Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Feltner and Grenier--Yummalicious
"Feltner and Grenier--Yummalicious"
Letter from Mom--RUN IT:
Remember burgundy. Good wine. Not before its time. Deep in their pockets. Gotta stop it, nah; moreover, I know your father. Did J. Edgar Hoover have you investigated for two weeks? Do you know who the mother is? You try to murder me--do you? Just asking?
Oh well, meet my husband. He is a whore-monger and heavy drinker. Hoover knew it well. Also, he's brilliant. A rocket man. Pray you don't see him. The abuse upon his son. You bled the boy; however, like me: The boy is spirit and blood. Do you know that energy can manifest matter?
Snoop Dog likes you. Loves a good sell out. A weasel. A crook. How deep are you in? How many lies will you tell? In Belle Meade? But in front of the country? You hate America, or do you totally hate an honorable America? Make Her a crook, like you? Bought, sold, and paid for? My son will break? I am Rand's Daughter. You will be as I say. What do I say? A troll? A vaginal cavity, dripping in yeast? A fat head from Belle Meade that makes her chimpanzee husband cut the grass, while she plots to nurture him into the grave, gently? Come on--it's All Hallows' Eve. Just metaphor. This is ambiguous and allegory, you dastardly douche.
Rand sees. Hell if I know. Is Belle Meade larger than Her.? Feltner, Grenier, and all the rest--I'll tell them not to look. Don't look son--it's too cruel. And only, because you wanted to be human.
How to be a politician
"How to be a politician"
First--start out with a small crime, like extortion; next, place your mother in a nursing home where the flunkies administer bloody enemas on a regular basis and wash your matriarch in her own urine; then, screw your brother's wife and give his children poison--you're on your way to being governor.
They observe and fall in wicked love with you when you get away with small crimes, hoping you'll have victory in even more scandals. And if you do, and don't get caught, they let you in.
However, there's Trump. Nobody owns him, for he has his own money; nevertheless, they can threaten him or his loved ones. But, in the end, the white hat always wins--it is written.
We don't need the Democratic Dungeon Masters calling us racists. Did not the Lone Ranger break bread with Tonto? Indeed, he did. And then they kicked ass, no matter what the color.
Monday, October 30, 2017
Honest Abe--Gorgeous
"Honest Abe--Gorgeous"
The phony system, which believes a checkerboard pattern gets ya to Heaven, has attempted to program my sub-conscious with shit--I'll save it for Lincoln's hat, and I say: HE IS GORGEOUS.
Don't know the details. The wicked one resides there anyway. Screw it. So, some dude's parents told him that if he ever saw anybody uglier than him; next, he should kill that person. Great parental units, right?
So, Lincoln is going down a trail. Has security. The dude comes running out of nowhere, in order to kill Lincoln. They stop him. They ask why he wanted to kill Lincoln. The man explained, telling them he was instructed to slay an uglier person than himself. Lincoln kinda joked about it, sorta mentioning that if he was indeed as ugly as that dude; next, he should be killed.
Get off your asses and smell the Folgers. They've always been here. So have you. Pick a side, knowing, the six-pack is not always cold, and reality television is a murderer, mostly.
Make America Great. What do you have to lose, but your fortune? What's worth more to you, greed or giving?
God Bless America.
Hail Holy Queen
"Hail Holy Queen"
She goes by many names: Queen of all virgins, Mirror of justice, Virgin most powerful, Queen of peace--forever . . .
This is not surgically precise, yet neither are surgeons; regardless, here we go--run it:
Hail Holy Queen, Mother of mercy! Our life, our sweetness, and our hope! To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears! Turn then, most gracious advocate--thine eyes of mercy toward us. And after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.
So much for Freedom of Religion in this town, unless . . .
Living with quasi-Bill Cosby
"Living with quasi-Bill Cosby"
What a great old man. A family man. Has a love of his life--himself. No pills in the pudding. No incarcerating the innocent through a crooked system. No notary fraud, possibly attempted murder; indeed, just a great old man--so full of harmony and peace.
Keep drinking the Kool-Aid. It only takes one brave man to buck the system. Is it you?
He would never put pills in the pudding. Or would he? 27 Xanax in a week. Dr. Death giving numerous pseudo-opiates and barbs years ago--I have it all recorded. Or do I?
Intrusion by lawyer chimps into Doctor/Patient Confidentiality. Pay offs. Favors. What, do I have a Trump fortune? He does. Smell his money as he mocks your bald head and longs for your lovely wife. Wouldn't you. Look at his matrimonial mistake. Can you blame him?
Oh well, it's great to always be a target of murderers and thieves and liars. It's great to be beaten down and loaded heavy with opprobrium.
Great Game last night. Iconic--even without the Yankees.
Sunday, October 29, 2017
Lawnmower Chimp
"Lawnmower Chimp"
She tells him he's the best at everything. He looks soooo good for his age, though she has bigger dreams, like Large Marge. As soon as his tongue starts hanging out of his mouth and he's drooling a massive fluidic river--she'll move him into a nursing home; next, become a silver girl, with all the other fatties, and the Lawnmower Chimp will be peeling bananas, just a head--he should've quit while he was still a head.
And there's this neighborhood. Maybe mine. Maybe not. Shadow people. White wolves. A UFO here and there; plus, you got the naughty nurse and sea hag, their poor husband, the only decent one, cutting his grass everyday just to get out of the house. A shifty marsupial who likes to golf and go on alcoholic benders; plus, he practices voyeurism, watching the abused sexual champion go down on lovers, the mystical priests walking down the street, and everybody runs for cover, an old man with two six-guns who keeps an eye on an Arab that nobody ever sees, a goddamn Democrat too, a pseudo-Saint who thinks he's the reincarnation of Doc Holliday, a vampiric woman, and members of the Hebrew Tribe--one lady came running out of her house, screaming: "This is the weirdest fucking neighborhood!!!" It is, but own it. Be who you are. If you want to be a ballerina; next, morph into a stocking-covered dancer, giving us asphalt ballet--it's all good.
This is America. God Bless Her. We got freaks, geeks, schmucks, schmoozers, losers, and a Wheaten Terrier here or there. Don't be such a pussy. God has a sense of humor--if not; then, why is 70% of life on Terra's turf a form of the beetle?
But remember Jack Kennedy kinda saying: "The coldest part of hell is reserved for people who stayed neutral and didn't pick a side."
Saturday, October 28, 2017
The Craftsman: Christ
"The Craftsman: Christ"
Imagine, if you will: Sicily, 1913--you know what I mean. Do you? Always take your Vitamin D3.
Loved Scripture. Still does. Turned His back on the ladies; as a result, they craved Him even more. No education--just an angelic autodidact, more or less. Went to Temple. Spit on by many a Rabbi; plus, always spit on by the rich man save the likes of Joseph of Arimathea. Just a carpenter, living with His Mother, after a foster father proved to be the terror of demons.
But at 30--He had enough. "Don't do it Jesus--they'll kill you." A Mother did plead. Her, Queen of ALL virgins.
Listened to His Father instead, knowing a Psalmist from the past. And He was a Son of David; plus, a god--the One, True God.
Animism, showing that Solomon was not clothed in as great a splendor as the flowers; next, would metaphorically spit His tobacco juice on the ground. You getting this? Nope. You are not.
They began to fear Him. Knew He was not a poser. Offered women, fame, money--on the mountain. Turned it all down. The brain doesn't die after a flatline, not immediately.
Was Transfigured first, if only to show Himself. Now, in Hell--operating at Full Power. Shake and Bake brother.
Who is this man.? Sucker--you had the chance to know. We all did. And spit on Him like the rest.
Friday, October 27, 2017
Shaggy versus Buffy
"Shaggy versus Buffy"
Where's your way of weirdness; moreover, my dog is wily; anyway, Shaggy has the fashionable goatee, mostly wears the same t-shirt, usually green or red, and his only partner in fighting crime is a slobbering canine, but that dog (Scooby-Doo) loves him; plus, proves to be a loyal ally.
Some say Buffy is her or her--ya know. Let's not go all natural blonde and back to the movies, but maybe--ya know what I'm saying; regardless, she has a couple of tough cookies to hang out with, and that makes her all the better.
Whether it's a dog--just a dog, or an army of friends, you can do anything as Truman mentioned--as long as you don't care who gets the credit.
Hated, even in the womb
"Hated, even in the womb"
Yeah, you turn a lady down who thinks she's the cat's pajamas; next, she wants to kill you, allegorically. It kind of all works like that. You see a little boy in a wheelchair with no arms, and you think he has it better off dead. You tell a teenage girl or boy that ya'll are her or his friends, only to abuse them emotionally, because you are blind to life's beauty.
We all are indoctrinated sometime; on the contrary, a few follow an indirect path, knowing that suspicion is not paranoia, seeing others lick their vampiric chops, wanting to murder, being assassins who kill softly, under a radar even, forged by iniquity to serve a monstrous state of hidden chaos.
The baby dodges the pencil-like instrument shoved into the womb, fighting for its life.
A man alone hears them, and clearly, mocking, spreading the fabrication of your false testimony, if only so that you can get a trophy of some kind, and be called a good fellow in front of the mind-bent masses; indeed, the simpler something is, the closer it is to God, and the ascetic relies on pure instinct, resisting not the soul-wash of a wicked baptism, for what is greater than God? Yet the critics even attempt to fool Him; however, in all of God's foolishness, if He has any, He is wiser than any man or angel. Get used to it, for we'll all be seeing Him soon. And Papa don't like that . . .
Thursday, October 26, 2017
California Dreaming
"California Dreaming"
Back in the 1960's, when Vietnam could not be dodged by the poor white kid, nor the black child unable to escape the ghetto, there was a lovely couple, living the American Dream.
Some dude brought him home from a party. The husband was drunk as a mongoose on cobra venom, and they placed him in bed. Next, the dude told the wife: "We should fool around. He's so drunk that he'll never know." The wife kicked his ass out--good for her. She had a better job than any of you, and to this day has never bragged. Made a peasant by the fortune of others, and charitable beyond all the masses I've known. Her deserved dignity is an eternal constellation in the heavens.
Back in the 1950's you married your high school sweetheart, and a phony college wasn't mandatory to be considered. Follow the dollar. Always follow the dollar.
As Christ happened to mention: "Love of money--that is the root of all evil."
Covering your tracks?
"Covering your tracks?"
You attempt to forge the goat. Always on the Internet, like Bluebeard's dumb ass wife. When years ago, you were the one that refused her the chance to see a graduation. You were the one that broke the chain, because you are the weakest link. Put some more jellybeans in your head. They're yummy.
You and yours never came over--from the genesis of it all. Now, you are the one who blames. How many people can you flatter with your lips? How many charms from your whisper will go without challenge? How many people can you place in your pocket? We all know it was a set up. The phony medical records and reports from bush league law. Your crooked ways know no shame, but the mirror does. False testimony, doctors that are mercenaries, breaking laws that you swore to uphold--your hypocrisy has no end, but it will.
They swarm me like bees, and I take many stings, yet am not a phony, like you. How many spies will you place among the neglected and abused? And mind you--neglected and abused by the likes of you and yours. Go watch the Cosby Show. Put some more pills in the pudding, but have me sign a document years ago, setting up a child who only loved, and when he turns his back--you and yours were putting pills in the pudding.
Get on the horn. Contact everyone with your diabolical enchantments. You already have. You can't stop playing the part of liar--so you continue to sow more weeds among the crop. You and yours know about weeds. Flying it in, breaking federal law. And you and yours laugh about it.
That's how it is. But there's always a bigger fish. Or one brave watcher who will roll over on your fortune of deceit. If only you weren't so obvious.
Christ--that glint in his eye
"Christ--that glint in his eye"
Balance, counterpoise, and all things groovy--remember, not good and evil. Not Masonic patterns, doing equal here or there, for that is the ultimate fabrication of true chaos; indeed, balance is mother and father, or father and mother. Fear the father; next, honor the mother.
Christ is axiomatic balance. He has the Father's glint in His eye. That visionary swagger; on the flip side, you see His Mother's mercy. And a benevolent wife allows a husband to be tough on their children, knowing he does so only out of masculine love. She cries, yes, but tells her child: "Your father loves you. He's only tough on you because the world is so cruel. When you walk out the door of our house my child--the world will tear you to pieces, unless you are steeled by the father."
But, what the hell do I know? I'm a putz, on some levels. Hell, I still like to urinate out in the woods better than in a commode. Nature drinks animal piss; thus, why not mine? And I only piss brilliance. Beef jerky is really good. I like the spicy.
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
Why Chastity?
"Why Chastity?"
Nothing is more fertile, than that which has been frigid first. The Northern European gods attempted to mimic the One, True God. Too, God is a man--just a man, slaving in his workshop, forging creatures and beings so much more powerful than Him, and only for the challenge; however, God has had to kill many of the living--it has been written, and even deal with demons strictly; indeed, if the Father is in the business of fighting demons--you are too, like unto Him, in His Awesome Image. He doesn't want a fair fight. He wants to be bloodied in a metaphorical bar brawl in order to be bruised for our offenses and loaded down with opprobrium.
Can't have intercourse--the physicians ask why. Cause there is always a better man. Until I allegorically kill the better man; next, I am nothing. I know my place--in humble suburbia, quirky, kind, brutally honest, weird as a Wheaten, and understand that Jesus Christ Himself, in his gorgeous dirty blonde, with eyes aglow and waaaay better than mine, spitting tobacco, and could take any woman I chose; thus, until I beat my big brother, and I won't, for He is Christ, and I'm a dreamer; as a result, Freud mentioned: "Every man is great in his dreams." Remember that, and I will too. We are all but fools, not just me, and you for reading this, but I applaud you--there is nothing more divine than hot blondes with green eyes and muscle cars save God the Father, and the whole damn Holy Family--yee-haw, I found my place--I'm a Protestant/Catholic; plus, I like the Old Testament doctor, as the doctor told me not to read the Old Testament, for I was too brutal on myself. Good for me.
One of my siblings needs to sculpt his abs. Why be a warrior dwarf, when you qualify for light-elf with shape-shifting abilities? Drive a muscle car, once again, and feel the Grant Yankee of a tomb in New York City. He is a shrine, and drank the shit out of it--nobody knew why, not even Sherman, Sherman having said: "I don't understand him; moreover, I don't even think he understands himself."
The Civil War was cruel. Remember history, not tear it down, or we will all repeat it.
An explosion of girly curl flaxen, ya you
"An explosion of girly curl flaxen, ya you"
I was the schmuck; I see it many times, when I travel, even in the theater of my own psychotic mind. Thank you for dragging me off into the chamber of Jonathan Winters, for now, like him--you dillweeds gave me a get-out-of-jail free card. And I always liked Monopoly. I perpetually play the part of terrier; moreover, this is dedicated to a girlish woman I knew, and she was a terrier--allegorically; I don't need to see Jonathan Winters so soon again, for he resonates within.
The lady loved me. But I was anchored down by a woman's greedy gravity that had metaphorically castrated me in my youth. Tear him to shreds, and all because he doesn't attend our adolescent orgies or party with us--yup, King is a freak, sitting at the Jewish Temple with two beers and a pack of smokes--we drop him off there on the way to Pandemonium, you know, the party where all the teenage girls are subject to toxic cooters, constantly craving, as their brains are crushed beer cans--everything has a purpose, even beer, just don't be a wanker and waste the gift. But Daddy, Game of Bones is on. So what I say--architect your own Game of Bones. It's all frequency and sublime intention.
Saw the angel girl in a dream. Is that illegal, to have a dream? She was loving a soul with her eyes closed and heart open. It was nice. It's nice to be nice.
Wish I would've known. Wish I would've told her. Even still, I tell her now, and forever--that she is one hell of a lady. And it was good to know her, even if only in a bitter kiss of time. Amen, Amen, Amen . . .
Cagney and Lacey--even G. Gordon Liddy fears them
"Cagney and Lacey--even G. Gordon Liddy fears them"
Throughout the 1980's, I was terrified of two female cops, but they weren't really cops--you tell me, or I'll have my dog take a toxic load on your front porch, possibly.
I was born with four nipples. My ex-wife chewed off the small ones underneath. No horseshit Wang. My cousin has three nipples, but his package is mightier than mine, on certain scales of measurement. He could've been a porn star, but those folks get terrible health insurance I hear, and who really wants to put their dingus in a beehive.
Oh well. Getting my ass kicked everyday. We all are; however, we can be saved by the Blood of the Lamb and the Confession of the mouth.
Plenty of aircraft in the sky lately. You notice?
Tuesday, October 24, 2017
My last Blog sucked a tailpipe
"My last Blog sucked a tailpipe"
At least, not a banana in the tailpipe, or my too numerous to count sessions of robotic sodomy, ya know--the colonoscopies, and that creepy doctor with the long fingers--don't ever shake his hands at a dinner party my friends--you rich putz.
I'm calm. Sucked down a lung dart. Drinking G2 thirst quencher. My dog got a buzz-cut, and she looks like a damn coyote, and it scares the hell out of me--I had a dream she mated with a coyote, so I think my doctor needs to show me ink blots and write me another prescription. Gee whiz Beaver, don't you want me on more medication too? I'll get a Pez Dispenser for my new anti-psychotics, ya dolts. Why not let me smoke a skinny joint with some good shit inside? What, want the side effects of protracted pill-popping drive me mad, or into some delinquent state, developing Parkinson's-like symptoms or growing man boobs? Trust me sweet soul sister, ya, you sleazeball and your twin brother who gives me that glare everyday--you know what I'm saying. Gotta be on guard, and remember the 1950's, when my Dad was carrying me around in his hairy scrotum. Oh, is that myth too? I didn't come from my Dad's nutsac? How dare you lecture me like a father! Only a man who wears the Roman Collar can do such things! I liked to get bitched out at Mass. I like to be phobic concerning God. Because, now, he tells me: "Don't be such a pussy Mark." So what if I don't like foreign pubic hair on the commode at a filthy eatery. You know what happens in restaurants? The Chef is a drug dealer, the dish-washer has herpes, and the server has jam under her painted nails. I'd rather eat out of cans, and even the FDA allows one rat dropping or mouse hair in all canned goods; still, that's pretty good, since the factories are flooded with filth and folly. Co-workers screwing in the bathroom, or what the hell ever. I worked a job as long as I could, and was the best, but people screwed at work. I finally woke up and saw that selfishness is da bomb bro. And I would never dream of wearing my baseball hat backwards, because a Savage yet Saintly voice tells me: "Don't be a poser!!!" Live in truth--always in truth! Even if you're wacko, unless of course you screw your sister's husband--that's for you ladies out there, and I love ya--I'm the one who can't get it up without a six-pack. Expose them, and what the hell, expose yourself--you're a freak too Mark, but I never put a gerbil up my hairy asshole. My poor mother.
I wrote about the theft, but it was teenage Crusade, of the American Flag with my Nordic buddy, back in the day, under the cover of the Moon, and me piloting the getaway of a scalding XR 200--it was quicksilver till 60 mph. The watermelon. The pumpkin and bowel movement. The pet monkey--no, I've never mentioned that, but I might. Might not.
I think this Blog sucks too, but I'm a man of truth, and sometimes you gotta suck it. Maybe the black helicopter outside scared the shit out of me, and I chain-smoked two cigarettes before puking in the sink. There are no sky gods--it's Southwest Airlines, you fink. Or, maybe not. What if the crazies turn out to be right? Kinda be the ruination of your weekend. Friday night would be a real bummer, like it has always been since they took off THE DUKES OF HAZZARD. Boss Hog was like a metaphorical father to me, you sum bitches.
Go get 'em Dodgers. But without the Yankees in it, it all seems kinda boring. Would've been iconic. East Coast versus West Coast. Still, I think the Gulf of Mexico is involved now. Will I ever purchase a pot pie again? I'll get the turkey. Cause I'm a jive-turkey too. We're all, every goddamn one us, a bunch of sons of bitches. What, you don't think my mother bitched me out in the day? I called her a sea hag once, and she hit me with a horse crop. Real nice lady. Still, she gave me life--I guess if you birth it; next, you get to belt it. No, that's terrible! Yes, yes it is. You can always mind-warp your child with psychologists. Or better, psychiatrists, and make them drug addicts. Wish my parents would've done that earlier--I might've went to college and been just like a crooked politician.
So goes the Iceman. Caught a skink in the house with my bare hands the other day. My step-father was freaked out. He just sat in a chair and was watching for it all day, as if he was terrified. Kinda bothered me too, but we got it, or I did; regardless, I never liked CAGNEY AND LACEY (1981-1988) during Ronny Raygun's Administration. Oh well, keep an eye out. If you don't hear from me by tomorrow--call the President.
Jericho Liveth
"Jericho Liveth"
Thought Brad Pitt was good looking. Not being gay. Or am I? Saw Chris Jericho talking about the Dodgers--he's Pitt with Roid Rage. Good for him. He'll kick your ass. I'll watch. Get in there and hit someone, you NERF football gamblers!!! You never suited up a day in your life.
Don't damn your demons. Develop them. You witches and hags heard me! I fancy mermaids myself. Eat Chicken of the Sea tuna--guess I'm not gay.
What ever happened to the 1970's? The Carter Administration had great television, Reagan gave us steeled motion pictures, and with the former Messiah in office, I thought I was delivered into the Promised Land of Drag Queens. Truly, you transformed America. Maxine Waters is your legacy, and Putin smiles, at you, not me, because I have damn reverence for a ferocious fighter--you schmucks!!!
Aren't you proud of him? He's an attorney. You mean, a crook? Class Action Lawsuits are the biggest crimes. Jesus loves you--they say; next, you're paying them millions, and they never remember you. Greed. Evil. Synonymous. Good for you. Learn to sell ice cream.
Always wanted a Chevrolet. Had one. Camaro. A friend. Small Block Eight. Four Barrel. Hot and heavy on the highway. TRANSFORMERS exploits Chevrolet--I heard you schmo, yeah, you told me that. I like the Chevy. He's a Green Beret, drives a Chevrolet--my Nordic buddy wrote that song years ago. It's nice to be nice. Whispering charms into people's ears. Flattering them with compliments, to set them up for the kill. Priests listen. If that elderly lady brings you a fudge bunt-cake; next, throw it away. It contains toxic contagion!!! In my humble opinion.
And who are you to tell your grandmother of your great deeds? She's been around the block kid, and you're nothing. Yeah, keep trying to put me behind the Eight Ball. James Cagney told me that was your intention. Even when you tampon-picking rebels go overseas, you're damn proud to be called YANKEE. Southern Generals were not better generals, just better dressed. End of lesson.
Monday, October 23, 2017
God Has An Army
"God Has An Army"
I always wanted an orange lightsaber, to light my cigarettes with. Turn the lightsaber on, put some organic tobacco in your mouth; then, saturate your insides; next, exhale all those inner dimensions, outwards, to Grandfather--you know what I mean. Are you picking up what I'm putting down, or do you morons have a college education like Maxine Waters?
They discriminate. People get angry when a few bad apples spoil it all, and sometimes Bucko--they damn do. Talked to this cool dude this morning around 5 AM at the gas station. He had a glint in his eyes. And so did I. We got along, perfectly. I exited, saluting him, saying: "God Bless you."
Talk to the people at the store, like Pete Rose talked to the first baseman. Rose was a cool guy. A non-crooked hustler--in many ways. Whoops. Got myself into trouble there. But everything is redeemable, unless selfishness exists within--the true beast within.
So, God has an Army. And God is just a man. Yeah, I'm a wacko, but I admit it Bub. The dumb shyster at the eatery on Sunday morning called us "Church People" and all. I prayed. The person was gorgeous, just didn't know it. I got my sandwich, and got the hell out of there.
But God has an Army. And don't eat anywhere where you can't see them prepare your food.
So, God has an Army. He's a war-torn soldier. The best. I really am frightened at what He will do to the selfish. And what He will do to me. I fear God. And buster, so should you. Plenty of us with sublime instinct--yeah, I'm talking to the freaks, nice guys, incarcerated, and ye who excel, because some of you aren't stupid like me. I'm terrified at eating at TACO BELL, but I really want to. I guess that's one of my punishments. Still, I dream of dropping the chalupa. Maybe my dream will come true. Maybe not. So, I'll go back to the WAFFLE HOUSE in the meantime. And always order Sunny side-up, for they can drop scrambled eggs on the floor and put them right back on the plate--you'll never know it. Be prepared. Like a Boy Scout. Or whatever the left call them now. And dude, I ain't total right--I just lean that way plenty. Not always. I've been a bad boy. Just ask my pet watermelon. But I recycled it, and found an angel. Maybe an Arch-Angel. Maybe not.
A surgical story
"A surgical story"
The doctors gave me a benzo before a surgery approximately 19 years ago, and I don't have anymore; anyway, I smoked a butt, the cherry danced, and Big Mamma pulled me into the parking garage. After I got checked in, and in a gorgeous gown, that flattered my legs, the nurses gave me 3 more benzos. I was supposed to fall asleep--I didn't, for I had to drain the dragon, or gleam the gerbil, or pass the fluidic flow of a piss remembered forever; next, I passed out, woke up, not lethargic, got dressed swiftly, and walked the hell out of there.
Big Mamma took me to the pharmacy. I smoked another cigarette. Then, all the drugs caught up with me, and I got kinda loopy. It was summer. It was scalding hot, and damn southern humid--Axl Rose welcomed me to the jungle that day--yes he did; I say he did, but Slash wasn't there, nor Duff, and I always wanted to meet those guys.
Mom attempted to turn off the air conditioning and take the keys into the pharmacy, all while I was flopping like a frog, and coyotes can digest anything save a horny toad. Go Hogs!
Big Mamma said I might drive away. I said I wouldn't. We argued. I got my way. It all worked out. Got home. Ate a pot pie. I think it was turkey. I've met a few jive turkeys. Hell, one lived in my Mom's house for a damn long time before they were asked to leave for doing not-so-nice things.
My buddy Ham called me from Arkansas that day. Told him I just had surgery. He told me to not forget the old days. To have a beer. To not be such a wussy. So, I did. Good for me. Good for you. If you seek to do good, and not rob an old lady blind. Where's Larry King? Can anything get that guy to put on a sport coat? He's a man, baby . . .
All My Children
"All My Children"
In college, an algebra teacher told me: "Boy, you can either be here and do something with your life, or go home and watch ALL MY CHILDREN." Susan Lucci spoke to me that day; as a result, I went home and watched ALL MY CHILDREN--worked for me.
G. Gordon Liddy speaks to me, in the theater of my mind, is that illegal? Regardless, he tells me: "Mark, like me--you're vigorous, virile, and potent!!!" Thanks GMAN. But your genitalia is so much bigger than mine. Then, I'm reminded of the Beach Boys--it's all good vibrations.
Took Mom to see the Virgin Mary statue today. Don't tear Her down; the Queen of Angels doesn't have a sense of humor like me, schmoopy. At least She didn't call me a schmekel.
Live to love another day. It's all in the reflexes, as a mighty truck driver might say. Truck drivers have better reflexes than Navy SEALS.
Go get them Trump. Why the hell not. We all got it coming. Every man deserves his portion, and the kind man spills ten percent to the poor--I think.
The difference between a Mercedes Benz and a cactus? With a Mercedes, the prick is on the inside, you heard me schmekel. This isn't even my house. Yup, it's my Mom's. And she loves me baby, just like Kojak.
Sunday, October 22, 2017
How he abused the disabled today
"How he abused the disabled today"
He sat there, like Bill Cosby, always putting pills in my mother's pudding, and Bill Cosby, remember, is a wicked old man; moreover, a dirty old man.
Then, he gave me the middle finger, so silently, smiling. Just smiling. That's the type of guy he is.
I've endured it for years. Does he have any scars? I do. A plethora.
They plot again
"They plot again"
In two days, they will come for me. I am beaten and bruised. Face bloodied, at this moment. Just showered my mother, changed her, anointed her with lavender, brushed her hair, her teeth, clipped her nails, and placed her, ever so gently, in bed--my dog rests next to her, not her husband, and my face bleeds today, because of his hands.
Wasn't the notary fraud enough? Or the caretakers bullying me and throwing my mother around, dropping her in the shower, offering my dog peach pits, with those grins? Then, the false medical reports, and they know. All to rid themselves of an elderly woman and her disabled son; plus, a little dog too.
I watch as he sits and drinks his whiskey, smiling. Plotting. Again, I took my mother to the Church today, taking her out of the car, up to the Virgin Mary statue, asking for help. I take her out, talk to her, and they instruct me not to talk to her. I can't talk to my own mother? That's what he has told me, many times.
So, I wait. They'll come. And I still love God, through it all. I never complain about my life, nor pity my mother. I just love God, and I love my mother. While they have millions, and I eat out of cans, along with my mother, feeding her, making her smile, and they hate me for it. They always did.
It isn't enough that I'm diseased and in physical pain? It isn't enough that I'm shy? It's only enough to shuffle the money, shuffle the law, and make sure I don't get up this time. And for what? To make me feel shame once again? To make me feel guilty at the illusion they fabricate? What are my crimes? I'm the one with scars, not them. I'm the one that bleeds, not them. How much longer will their lies persist, until . . .
Last Detail, 1973
"Last Detail, 1973"
Everywhere I go, I am reminded: Everyone wants to kill me. They want to kill you too, allegorically. You think your friend is your friend? The devil is living right under your own roof.
Yeah, I see that piece of steel behind the bar. You know who I am: "I am--the goddamn Shore Patrol!!!"
They say, flame on. I say, virgin on. It's good to be a virgin. So much pinned up energy. Hell, a virgin can kill a legion with a mere wink. And we all know what King Solomon wrote concerning the wink.
That's all. Nothing fancy. Cracker Jack Uniform. Enlisted Man. Good for him. Because the enlisted man takes the bullets, mostly--while you officers sit and smoke cigars, mostly. But we love you; you only make us more like G. Gordon Liddy, and he is a good man. Always will be.
Saturday, October 21, 2017
Jango, Obi-Wan, and Jesus Christ
"Jango, Obi-Wan, and Jesus Christ"
Jango against Obi-Wan, with hints of God, not like the Disney bullshit. Verily, a mere man against an angel. Who won the fight? Draw. Who won the cult and cool--Jango did, in my book.
A laser gun can melt an angel's essence off. Aquinas was wise. Beyond all demons. To start knowing wisdom; next, fear God first. Fear your Father, a true gentleman who will not touch you incorrectly. Don't let them smear your Father. He is beaten, battle-scarred--you think God has it easy? No, He has to put up with all of our shenanigans; plus, that of the somewhat fallible celestial hierarchy. God is a mere man, so strong, without the witching way, but can crush it, with a shot to the face, technology, like stormtroopers marching through the streets, coming again, in corporeal form, to kick your ass and make us all get it in line--we all have it coming, our portion.
Act like a lady! Even if you have the angelic gifts. And the Father knows your playbook, hell-He wrote it. I'm terrified that I pissed Him off, and you should be too. There's always a bigger fish, and He's watching all of us. Just a man. Who could architect a Multiverse save a mere man? And let the Virgin be the angel. And Jesus Christ--half angel and half man. The Son of God; also, the Son of Man. He is both savage and saint. Don't get on His wrong side. You cannot fool him or enchant a Priest by whispering charms into their ears, nor lather them with gifts--the game of fools, for the wise man fears the Father, and only is made to love by a loyal lady. Hell, I didn't write this, this isn't even my house, they tell me. But I like to watch SIMON & SIMON reruns. Too, I watched Magnum the other night. T.C., Higgins, Rick, Zeus and Apollo; plus, hot babes and beer-drinking, resurrecting John Barleycorn every goddamn day.
And, out of honor, I remind you, him like unto God, being a great soldier, the brother of the modern King of Israel--Yonatan, I beleive, for I am not a scholar, nor ever will be, just a mere serf. He died, in battle, but lives, as do all of the Father's people, if they can love their way into Atomic God. You cannot metaphorically hack into Atomic God. And this man was a beautiful soldier. Can soldiers be beautiful? He was. The Southern Baptist Church taught me a very smart thing, even though I'm Catholic, which is: Salvation is of the Jews. As Christ boldly declared. And in my book, they deserve a free pass, being the first slaves and all; moreover, hated by all you schmucks, and for what? Because they are of Him? Good for them. We can have it too. If we love the Father's Hebrew Son.
Mother & Father
"Mother & Father"
Not black/white. Not good/evil. Wicked. Heaven is not bought by patterns.
Does a Mother not hear Her child screaming on the battlefield--even the witches? Good for them; indeed, she does goodwill, for once, seeing the fragility of a child.
Father is battle-scarred and beaten, wearing His bruises gallantly. Yet, He is not proud. Eyes slanted, like a Jesuit Jap.
Father is the ultimate trickster, beyond the adversary, for Father goes in many guises.
Never can tell.
We need some goddamn music in here--ya schmucks. Everybody has bumper music. Nah, I don't want any; still, my blood brother, a warrior dwarf armed with elf-like skills, and a haircut for seven dollars--he's the man, yet he better start wearing the white hat, his friends too, but dude--if they don't follow the one true God; next, they only have atomic consciousness, but never ATOMIC GOD, for the Father is never cheated into selling out or rolling over. He will kill any and all souls that hurt His children.
Verily, the Father displays mercy for the defenseless.
Gonna watch some BARNEY MILLER reruns. I like FLINTSTONES vitamins. My blood brother likes mustard on his tater tots. My dog makes an asshole out of me by crapping in front of hot girls at the park and dumping on further hallowed ground. I carry a poop bag--she's a damn moose, but Sarah Palin hasn't shot her yet.
If it's Dodgers and Yankees--it will be ICONIC.
Friday, October 20, 2017
God is a man???
"God is a man???"
It is written, we are in God's image, not the Celestial Hierarchy nor the Four-Living Creatures--I'm asking, not telling.
Again, wend the way of metaphor here.
Even a truck driver can kill a vampire? Man against monster. Every dog has its day. Never can tell in a fight. Or can you?
G. Gordon Liddy's Will. Yoda's mammalian (because he had a little hair and maybe nipples) power of the Force. The truck driver's reflexes; plus, the knife in his boot. Many a Cowboy who tell you to never bring a knife to a gunfight have lost to a Brave, armed only with that.
Have I been drinking to write such mad things? Of course--get over it! I can even mimic Cher, if I treat her like a lady. It's all possible. Or is it? Limit yourself, or be intuitive, and maybe called crazy.
Dodgers got it last night . . .
What will kill you?
"What will kill you?"
My current situation will not kill me? No matter what they throw at me. No, no. But I do know what will kill me.
There will come a time, and a place, and my son will say: "You're not really my father." I will instruct him nevertheless, saying: "Saint Joseph was not Jesus' father, yet Saint Joseph truly loved Him, as a father."
So, that is what will kill me, when I hear those words. It already has.
But fear not Saint Peter, for there will come a time, and a place, when you will have many mothers and fathers; plus, many brothers and sisters--if you fear your true Father, and honor your true Mother.
And as for the rest, orphans. Know your place in the Multiverse. For we are all Universes, amid the Multiverse of it all.
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Why Touch?
"Why Touch?"
Why touch them with your hands, when you can touch them with your heart? Most souls can't do this, all due to the selfishness of greed. If you have greed, you will die. Greed is the mind killer; indeed, it is what your demons want of you. You always want more. But in order to get more, you have to give more. You willing to go all the way? And yours will be the pits of Pandemonium.
Don't you fools see? He came as a nobody. Uneducated, a mere tradesman. Seemingly crazed, but He was not. Sure, He flipped over a few tables and lashed others; next, unmasked you with words; however, what was He doing? He was praying for you at night, underneath the big neon glitter of it all. What, prayers don't work? Not if you're greedy. He was touching you with love. And love has a higher frequency than hate. Yes, He was on the grid of an Atomic God. And you are not--you murdered Him for doing it. And He let you. He let you slay His angel, in front of His Mother.
If you don't have guilt, your sub-conscious will. God unmasks and does a better Jungian onion peel than Jung himself, the schmuck, on his theories of the supernatural--in my opinion. And all supernatural means is: simply more than natural. Being on the grid of an Atomic God. Yet God only listens to love. He doesn't want to hear plotting and bullshit.
Still, Jesus loves you. And dude at the bank that wants to slash my tires: "Make America great again." Or Rome will burn, and the flames will touch you too.
Dodgers Update
"Dodgers Update"
Justin Turner just put the All American Bat to a fastball. It didn't clear the fence, but it was pretty good. Pretty good.
They say the Dodgers are psychologically scarred from their August slump--I don't think so. They have heavy hitters, and now football is too disgraceful to empirically observe.
Holy Fire! Dodgers got the bases loaded up, and no outs.
What happened to enjoying a Dodger Dog, cheese dip, and a Coke with your family and watching a truly spiritual game. Baseball is not a circus, as Cicero said of the gladiatorial gore in Ancient Rome; specifically, football is the circus, at least the NFL is. Dude, those guys are filthy rich. Get over it; indeed, they bed hot women that you and I will never have, act like fools off the field, and don't even take hits anymore. It's like NERF ball. Staubach took hits, and never bitched.
Oh well, keep your feet on the ground, and your head in the heavens.
Grand Slam baby--Dodgers are on the field.
Quasi-Kevin Feltner; plus, pseudo-Dr. Grenier
"Quasi-Kevin Feltner; plus, pseudo-Dr. Grenier"
1st Amendment. Everything allowed save clear and present danger, fighting words, and if it's ambiguous, always allowed. I'm always ambiguous, or am I?
Did you enjoy being in league with crooked attorneys? False testimony with the sheriff's department? Having 9-millimeters closer than a foot from my mother's head? That is elder abuse, to the raw bone of it all. Did you enjoy torturing my mother? Yes, I think you did.
You're watching me; indeed, but they're watching you watch me. I'm "pretty smart" quasi-Kevin Feltner? I'm in your wife's hole, which one, I don't understand myself. It could be her ear, her nose, her urethra, but--I'm in there. How does it feel? Whose is the fool now? My Mother says hello. Have you met my Mother? Do you want to screw Her? The Virgin Mary has great legs, but only I can glare upon them, for I am not Freud, or better words, the devil. But the devil is your father, the father of lies and murder, as it is written by the Author of Life. He invented the hamburger.
I telepathically communicate with Putin. Possibly. He is watching you. I'm no traitor, but I know a goddamn friend. Trump is my father, allegorically. He taught me how to fight. How to label you, as you have labelled me, but--no longer.
I'm you're only chance at sanity. Then why do you read this? Are you addicted to me? Does your wife lust after my atomic rod? Possibly.
I'm "pretty smart." No. I'm not. But the devil is your father. Relax, it's all a metaphor. And you bald-headed crook, pseudo-lawman. Don't make my Mother give you colon cancer. She has ice water in Her veins. Wouldn't you? You murdered Her Son, right in front of Her; next, hung Him on a Cross, and gambled for His garments, as King David knew 1,000 years before. If only you were Hebrew. It is good to be a member of the Tribe. Even, if only a Levite.
USA: They bury us from within
"USA: They bury us from within"
I break bread with a black dude every two months. He has two jobs. Has a wife and kids--I've met them. Good man. Good family. And yet Maxine Waters wants to make him a slave all over. Who has his hand up that educated woman's ass. Putin. He is the puppet master. Brilliant. Strong. And as deadly as they make them. Thank God for Trump. He's a killer too, metaphorically.
Went to the bank yesterday. Not like years ago. Now the banker wants to cut off my head. I see his little eyes want to make me a Crusader again, as were my fathers. He smiles wickedly at me. Attempts to make me stumble. Comes to my goddamn country, only in order to kill me. You reject President Elect? You little phony-educated snobs. Go to Iran and hug them. I dare you. They'll cut off your head and sodomize your hippie beads so quick that you won't know what the fuck hit you.
Putin is laughing Maxine Waters. He's your allegorical daddy, Maxine Waters. He owns you and your millions.
Are blacks better athletes? I played goddamn ball for 5 years, numerous fractures, blackouts, and with cool black dudes. They're not better athletes--just men, like all of us. Don't believe me? Then match Obama against Putin in a cage match. It wouldn't last a second. Put your Messiah, Obama, up against Putin--man to man. We'll see who the better athlete is.
So, keep talking Maxine Waters. You're doing everything Putin is telling you to do, allegorically.
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
Mighty Dave King
"Mighty Dave King"
My biological father, pure Nordic, hair as blonde as the Sun, and eyes as blue as the Arctic Ocean itself. They told me to hate him for screwing a whore. A whore that assisted in his death. Too bad, I know who she is--the devil, and there are many devils among us, whispering charms into our ears, flattering us with their wicked lips, all in order to emasculate us.
My Dad slapped me in the face. It was my best moment. I love him for slapping me. It was goddamn beautiful. He didn't discharge no pussy.
Played college ball. Took on men twice his size. Numerous concussions, and he loved every minute of it. Pain is good. It lets you know that you are alive. Embrace the pain. Love it.
Too, he wrote code. Put computers into rockets, more or less. And never bragged of it. So meek and gentle, never giving himself credit, unless it was too instruct me.
He sat me down, saying: "Mark, you think you've done drunk-driving. No, I've done drunk-driving. You think you had girls. No, I had girls, every single one I wanted." Good for him. You will not take my father from me, nor the lessons he taught. You already did. And now--Dave King is back. And he'll screw the whore that stole everything from him and his son, right up the ass. Good for him. Go get them father. Now and forever.
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
Randall "Tex" Cobb
"Randall "Tex" Cobb"
Tex, one big dude; plus, he had spirit, a deadly combination, was boxing in Vegas and became drunk punch. The ref went up to him, asking him if he knew where he was. Tex said: "Yeah, I'm getting my ass kicked in Vegas." Good man. Pretty damn good. I get my ass kicked everyday, and I love every minute of it, but not when you sleazeballs kick the ass of the innocents. I'm not innocent; I've been a bad boy. So, keep it coming.
The sea hag and the naughty nurse are always in wicked synergy. It has been written. The naughty nurse is preggers, and I didn't even have to touch her. Check it out--you're having my baby. How dare you bring filth into my Father's House!!! Go to your pagans, you pussies--you damn delinquent redskins! And, like I've said before, I love the American Indian. I've went down on an American Indian. She loved every minute of it, and she was clean as a whistle, and gorgeous. I revere her to this day. She is honest, living in truth, and better than all of you schmucks who attempt to enslave her--hear me NAACP--don't touch the American Indian, for you are the ones trying to make them slaves.
I talked to the devil this morning. I told him that he wears the DUNCE hat, for all the ages. The jokes on him. What souls does he get. The shysters. He gets to hang out with Hillary Clinton, Bubba, the Obama family, many members of my pseudo-family, and all the power hungry, like the Guild of Thieves--attorneys. You know why attorneys don't get hemorrhoids? They're perfect assholes.
I talk to one of my plenty of fathers everyday--his name is G. Gordon Liddy. He tells me: "Don't be such a pussy, Mark." That's one of my names, but I go by many. The Rand Corporation and their remote viewers can't crack me. For I'm the Virgin Mary Herself--the Mirror of Justice. Or maybe I'm not. No, I'm just pulling your leg. Or am I? Thank God for America you NFL losers. You know what the NFL is an acronym for? Not fucking long.
My Grandma Bertha's people gave Blitzkrieg. Lighting War. Took over Poland in one day. What did the polish woman do when she won the gold medal? She had it bronzed.
I'm pig-shit Irish. And I love it. Plus, German, Serb, Swedish--hell, I'm a jumble of proportional paradoxes. My Dad told me that I had no right to watch Notre Dame football. He said I'm a mutt, and I never listen. But I do. To God. Is it illegal to be a Catholic? To believe a cracker is the ultimate power in the Multiverse? Is my Priest brainwashing people and stealing their money? You tell me. Lock him up. I dare you. Take his Freedom of Religion, as you attempted to take mine; indeed, too bad I live in America. The Greatest goddamn country there ever was. I'm a killer, metaphorically. I have a beautiful genitalia, metaphorically. And yes, I'm crazy, allegorically. Or is there truth in me? Just an aspect. Hell, you spit on the garbage man when God came as a mere tradesman. The trick is on you. Christ, uneducated, poor, lived with His Mom, and was better than all of you schmucks. You hate Him. I know it. I totally know it. Because you know, He is better than you'll ever be. I love every minute of Him. Is it illegal to say He is my Lord? Gonna lock me up again for talking to Jesus? Face it--you hate Him. You dirty shysters hate Him.
I'm gonna talk to my pal now, have a cigarette with him--I mentioned him yesterday--his name is Huckleberry Hound. He's blue. He's just a dog. A nice dog. I used to watch him as a child in the 1970's. It's nice to be nice. It's nice to be a child. I'm just teasing. And remember King David's wise words: "God made leviathan for sport." This is America. She is gorgeous. Please, don't steal Her from me. She even loves you. She loves us all. And I weep when you say we have no rights, for America tells the truth. She says we have every right. Even a right to be weird. God Bless America. I'm just teasing. I'm a frightened little man is all. Or am I?
Rh Negatives and Psychiatric Asylums
"Rh Negatives and Psychiatric Asylums"
It was hilarious when they forged false testimony and delinquent documents to lock me up--the best part, so many damn pussy cops came here, like what--I'm an army of one? And you man in the shirt with the collar and glasses, I know your name; thus, I have power over you--never use your true name, or change the one you have, for if people know your true name; next, they have power over you. At least some of us natural born freaks do.
One cop, the nice one with the mustache, the only one whose dreams I'm not in, he was terrified to touch me. Wise man. He knew they were framing me, wanting my mother dead the moment he saw me. Some cops are nice, like you young deputy with the red hair, driving me gently to the asylum, telling me all about your family--I like you, but your partner, well, I'm in his nightmares too.
Took three of them to even budge my lifeless body off the ground, an old grounding spell with a special stone in my pocket. I told the one pig: "Hey, you with the muscles, I'm not resisting, just gonna lay here, I'm only 120 pounds, and if I can carry my mother around, and easily, all day, your big muscles can move me." But he couldn't budge me. I was laughing inside. It took another huge pig to even get me moving; next, another for my anchor. Yup, right in front of the Virgin Mary's image and my own Rh negative mother, they carried, struggling, me out in front of an entire neighborhood observing in awe, and I was chanting the Hail Mary, in French no less, and praising Her--also in French. Oh, my Mother knows you better than you know yourselves, for She is Queen of Heaven, Virgin most powerful, as white as snow, with ice-water in Her veins. Wouldn't you be pissed if you watched as they murdered your son, right in front of you, having knocked His teeth out, lashed Him, mocked Him with a crown of thorns, put nails, larger than the ones at Home Depot through His four limbs; next, pierced Him with a lance, gambling for His garments, as King David did give prophesy concerning his metaphorical Son over 1,000 years before. It's always metaphor--right?
I'm tired now. Just woke from a dream, and I was Popeye the Sailor Man, hanging out with the mystical Jeep. Too, Colin Caperpickle was wiping his fecal matter off on the American Flag. I try to protect my mother from murder, and that bastard walks free, for defiling what men died under? You dumb pigs. Arrest the right people, or tell your local politicians you're not enforcing unjust laws anymore, only the right ones--you filthy schmucks! Why work for the man, when you can be the man. The man is a dildo anyway, and his wife loves her dildo more than her husband. What--he's the goddamn Pope? I don't think so. Pope Francis doesn't flash a badge to get cheap troll pussy, like you Barney Fifes that can't get it up without a gun. I've proved my potency; moreover, my son has got some big balls. You know why men give their wives daughters? I do, so look into it, you low sperm count finks that can't make her squirt.
Anyway, I'm relaxed now. Colin Caperpickle doesn't need to be in my dreams, you filthy media clowns. Get his sorry afro ass off the television, or us, the people, stop watching it, and let their celebrity die. Radio is better anyway.
Oh well, I forgot to mention my friends in the psychiatric asylum. They were nice people. Even the Nordic who threatened to slit my throat. But we became friends, after I told him thanks for being an enlisted Marine before they threw him out for being too brutal. I told him: "There's always redemption, brother." Anyway, they all had hazel or blue eyes. Freaks, mutants, circus people--my people. I was a celebrity there. After two days of being out, I started packing. My step-father, the Bill Cosby of the family, putting pills in the pudding, asked me where I was going. I said: "To see my friends again." They're a hell of a lot more nice in there, than you snakes running around on the streets. Jason from Friday the 13th is a nice guy. He just won't die. You know why? He was an innocent child, and people tortured him. Tortured him because he was a sweet boy. Loved God, his country, his mother. And the bullies saw his innocence and hated him immediately, tearing him to pieces. But the jokes on them. I like Friday the 13th movies. I always pull for Jason. He wears the white hat, but most people can't see it. I was born on the 13th. The Virgin Mary's number. Go figure. Nah, don't worry. It's all fake. That's what school tells you. But why then do I have no monkey protein, nor my mother, in our blood? A doctor said it was a mutation. I asked him if I was a mutant. He said: "No, no, that's not it." I told him he was a shyster, saying it was it, at least scientifically, for why else would the dumb shit say I have mutations flowing through my veins like ichor--you schmuck. God Bless America, Israel, and for all you Democrats, yeah, I like Mother Russia too. Hell, I'm a quarter Serb, and we're cousins to the Russians. Oh well, I guess I'll go turn on the news and watch America's new folk hero Colin Caperpickle become a national icon, while I struggle to save a dollar, and drink cheap beer, while he has millions, screws gorgeous women, drives a fancy car, and all I do is work, not seeing a dime for it. That's my country. And I still put my hand over my heart for the National Anthem. Because my mother raised a pretty decent kid. Pretty decent. And for all you brothers who think you have it bad. I've been thrown in jail in 3 different states. Get over it. Some cops are pigs, and some cops are doves. Like everyone else on this goddamn prison planet.
Mad Dog
"Mad Dog"
Was talking to a shaman, gotta love the American Indian, and he told me about the wild dog I came upon during the witching hour out in Cool Springs yonder 10 years ago. He said, I chose not the animal, but the animal chose me. Maybe the shaman was a she, maybe not.
The transgender native further explained of the dog's power. Said: "It's their problem now, for the Spirit of the canine is within you." Went further, communications with Idaho Indians. Great people. Strong. Brave. Beautiful. Never envy beauty, for beauty has her way.
Anyway, I was told never to worry. For a soul dies if it follows a coyote. I guess old Obi-Wan was right: "Whose the more foolish--the fool, or the fool who follows him?" And the coyote is the wise/fool. The shape-shifter. The trickster. Second unto the Great Spirit. Just ask old Saint Francis or Saint Roch, the Patron Saint of dogs; plus, the falsely accused.
I've always minded my own business. But like Bluebeard's wife, the ignorant pry, and I get pissed--I mean, I get really explosive. I don't want to call my fellow dogs in, ever--there's Snoop Dog, Scooby-Doo, Huckleberry Hound, and more. Have you seen my man Snoop Dog lately? He might be in your house. Nah, I'm just crazy. I don't know anything. Life is nothing more than a flux of atoms, and then you take the dirt nap. Right? That's what they teach you in school. Thanks to my Virgin Mother, I never spent a day in the classroom, not even when I was there.
Monday, October 16, 2017
American Bad Asses
"American Bad Asses"
I'm coyoting a portion of this; nonetheless, works for me. Here's 3 American Bad Asses.
1.) Harry S. Truman--no college, good for him, never getting Kool-Aid poured down his throat, and baby: The Buck Stops Here. He said, more or less: "You can accomplish anything--if you don't care who gets the credit."
2.) Hunter S. Thompson--this bad ass never met a narcotic he didn't like, and I say, good for him, you bunch of liberty haters. Hung out with the Hell's Angels. Drank the shit out of it; plus, liked to blow up gas propane tanks in his backyard with a shotgun.
3.) G. Gordon Liddy--when God was passing out bad asses, no man got a better one. Mr. Liddy transcends muscle, the little killer, being pure gristle. His bad ass was locked up in the Federal Penitentiary for near 6 years, and all he did was kick ass. They sent some Black Panthers after him to rattle his cage, and Mr. Liddy went into them with pure spirit. He always said: "If you're in an alley at night and 3 guys try to mug you; next, pick the biggest and ugliest; then, go into him with everything you've got. Too, I have the largest genitalia in America." Guy's practically a Saint--in my book. He can get a woman pregnant by simply sitting next to her. It doesn't get any more bad ass than this guy.
Saint John the Eagle; plus, Dogs
"Saint John the Eagle; plus, Dogs"
I can't remember, even though my mind is photographic, the number of people who have tried to kill me, persecute me with brainwashing, lock me up in 3 States, and in a psychiatric facility. Go screw yourselves, or my Mother will do it for you. YUP, AND I BOLDLY SAY TO YOU BASTARDS THAT DOUBT FATIMA: The Virgin Mary has legs. The best. She shows her legs to me. They're ivory. As white as snow. And She has ice water in her veins. I'm frigid myself; thus, I honor my Mother, without Freud's demon. I don't even blink. She is my Mother, you pornographic sleazeballs. If you think you have your Salvation Protestants, think again. You take Christ off the Cross, and deny His death. You have no crucifix. You kill the Virgin, because Martin Luther had an Oedipus Complex, the bastard--the fucking German schmuck. Nietzsche even abandoned his German heritage, because Martin Luther wanted to screw Jesus' Mother. Get over it!
You steal the Holy Family. You steal Mary, the Angels, Saints, Prophets, and Kings. You put Jesus in your pocket, as if He doesn't have a Mother. If you can't stand in the Virgin's presence; next, you can't stand in the presence of Christ, for He resides with His Mother--She is the Gate of Heaven; moreover, She has great legs, all angels do, and I'm pleased with Her perfect beauty, for beauty has Her way. Are you mad at God because you are ugly? You fools. The Virgin is the ultimate super-model, and I'm freaking ugly, and I accept it, honoring Her, and not complaining about my portion.
You hate beauty, because you do not possess it. You have envy. You sea hags that destroy true love. Your daughter was meant for me, and I was meant for her. Recall Easter Sunday, when you bitched out my Rh negative empathy, saying that I was not good enough for your daughter. Too young; too stupid. Who is the exposed and unmasked sea hag now? I came not to bring peace, Christ mentioned, but put daughter against mother. Your children do not belong to you, but God Himself. Remember how Tobias did love-make. All for the glory of God. And he had an angel dog, that you spit on. Learn how to sell ice cream, as you've crushed true love. But you know what hag, she still loves me, and I know it. Your husband wants to see her smile, and he is obedient and faithful, ever patient, like Saint Joseph himself, and you make him your prize and your property, when he only belongs to God.
Am I crazy? Am I homosexual? Indeed, how bad do you want to know!?!
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