation god can never die.
   Bobby McQuade was getting schooled by the enduro power of a hardcore built-for-anything bike, yet his Rebel kept a tight grip on Joanna's Kawasaki tail, him never seeing her brake light shine, for she was full throttle, opening up the rice-burning fury of fabulous.
   Whoever wins is not the problem.  There is no problem.  For there was no competition going on here.  Merely, gaming.  Play.  A Nordic Rune--Perthro.  The Trinity and Virgin Queen hang out; thus, man is not to be alone, even if introverted, but seek companionship in the defeat of his pride, if only to meet others like or unlike him or herself.  That's what this race was about--gaming.  

Mr Monk - Therapist Scene

Virgin Ninja (7)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (7)"

   There is no life for the virgin or the ninja without magic, in a sense of somebody aware of forever-flowing frequency, and on demand manufactured clothing in foreign nations; regardless, the virgin is like unto a water poem, mermaiding her myth onward, though today, few is plenty, and the imperialistic samurai conquers the farming ninja, originally using nunchucks to pound down the rice growing side of things, in them fields, once--filled with the flames and Phoenixes of war.
   And the ninja had more then Sun Tzu's empirical knowledge of warfare, if even mostly of the mind, but a source of energy able to tap into, knowing one can not ignite its own energy without another element or factor, such as a seed needs rich soil, Sun, and water.  Thus, Joanna would test this guy, her asking his name, him replying, "It's McQuade.  Some people call me Bobby."
   Joanna Blanc was like, all redneck blonde:  "Okay Bobby--here's the deal.  You beat me in a race down on them back roads down yonder, I'll give you a cherry kiss with with angel-puffed lips."
   Joanna couldn't believe she was flirting, and almost carnally, and with the southern something like farmer's daughter verbiage.  

It's Green Arrow, ya tootz

   
   "It's Green Arrow, ya tootz"
  
   "I'm just in it for the little guy."  That's what the dandy Oliver Queen told the justice-seeking Batman; next, the Emerald Archer witnessed Black Canary's elongated and shimmering legs, those runaway sticks so golden and Sun-kissed; as a result, Green Arrow joined The Justice League--so one of the stories go.
   He is not merely, Arrow.  He is Green Arrow.  Blonde mustache and golden goatee; plus, armed with a sense of action humor, and four-chambers of a bold and bleeding heart.
   Green Arrow is Robin Hood Cream Ale.  Don't let Will Scarlet thieve away your brew.
   I'm not denying or accepting conspiracy, in a matter of speaking.  These Blogs are of a bizarre boom and flow, allegorical, yet so Daystar Bright, in a symbolic sense.  I just read; moreover, have an internal life, like a dog chasing its circular symmetry.  

Kinda/Sorta Ode 2 Ronald Raygun

   "Kinda/Sorta Ode 2 Ronald Raygun"
   
   So, I'm coyoting aspects of this title due to the movie, Iron Eagle, for we were soul-washed into joining the Air Force or Navy, and being a jock fighter pilot who got laid plenty, but firemen get the most vagina.
   Anyway, we were so pleased with our President in the 1980's that we ALL watched Bedtime for Bonzo, winning one for the Gipper.
   Even Republican Clint Eastwood had an orangutan; thus:  "Right Turn Clyde."
   We forget he asked and received, "Tear down this wall."  And it was torn down.  If you ask your Father for a fish, will he give you a serpent?
   It translates down; plus, Iceland, Nancy, conspiracy, aliens, astrology, a space program, but nobody is perfect save the end.  You never can tell.
   Faith, Hope, and Charity--yes.  The greatest of these Charity.  But what about Trust?  You trust who you have to with humans.  Religion was not invented to control, but give power to the family of God.  

Donna Summer - She Works hard (For The Money) Lyrics

Virgin Ninja (6)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (6)"
   
   Bobby McQuade waited outside of the SUBWAY eatery on his Honda Rebel, low with the cc; however, a mercurial time around town, if the pace is gregariously gelled with wisdom--wisdom being a kinda/sorta verb, a thing in perpetual action, knowing what is right and doing it; specifically, listening to your conscience, but most people don't have one, self-absorbed and plugged into their Smart Phones, this eclipsing the beauty of the natural world not molested.
   Today it might be called stalking.  Today, cherry bombs down the school toilet is totally domestic terrorism.  Happy Days are not here.  But Bobby McQuade waited for the glimmering blonde, having parked next to an enduro Kawasaki, not knowing it was Joanna's.
   Ultimately, she made her exit, and armed with a sense of all that always encompassed her, Joanna felt the presence of Bobby before she approached her own motorcycle; at the same time, with a sort of third eye, she felt a hue of blue intuition communicating rays of pink energy, something to be appreciated, not lust-worthy; plus, a beacon of beauty.  She approached, looked Bobby right in his hazel eyes and simply said:  "Nice bike, guy."  

Virgin Ninja (5)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (5)"
   
   Bobby McQuade was the dude, the man, he practically shit ice cream; alas, he was a wiry guy with a broken-heart; moreover, a slump of an extra alley cat on them old HEATHCLIFF reruns, animated.
   Still, as did Jango Fett, Bobby McQuade harnessed his ethnicity, knowing the Irish had the spirit of imagination, fight, and adoration of Christ.  Thus, Bobby was A Okay, in a sense, that he let his Jungian onion peel take him into the potato days, remembering his lineage definitely survived a famine with exodus--James Joyce says a bard has three weapons:  Cunning, exile, and I forgot the other one; regardless, the best bard of the 20th Century knew:  Publish a book; next, you've pissed people off and have to run, unless you're a mad hermit, playing Tarot with yourself.
   Anyway, shaved head with a more than microscopic splotch of goatee, Bobby appeared semi- mystical, but was only fortified in his feeble strength by Christ.  He had a good jab though, and a broken front tooth to prove he had used it.  A scrapper, but melancholy always tempting; still, he was a cabbage, too stupid to be depressed, and easily underestimated.  
   When he first saw Joanna Blance laboring at SUBWAY, her forging a meatball with cucumbers and spinach for an omnivore lady, he was smitten by her Joan of Arc bob and explosion of flaxen girly curls; plus, her athletic frame, and weird vibration, as if the Beach Boys were playing 409 in the theater of his imagination.  

Helping the disabled.

Virgin Ninja (4)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (4)"
  
   It was merely a dream.  A night of escape into something unexplained, really.  We aren't at the STAR TREK stage just yet, still cutting on people, damaging tissue and sending the vibration of SHOCK into the entire corporeal being save we enter through the sacred spots with surgical sublimity.
   Joanna Blanc was hardcore steel.  She was hurt in life, very badly, and sought the boom of justice thirsted for by Batman himself; as a result, she was the wacky ninja lady.
   But this summer-soothing night, the jasmine painting hues of covers, gently and lightly, over her box shorts' aspects, a Wonder Woman T oddly decorating her middle-aged body, and she fell into the laser of burgundy, knowing every honorable war is a just war; however, control your power, and don't go all soup nazi, yet sometimes the adversary is nasty and barbaric, giving you no way out save to go all Joan of Arc on their ass, but she got no Sacrament of Reconciliation at the end of blood on the battlefield--no insult, she is an axiomatic Saint, her candle lit before time itself; still, even a Saint is second unto Christ, for He is the vine, and we are the branches; nevertheless, we are gods too, as Scripture proclaims.  

Virgin Ninja (3)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (3)"
   
   Joanna had spoken to Sister Nelson about a great many things; specifically, was told not to mention her lineage or ichor merged with the Jungian onion peel of her ancestral Basque, yet focus on the positive, like Tom Brady, yet she had no true mentor--no fatherly patriarch to whip and forge her into a State of Grace; indeed, as it is written:  God tests the just man.  Like a reality show.  Oh, how the progressives with their fancy fixations will melt when God is ultimately acknowledged, and the prophets are honored in their own time.
   Yet Joanna knew she was no prophet.  A confessor.  A simple serf.  A mere character in a play rooted in melancholy, due to their lack of appreciating Freedom of Speech, Religion, and especially comedy.  Nobody likes Trump's jocularity, resisting it, though Christ instructed to resist not.  We are all headed to Civil War, and the allegorical Southern Man, still too lazy to pick his own cotton, an easy industry, when the Yankees have been lifting steel for centuries, more or less.
   Joanna Blanc invoked Joan of Arc, the most distracting figure ever to be on the battlefield.  An inviolate, blood-thirsty breeder of the Phoenix, wending her way from ash to life by way of Mark Twain, friends with Tesla, and subscribing to dandyism like Joyce, having a sophisticated mustache, even before his candle was lit as a river boat Captain, dismissing education, as autodidacticism made him a genuine erudite, soaring beyond the surge of the swamp, and while his books are burned, the Koran uses the same ethnic slur, though from, possibly, Saint Gabriel; thus, it is welcome.
   All Joanna knew was that her existence determined her fate.  Predestination, of course, for there is an Author of Life, yet Free Will manipulated against those unable to conform.  Never conform--this was the mantra of Joanna.  She would be an island unto herself, neglecting the Pop-Culture of Beavers building dams, and dancing with dexterity towards God's true rainbow determination.
   Nunchucks and all.  

Big Trouble in Little China 1986 - Airport Scene (HD)

Virgin Ninja (2)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (2)"
   
   Joanna was at the Carmelite Monastery, saying the Holy Rosary; moreover, Friday was always a difficult day of meditation due to the Sorrowful Mysteries the Sacred Beads made you reflect upon, especially the Crowning with the Thorns, and how you mediated upon LOVE OF HUMILIATIONS; indeed, none was braver than Jesus Christ, His Heart--Source of ALL Consolation.  His Father, pure Spirit, the Source ITSELF, Christ having said:  "When you pray to My Father, pray in Spirit, for My Father is pure Spirit."  So, who's to question the pneumatic aspects of Christ?  Anyway, after the Rosary was finished, Sister Nelson and Joanna Blanc went outside into the heat of summer, enjoying the natural animism of it all.  

SISTER NELSON
Are you still fighting crime like Batman?

JOANNA
Yes.  But I'm not a millionaire.

SISTER NELSON
Fortunate.  Now, you actually have a chance of inheriting Heaven.

JOANNA
It's not easy being poor.

SISTER NELSON
Christ told Saint Peter it wasn't going to be easy.  God only gave Ten Commandments; next, you get to keep your geography, but Christ was harsher from a point of view, giving us more Commandments; then, His Mother gave the greatest Commandment:  "Do as My Son says."

JOANNA
Will sleaze ever fade into the vacuous black?

SISTER NELSON
There will come a time.  But for now, keep fighting the good fight, and persevere to the end.  For where your heart is, Christ said, so will your treasure be also.