A Were-Wheaten Christmas (6)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (6)"
   
   Aceline, penning her diary:
  
   Christmas near, getting so.  Practicing better British, urh, English.  Peace to all people!  If we only followed true law, got occupied by gaming, ya know.  Bless the raccoons too, those bandits of suburbia, living in attics.  
   The waxing Moon and Venus line up tonight--November 30th - December 1st.  Will Jupiter be in a viewing angle?--some say.
   Worried about Freddy.  She needs to be prayed a bone.  Dogs are people too--if they're people.  And, they are--in my world.
   I'm praying for the pooch to purchase a purse.  - revoir -   

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (5)

   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (5)"
   
   A lonely arch-angel dubbed Bill was kinda/sorta lonely of late.  He was all out of Maxwell House, and Christmas was approaching.  Most of his regal relatives were in the celestial cosmos, beyond the Sublime Perimeter.
   But Bill was a pretty good remote viewer.  Pretty good.  He had heard of Miss Freddy Hart; specifically, that she was a Were-Wheaten.  A curious breed indeed.  Kinda Irish.  And while the Irish are stubborn, they're not exactly stupid, they just like to get hit in the face every now and then, to recharge their Shamrock batteries; next, bite a guy's ear off in a bar brawl.  
   So, Bill constructed an android in his North Dakota household; moreover, it was an exact duplicate of G. Gordon Liddy.  Bill named the android, simply:  GMAN.
   Bill would send the android to assist Miss Freddy Hart in her uncanny pursuits of persuading this pernicious world that freaks are people too, in a weird way.
   Bill probed his creation:  "Are you ready GMAN?"
   GMAN robotically responded:  "I was born ready; plus, vigorous, virile, and potent--I am!"  

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (4)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (4)"
  
   Sister Shaqdiesel pulled up onto the Holy Ground of her Church in an economically-inclined automobile; specifically, a rice burner; however, rice has fueled many throughout wars; regardless, Sister Shaqdiesel only had gasoline running through her veins to do one thing, as her bumper sticker boldly declared:
KILL ALL MUTANTS AND THEIR DOGS
   She wasn't fond of a Were-Wheaten making cute poops in the suburban sprawl under the government's bizarre selection; indeed, she was the non-patriot, forgetting that Washington, Franklin, and Jefferson knew money would be the main factor, but liking sport, they wrote in our laws that EVERY man should have a chance, whether a coyoteman, a baker, a truck driver, or even a naughty nurse.

* * * * * * * *

   Freddy Hart was onto the angry nun; however, her pal Aceline told her not to worry about anything save the Goodness of God.  To always question, though seem like you're not, and to never be bleu, but always have a little rouge on; plus, vert for those that venomously vex.  
   Freddy thought about purchasing a Pomsky.  To add a little spunk to the pack.  It would be all the jazz, especially if she named the dog something cool, like Junkyard, Mutt, or Burt.  Oh well, she'd look online tomorrow.  For now, she lathered her curious Chinese cuisine in heavy sauces and enjoyed the spice of it all.  

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (3)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (3)"
   
   Okay--Freddy Hart was an attractive, near middle-aged woman; specifically, a loner lady, always keeping her guard up, knowing that many a yutz is on the loose; plus, wanted to avoid any cat fights with the local tail, those frisky felines fervently possessive of even another woman's innocent and accidental (it's a word) glance at an owned and paid for tool.  
   She drove a Crown Victoria from the 1980's.  An old big block eight-cylinder that was fiercely cherry-hot-red.  Used to be a Fire Chief's car, having had lights and all.  The scanner and CB were still in there; also, Freddy frequently used the CB and scanner--her handle was:  ROUGE ONE--yup, she had a French app on her android; plus, did 6th grade with a blanc girl named Aceline; moreover, was still in touch with Aceline, over the antiquated horn of something like unto fiber-optics, but Freddy really didn't know what that was, neither do I.  
   The sirens had been removed from her car.  The friendly Fire Chief did it before the sale.  Wasn't a friend of the family or anything.  Random roll of the dungeon dice.
   As a Were-Wheaten, it was hard to make friends.  Yet Miss Freddy Hart was pals with a bitch West Highland White Terrier down the electric block.  Suburbia is high voltage crazy and plain kooky.  

Coyote Blogging

  
   "Coyote Blogging"
   
   How wondrous and good-girl charming is sprawling suburbia, when unable to see the waxing images of reality closer, yet lost in the nocturnal nature of semi-wildlife, for they live off of us, sometimes, nesting in our attics, making houses underneath even our foundations, eating from our trash cans, and drinking from our water, of sorts, huh?
   Why not get a camera, journey through the nearby night, photographing the live-action cinema of suburban pseudo-wildlife, especially the cunning and agile coyote, though never follow him, and even the partial liquid paper of skunks, still alive beyond their sight, smelling their mark upon your portion, though benign and loving, if you're not encompassing their possible handstand, what?
   So, maybe get a camera and forge computer-scribed script about them amazing animals!  Sometimes it's better to mystically make friends forever with the purposed creatures constructed for daily living, even during the magnificent and motherly Moon's reflection of the Sun's life.    

My travels with Charlie--4 real

   
   "My travels with Charlie--4 real"
  
   Print Media bit the bullet, didn't beat it, like that last rock and roll group out of San Francisco, before everything went grunge, and to crap, losing the high frequency of Slash on electric banjo, and this--from a damn Yankee.
   So, I was no longer a District Manager type-of-guy, and had to work the night shift with Henry Winkler; moreover, met a delivery man dubbed CHARLIE--he was a muscular and well-constructed older fella.  He also:  "Never Heard" of anything, if you know what I mean, and--you might.
   So, my Pap didn't have to "Soldier Up" cause he worked on the railroad; however, Charlie "Never Heard" of that--he worked on the railroad; plus, had to fight in WW2.
   So, the papers were heavy that night my friend.  Even the reporters and Mr. Moon himself had to come in and roll the cerebral smoke of newsprint.  After swinging my arm over a V-8 Camaro all night, I entered the warehouse, saw Charlie; next, uttered sorely:  "My arm is killing me from slinging all of those papers.  You gotta be Hercules to throw them."
   He looked at me strangely, asked:  "Who?"
   Me again with:  "Hercules."
   Old dude looked me right in boyish eyes; then, he told:  "Never heard of him."
   Like it was with the Superior Samson, my ropes of common sense melted off like weak wax in the Sunlight.  World was damn bigger than I knew.  

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (2)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (2)"
   
   Freddy Hart was in total Wheaten form--fanged, frisky, and fervent, knowing every girl who dawned a lime-green bikini was not insidious.  What else does an arch-angel wear while visiting the Gulf of Mexico?  If folks are tempted; next, it's their problem, unless the arch-angel is ornamenting itself to be completely lusted after; otherwise, it's all good, though nothing is really good save God, Jesus kinda/sorta mentioned, maybe a few times.
   Yet Freddy Hart had no iniquitous visions of the lascivious geography of the State of Florida; however, knew it housed plenty of low energy, in the form of quintessential suits out for themselves.
   Freddy Hart romped and rolled around on Terra's Terrain, getting as much of the Earth "All Over" her as she could, being close to the Yankee line, just not quite; still, it felt good to have the counterpoise of rebel dog and alcoholic Yankee, though she only drank beer, and never through a straw like frat boys in Congress.
   As she shifted back while Luna laid low, allowing the Daystar its ignition, the cool lady scrambled on bare feet to find her clothes that she had stashed behind a lonely tree in the suburbs--now, concrete sprawl its only family.  Of course there were cameras everywhere.  Yet what fool in their wrong mind would report a Were-Wheaten during the holidays?   Nobody even admits Saint Nicholas; thus, she had it made.  

Robert Palmer - Addicted to Love (Live in NYC - 1997)

A Were-Wheaten Christmas

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas"
   
   Freddy Hart was here before, and is gone, and is back again.  A thirty-something babe of the airwaves, residing in the higher parts of the American South, fancying her gig as modern DJ Chick, and not putting too much product in her silky strands of mousy-brown, just below the collar, and she dressed kinda masculine, like an older boy, having blue steel, in spirit form, fluxing within and without her, like a medicine man morphing into Dr. Quinn.  
   Her only problem as Christmas approached was when she'd let loose a stream of the ingested, in liquid form; specifically, she made yellow snow, being a Were-Wheaten, all 104 pounds of her, a canine form unspoken, not listed in Advanced Dungeons and Dragons, yet bookmarked in the National Library of God, and she knew Jesus was adorned in a chestnut nimbus, as even almonds are super-healthy, building a fortress of  fever pitch, as that's the way her path commanded.
   Things were to get weirder, as they always did for Miss Freddy Hart.  

Saint Hubert, Green Arrow, & Robin Hood

   
   "Saint Hubert, Green Arrow, & Robin Hood"
   
   Saint Hubert, Patron Saint of hunting, among other things, reminds of Green Arrow in modern fiction, and of Robin Hood's legendary status, in a bow and arrow way.
   The hunter (Saint Hubert) saw a Crucifix between a stag's antlers.  He decided to follow God.  A dog was involved, like the tradition of many Catholic Saints and canines gregariously gelling politely, such as Saint Roch and Saint Francis, to mention a couple.
   Anyway, Saint Hubert taught how to hunt with ethics.  Hey, it's a savage world, gotta be fierce; however, even I can be a douche sometimes; as a result, I like to slay dust bunnies, and did so today with my step-dad.  He offers sage advice, but never uses the stuff, saying:  "Priorities first, boy."  Nice.
   So, Saint Hubert hunted, yet never brought down more game than was necessary, nor killed without executing a surgically swift shot of an awesomely aimed arrow, quickly taking the beautiful animal, and never bringing down a delightful doe with newborns; also, not even an old doe, if she is a classic, deserving to live out her years--it all depends on the sense of the hunt.  A polite sportsman.  Saint Hubert.  Carried a bow and arrows.  Pretty classic.  

GARAGE: A cool place

   
   "GARAGE:  A cool place"
   
   A garage is a cool place to be--if you don't have a basement.  Most of my Serbian relatives up and around Pittsburgh, the men, had basements, where they could go to get away from their wives or mothers or sisters; next, smoke, eat salami, drink a beer, and even urinate in a pee jar--works for me, and Hunter.  
   There is a refuge for sinners, a harbor of safety, an island resort--it's called the garage, if you live in Nashville, where the soil is rock solid and all--hard to dig, and call before digging.
   Have a CB Radio.  Pretty cool.  Even some CB Dudes on around here--here and there.  I can't be the Pork Chop Express because swine is not always polite, though I was coached by a Razorback; hence, I get some leeway.  It's good to be a clean Hog.  My Pap liked Boss Hog; still, HILL STREET BLUES took place in quasi-Pittsburgh, so someone believes.

A Platoon Leader and a Rabbi

   
   "A Platoon Leader and a Rabbi"
  
   You can learn a lot from a dummy, buckle your buckwheat, or get hopping.  Many a Lieutenant has gotten enlisted men slayed.  "Elias is  a water-walker Lieutenant."  Thank God for cinema, and the truth contained within.  
   Christ, a mere tradesman, scolded, and harshly, many a Rabbi of His time.  "Your father is the devil.  The father of lies and murder."  Too, He rebuked the sin of sinners, even though He healed them.  "And sin no more, or worse things will happen."  
   But He didn't allow anybody to question His Heart, more or less.  A conscience can be cluttered by a sub-conscious that has swallowed  a swamp of doubt; on the contrary, Young's "Heart of Gold" is waxing golden--never grows old, if always beating for truth, justice, and kinda/sorta--the American Way, way back then, and here now--in some places.
   Don't let them put you down if you're only playing the part.  A student is not above his teacher, in an institutional sense; however, many teachers have dirty hands themselves, and don't want the student to surpass or outshine them--the selfish schmucks.
   So, get on with your Jesus.  If you're aligned with Him, run your mouth and wax on and off with your hands, in a clean direction.  And when the dirt arrives, vacuum it up with a blood made bold by a bodacious God.  He knows.  Not them.  He and you know.  Not them.  Never them.  That's just the Bravo Sierra they tell you.  Trust old Jack Burton.  

Big Trouble in Little China - "We May Be Trapped"

Camaro burnout. STL hall street Sunday nights.

Blood types, implants, & Magnum, P.I.

   

   "Blood types, implants, & Magnum, P.I."

   Look over your shoulder; there are twenty people weirder than you.  Only a ninja can kill a ninja--maybe not, for the truck driver liveth; regardless, the government monitors the magnificent minority with Rh negative blood; however, Uncle Sam has a really cool goatee, and I like his red, white, and blue colors--like the French flag.  You think Saint Joan of Arc is a little angry with some people?  I know she is.  A perfect paladin, in a sense, taking on the cause of an entire country, forsaking her own wants.
   As my German Grandma Bertha used to say about crummy:  "Everybody's shit stinks."  
   There are different ways of being brutalized by implants, whether from non-terrestrial officers rudely entering, or the cleaning lady that wants to seduce your husband (she is implanted too), some of us have to deal with crude yet calculated intrusion; next, choose sides instead of being neutral and inheriting a cold hell, as the Irish of Kennedy offered.
   And this be metaphor mister--I like Joseph Campbell; he was all metaphor too.  
   The blood speaks to God, as the Good Book mentions; specifically, look what they did to Christ for rejecting the rigged system, and His Mother adored Him, though they didn't care, blaming Her for Him as well.  Peace and Justice will kiss--already has in parts of Heaven.
   I can't believe that all this time, I could've been laying in my pajamas and simply watching MAGNUM reruns.  Higgins is a scrapper, but his storytelling is too long-winded.  

Sparkles and pony cars

 
   "Sparkles and pony cars"

   Ya, you hang out with Bilbo, and I'll space-step with Chewbacca and the Flux Capacitor Itself, mind you--and Greedo doesn't deserve to talk smack about me, or I'll stuff a chili dog down his pursed honker, that bounty-hunting crumb, less than salacious.
   And to see a white horse with one emblem, galloping minus the stampede, not going into your tempting tree because he loathes maple syrup, and Bill Lee had the heat as a spaceman, up in the slang France of Montreal, for a tour.
  It's all in the reflexes, and even Jack Burton didn't kiss her goodbye, cause that would initiate a genesis of apocalypse; thus, he will see Wang again, down yonder memory, so alive, and Egg is always there, for his homeland, well--he carries her in his heart.  

Death Star explosion Original

Pious Santa, nuff said

   
   "Pious Santa, nuff said"
   
   After contracting cooties from his charitable endeavors, Nikola put away his Father Christmas, though the Father seems the boss, like a Boss 302 birthing life, swift and quick out of the hole, or a Boss 429, happy and protracted on top end, burning beyond rubber on the asphalt runway.
   So, knowing Mars speaks to Spica nowadays, the Heavens seem to be in conference concerning Earth, and while some Earth girls may be easy; on the contrary, there is always a collective counterpoise, which deducts from the contagion of false camouflage, even for the deer hunter, if Saint Hubert remembers an ecological Saint's love and admiration of simple beasts, being noble in themselves.  

Pious Santa, more . . .

   
   "Pious Santa, more . . ."
  
   Nikola would give some charity (love) to the little elves @ the shelter--if they were nice, not nefarious and nasty, like crummy being passed around.  Wondered what Venus told Jupiter when they went face to face a week or so back?  All those women, some virginal, some not, speaking to a mighty man with many moons.  Nikola knew.  And they say nothing happened, but always in the Heavens first.  How the Heavens do their job, and a loner planet out of sync, like a busy junkyard, houses monstrous corruption, save for the bold and bodacious.
   Nikola went to talk to a Serbian Orthodox Priest.  Kinda/sorta difficult to find in Middle TN. these days; however, always was.  The Priest mentioned:  "The Protestants have nobody on the Cross, and they walk away--guilt free.  The Orthodox put a foot rest for Christ, and the agony is not so bad; however, the Catholics torture themselves in brutal passion--all for the better."
   "What does it totally mean?"  Nikola probed.
   The Priest responded:  "Santa deserves to deal in coal @ times.  But his heart can reforge it into diamonds."  

Pious Santa

   
   "Pious Santa"
  
   Down in the damned dirty south, summertime absent, replaced by just a hint of Yankee weather, girls and snuggled blue-jeans in tight strut through the crowded real estate of suburban sprawl, and while not thinking about how to crack the planet Earth in half with chaotic frequency, though it is protected by a Golden Space Dome, more or less, Nikola of Middle TN. was in search of a Serbian Orthodox Church, and though his Pap was Catholic, Nikola loved the idea of Theotokos, knowing a mother will give you her last dollar, him having learned that from a redneck in Arkansas, armed with a V-8 in his carport, Old Glory hanging, kinda bangled.  
   Anyway, this dude of no renown, noticed only for his Proust-like mustache and attempts at dandyism, mimicked Joyce in his diary, or made a brave pursuit in doing so; still, there was none other than his pet sugar-glider, the flying pseudo-hamster always upon his right shoulder, as if a furry parrot that displayed no speech, those frequently picked up vibrations, seen by illogical minds, like tasting colors, and the sugar-glider was named Betsy.
   It was approaching Christmas, on the calendar, and--in the air.  Seemed a bit frosty.  

The Fall Guy Intro

Genuflection

   
   "Genuflection"
  
   This one girl, back @ junior high, yonder thataway--way back then; anyway, she'd overly genuflect, in all scenarios.  @ Mass, which was pretty cool, following the proper protocols for someone schooled in Catholicism; however, she may have even taken her genuflection to the playground, where @ around pubescence, we talked more than acted like zoo animals on the instruments of action.  
   Genuflecting was her super power.  She designed the school logo, one of them, in the seventh grade.  Another girl, an Irish Catholic, got ten Hail Marys or so after Confession.  Everybody was gawking @ her, wondering what she had done to deserve so much prayerful penance.  I knew what she did--she told the truth.  I always liked her, as a sister, ya know.  
   Nothing wrong with back to the future travels.  If you go to the right places.  Even the 1950's.  Like eating @ SONIC, and enjoying the frigid blast of Winter as you roll down the windows, ignite the internal cockpit light, and eat some mildly greasy good times--and always get some onions on your burger, in my opinion.  

Any Which Way You Can - Trailer

Don't neglect Her beauty

 
   "Don't neglect Her beauty"
   
   Old school.  I get it.  Me too.  On the flip side, get vibrant.  Show me the colors.  Hues.  A pink flamingo in front yard, not for the metaphysics of it, but it looks damn cool.  Want Pink Panther in our attic, Daddy; specifically, I liked the commercials, yonder yesteryear.  
   Don't steal the Virgin Mary's beauty.  Why make Her an old grandma, when even if, grandmas are sophisticated and have healing properties?  It's in their blood.  The blood that gave you, and Her Son, partial life, united with the Eternal.
   I like the archaic imagery; however, new artists are great.  So great.  These picture-painters have the MOST talent in my mind.  How fantastic to be able to draw your visions or emotions.  I understand some of the new theological art.  Some is beyond me.  It is beauty.  Artists of the brush are the greatest teachers--with just one image.  
  

A sneeze, like unto a carnal climax

   
   "A sneeze, like unto a carnal climax"
  
   The most stupid a man looks is when he has a carnal climax.  He looks like a groaning, elated idiot; specifically, he distorts into a deflated weenie of wondrous woes.  
   My step-dad sneezes all the time.  The sneeze travels faster than light-speed.  Wends its way further than a Rugby field.  No pads involved.  And when he sneezes, he enjoys it.  I tell him that he should smoke a cigarette after his multi-orgasmic sneezes, to enjoy the sensation all the more.
   Many a contagious sneeze has killed an infant with a compromised immune system.  Sneeze in your sleeve; next, wash your damn shirt, and put some salt water in the laundry.  
   How long will you have me with you?  Have you not learned?  
   What's wrong with taking a shower, anointing yourself with lavender, burning myrrh (smoke purifies), and putting cloves of garlic in your hamburger meat?  
   I still can't go to TACO BELL.  It just smells like my grandmother's resonating gas, forced out, with the ripple effect, caused by cottage cheese butt-cheeks.  And my grandma would tell ya:  "I'm as clean as a whistle."  

Passion vs. Transfiguration

   
   "Passion vs. Transfiguration"
   
   Catholics--Passion.  Orthodox--Transfiguration.  So I hear in my world.  How many different flavors of Colonel Sanders will they get?
   A ride with Saint Francis will teach you plenty, boy.  A Crusader @ first; next, an appearance in ROBIN HOOD with the Friar, as his Sainthood does resiliently resonate.  The city.  Always the city.
   City of industry.  The machines, smoke, steel, and hookers out for an easy buck and to slash your throat chakras, metaphorically.  Or your higher self, is wiser.
   And they label you, when their skeletons should be let loose.  They have them.  Wicked, as they paint you their color.  Haters--and the courts of Saint Joan of Arc know it.  We are swooned into heinous hate and iniquitous envy, when Lincoln's hat was bigger, though not better, than a derby.
   The dandy dude dawned a derby, dynamite holstered.  Saw a Steve McQueen movie today.  Dude was pretty tough.  Pretty tough.  Then came Bronson, on a motorcycle.  The television show, I'm talk'n.
   A Coach can be just as persuasive as a Priest.  Maybe I just didn't listen, maybe.  
   

Some, poison the disabled

   
   "Some, poison the disabled"
  
   It can be as simple as leaving a snot rag full of the flu virus on a cancer patient's hospital bed.  Or a peach pit thrown in the direction of a happy dog.  You're damned if you do.
   Glue in green tea.  Doubtful words over and over, as the naughty nurse sings a soul to death; next, gives false testimony, saying it was the old man's time to go, and that it was totally a love song--more like a horrendous hate song.
   People stomp on pretty flowers.  Others, tear down what they perceive to be ugly statues.  Some say the Virgin Mary was a woman with sin.  Others, make you look at imagery until you submit to their toxicity.  Physicians and their insidious assistants at the mental institutions give you amphetamines mixed with anti-psychotics; then, they tell you all the drugs are in the same class as you experience the rocky ride of monstrous mountains.
   They get to certain people, because all people aren't people, allegorically.  It's all metaphor as Joseph Campbell says, or allegory in the archaic words of Spinoza.  A saliva-duct stone, does it drop like the sound of metal?
   So many theories.  The fundamentals:  It has been written.  Is a brainwashed soul from some chanting and Bush League unlawful school worth more than a trash man who actually gives a damn about his grandma?
   And to think, we always take our eyes off Christ, because the world has so much crummy to give.

Mutation: American Thanksgiving

   
   "Mutation:  American Thanksgiving"
   
   Got back from the grocery store.  The three minutes and fifty-seven seconds I could muster inside before bolting.  Talked to the Gentiles.  They're everywhere--just metaphors okay.  Here's a list of who is coming for Thanksgiving @ a table with your brother-in-law's arousal underneath--I'm not sorry, for it's true--here is a list of some of the folk attending:
   Al Frankenstein, Bill Cosby, blonde witches, duplicates (either clones or androids), rappers, Kermit the Frog, coyotes, trolls (plenty of trolls), naughty nurses, arch-angels, blacksmiths, vivid imagery, and of course--jive turkeys.  
   Nobody will be watching football though.  It will be terrible.  And if you do watch the NFL (not for long league), remind me to:  Call You A Damn Traitor!!!  Nah, I'm mellow without the mushrooms.
   Anyway, life seems a circus, and the bearded lady has a crush on your sprouting son--get him the hell out of there!  Go to the market, work, school, park, Mass and then get home and deadbolt the door.  
   I think nice people work @ the pet stores.  I'm just say'n . . .
   Moreover, it always brings me comfort to know at the end of the day--Jesus is still the Boss.  

Some copper conducts fear of bulldogs

   
   "Some copper conducts fear of bulldogs"
  
   Not all perfect angels.  Manipulated, exploited, twisting with sale's pitches their innate glamour, as they are being controlled.  Allegory.  Just get a cheeseburger and fries, don't worry about it.  The look on the receptionist's face when they pull up medical records--that says it all.  You're jumping to conclusions; on the contrary, there are no coincidences in life.  She slays with beauty, though absent of morality in her own head, morphing myriads of men into goblins, metaphorically.  He gives everything away to be even more mortal and vulnerable. 
   They sense what you sense, for they have an empty hand; nevertheless, as they feed off of your electricity, it gives them potency to birth your disaster, which is what they want, for some.
   Just say:  "It's all apple pie and okay.  There is no Christ; that is absurd.  I'm not wacko; I know Christ is myth.  It's a continual flux of atoms, a spark of chance, and we're just photons floating through vacuous space at the end."
   She wasn't a nice child.  The man was burdened.  Yet, did the man not burden the girl?  Did he not whisper charms into her ears.  We're family.  Christ states:  "Those that do God's WILL are My family." 
   Darwin's cruel.  They purchase it, and send their children off to eat of that fruit, in institutions.  Of course God tests the just man.  Labor is more than 9 to 5.  Sometimes, staying alive is all you need to do in life.  To align yourselves with not a conscience even, as a programmed sub-conscious can lead you to doubt even that; thus, heart.  Run.  Get out.  You'll never make it.  She's seen things.  Was the Virgin not even a bit phobic after Gabriel's introduction of praise?  
   If everything is as it is; next, why is there even a spark of corruption?  
   Oh well, just symbolic.  I don't even eat Halloween candy.  All people are nice.  Everyone has my best interest in mind--they really care about me.  Nobody keeps tabs on my computer trail, nor contacts family, physicians, priests, all in order to have further control--that is just crazy.  There is no such thing as a bad immigrant.  It's all cotton candy.  
   BONANZA was a great show.  Michael Landon was and is one of the cool ones--just my opinion; however, nowadays--it has all gone zombie in cinema.  Whatever happened to cowboys?  Kids today think of the cowboy as a mythical figure.  No kidding.  

The heartwarming moment Kekoa the giant timber wolf plays with a wildlif...

Nittany Lions

   
   "Nittany Lions"
   
   First of all, may the Holy Standard-Bearer Saint Michael deliver us from the lion's mouth, that we may inherit the Holy Light promised to Abraham and his seed.  
   My mother always wanted to go to Penn State (a real school); however, her father wouldn't allow it, knowing she was a bit boy crazy.  He was a Serb, and his best pal was Italian; thus, knowing--he told her strictly:  "You're not allowed to date Italians or Serbs."  She would say:  "But Daddy--he's so good-looking."  And my Pap would say:  "He looks like a monkey."  And once, threw a kid off the front porch.  Good for him.  That's what fathers do.  
   There have been two men I've known that I never gave any crap.  Pap was one of them, for he could crush me like a beer can.  Dude was solid--still is, I'm sure.  
   So, his daughter had to go on some damn idealistic crusade out to the City of Angels, leaving Pittsburgh behind.  What an adventure.  And a damn football-playing Irishman went with her.  They say he was my father.  One tough son of a bitch.  He was golden--still is.  

War & Amour

   
   "War & Amour"
   
   The pic below--having to do with a sci-fi thang, not southern fried ya'll, knowing that history repeats, and new Saints fashioned in the old will be reborn, as their candle has already been lit--kinda/sorta.  Yet not anchored down by a false grid of negativity (it can't be done) and many other Lilliputian lies, lathered in lascivious lust-ways--no wonder Christ was a bit hostile, for we have forgotten the words of the Psalmist:  "Ye are gods."  Want to play it safe; next, be a rock star.  What, I thought rock and roll was dead, you damn Yankee.  
   Slice their creeping elongation like a scrumptious piece of Brie de Meaux, yummying it up like my ex-mother-in-law, though with her:  le coup de foudre.
   Still, no TACO BELL, and never will run to that border--I hear the water has more crusty contagion in it than ours, while the government guys drink distilled liquids.  Must be nice.  They sit in a bubbling hot tub, a fat cigar in their oral cavity, singing:  "Ho, Ho, Ho--I wonder how all the poor people are doing, hee-hee . . ."  
   And granny gifts them moonshine and red hair skunk to take back to sonny boy--the spoiled fink; however, some say a portion of those poor peasants are part of the 1-4-4.  Never can tell, Wang.  And Wang is a pleasant man.   
  

Kim Carnes - BETTE DAVIS EYE - Les années bonheur - Patrick Sébastien - ...

George Hamilton KFC Extra Crispy Kentucky Fried Chicken TV Commercial 2017

Pious Bastard--it takes 2, not 3

 
   "Pious Bastard--it takes 2, not 3"
   
   So, he gets horny.  Would've been better if he just had one, but what a hunt from envy; regardless, the Book of Tobit explains matrimony--at its best.  How boring.  We find God, we get bored.  Not all of us.  The family can we see too.  The angels, saints, confessors, and all the rest.  We have a family, so we can see a glimpse of God, like unto a hind-quarter.  
   People get bored with duty.  The scrotum nags like a wicked wife.  Oh honey, he cheated on you--nail his ass.  Oh, I love you cool guy, she won't make you feel like I do, spoiling you tomb-ways. 
    From the womb to the tomb--disruption.  Did we not ask for this?  Many.
   Stay out of their singular attachment--themselves.  It takes two for romance, not three.  Holy Fire, if you think you're soooo damn cute; next, relieve yourself with a piece of fruit and thank the farmers in America--don't destroy a family, a true family; however, girlfriends, even the spouse, are at fault as well, bad-mouthing the bed they made, whimpering over a partner not perfect.  Who the hell is perfect save Christ?  He was too damn wise to get involved in carnal cravings.  You think so.  Your world is right, allegorically; at the same time, so ever wrong.  And yes, a virgin can kiss a child on the mouth--only to remind him, so that he never forgets.  Like a classy slap to the skull.  Good for her.  
   

Angel vs. Man: Jango/Obi-Wan

 
   "Angel vs. Man:  Jango/Obi-Wan"
   
   Their first encounter.  Cramped.  Polite.  A Personal Jesus.  A meek Christ.  And the Angel has higher frequency.  Must control himself, or be a rage machine.  Stay off the roids, kids.  Too, the Angel can read the man, if trained.  Realize it's the man's trepidation that makes his ownself taste a portion of phobic fright.  It goes both ways.  But the Man, in close quarters--is a savage.  Could head-butt the Angel by dulling his own lesser sensitivity.  
   It goes on and on and on, yet they had it out.  Equally matched.  Never can tell, says Jack Burton; indeed, the little old lady can slay a werewolf, for she might be carrying a double-pump full of pernicious pellets behind her desk.  We are not equally matched, from the outside nor in; on the contrary, the Man arms himself, wisely, as does the wise Angel.  And both can be living weapons.
   I got all of this from Attack of the Clones?  It was an underappreciated piece of art.  Like Kentucky Fried Chicken commercials.  Extra-crispy chicken.  Need a bucket of the Colonel.  Hell boy, in Little Rock during the late 1980's, we had a local hillbilly dubbed THE GENERAL, and he didn't wear any decorative ribbons or a fancy suit.  Said:  "Screw the Colonel, boy.  Come see the General."  My ex-wife's Mom knew him.  How typical.  Sucks to be me, sometimes.  You too, sometimes.  So, we are men and angels, living together.  

Hope Dad is not watching

 
   "Hope Dad is not watching"
   
   From the genesis, woken up to fabrication, exploitation, manipulation, and the erasing of folks and their internal selves; thus, the Mockingbird cries, yet somehow, remembers.  All that money and control . . .
   Just trucks, flags, breaking bread with the Gentiles, and offering a shock of witness, nothing more than a portion of ourselves, whatever that is, and we kinda know.
   Heavens first; next, here.  All connected, yet their glamour done gone goofball, and in the Heavens, like a football game on Friday--high school, no pressure Chief, and none.  The blonde cheerleader--come on, not you mousy-brown girls, the real blondes, ya know.  But it's all nice, if aligned with the process of a free will free-falling forward.  
   And to think that NASCAR doesn't have more, or any, inside tracks.  What a show.  And the purple pollution of it all.  Buddy Baker?  Was that his name?  And number 43.  
   

Trust the milkman; don't trust the milkman

 
   "Trust the milkman; don't trust the milkman"
   
   Al Bundy knew of alien women.  Knew they had three breasts.  One on the back for dancing; indeed, I'm a student of history, boy.  Got me some tobaccee for my corn cob pipe and pappy.  
   Is pappy not so nice?  Shucks, gonna put the government in charge of grandma.  Gonna make her like Jango's ship:  SLAVE ONE.  Damn boy, Lando can't freeze everything, like James Dean in dat flick dubbed East of Eden, when they froze 'em some cabbage and kraut.  Krauts have always been frozen.  Blue steel in their frigid blood.  She won't even date Brad Pitt.  Good for her.  She likes her cigarettes and hot java, Maxwell House, with a box of chocolate-smeared cherries, and no--she cannot tie the cherry stem into a knot by way of oral persuasion, for that talent is reserved for tramps and toddlers, so innocent, before you corrupt their baby fat.
   Most people wear glasses to look smart.  Morphs you into a goblin, for ALL to see.  Unlike Air Force Intelligence--that Joint Chief of Staff might like a joint, for he's a Chief, and Chiefs inhale the Otherworld; next, exhale sublimity into the cruel world, just to give the Little Wolf a fighting chance.
   And God crafted coyote.  What a bird.  Don't have a bird, dude.  Whatever you do--don't have a bird, okay, sugar . . . 

CAMARO SS VS. BOSS 302

The Phantom Menace--symbolism of Amidala & Skywalker

 
   "The Phantom Menace--symbolism of Amidala & Skywalker"
   
   Fleur-de-lis, of course.  The red, that scarlet bride.  The other virgins.  The virgin birth.  Some say there were over 40 virgin births in America recently.  Parthenogenesis (spell'n?) I'm talk'n.  
   The beauty of a bride in waiting.  The movie is a little wacky, with a type of fish person; however, we hear of blood types, possibly.  A Grail thingamajig. 
   Not going further.  Purple eyes, hazel eyes, albino skin, rare blood, firetrucks, hookers, Charlie Sheen, and Pee-Wee Herman--it's all real, fella.  Stay calm and carry a lightsaber--some dude posted that years ago.  Not my original material.  But it has all been said before.  Olive farmers in Old Testament times, some, knew what was going on; moreover, all about the crooked system, and a denial of the Ultimate Super-Being, so simplistic, so much having made man in His Own Image.
   They need to make classic muscle cars again.  Re-produce Boss 302's from 1969--identical to the way they were forged.  Go old school.  Make Pony gallop again.  Hit sixty in a safe 5 flat, and who needs to top end over 130 anyway?  If you do, craft the behemoth Boss 429, made for ultra-high speed cruising.  That doesn't sound right, or looks, my words I mean.
   Got a SUBWAY tonight.  Still too much trepidation concerning TACO BELL.  Bubba Cheese watched a Western.  It's good to remember what you are, and where you came from.  Go on innate instinct, for some.   

Dire Straits - Money for Nothing original Lyrics

Boy, get ur granny a pawky pinch of sum tobaccee

 
   "Boy, get ur granny a pawky pinch of sum tobaccee"
   
   That southern-tongued sophistication, just put them in Faulkner's wardrobe--worked for Twain and Colonel Sanders, Twain before Faulkner, I reckon.  
   Mon cher, here's the Eucharistie, @ whatever prix.  
   And Bertha was putting butts in my mouth, with non-ignited cherry, when I was a timid toddler, waking up deep in the Confederacy, given many corn cob pipes before the age of six, for Popeye and the iron source of spinach were BIG at the moment.  
   I asked the fishermen at the park:  "Where did you get that fish, fine sirs?"  One utters:  "Boy, I brought it here."  I believed him, till I got home and drank a beer, finding common sense in the harvest of benign wheat, if there is such a thing.
   

Little old nature and Pittsburgh

 
   "Little old nature and Pittsburgh"
   
   He loathes the look of rats, yet even he would save a rancorous rat from an adder's baneful bite, armed with fanged toxicity that kinda/sorta electrifies with paralyzing poison, in the minimum, at least, save for the Badger of certain strengths.
   And the Badger hunts with Coyote.  A potent spirit and a ferocious beast of noble steel upon Terra's turf, so might a rock and roller say.
   What ever happened to Don Meredith?  The oldies were the goodies.  Are the goodies, Iceman.  My brother gravitated towards the Maverick character.  What a cocky son of a gun.  Nice.  And Padme Amidala, ornamented in the  Fleur-de-lis.  I always liked the Pittsburgh Steelers, covertly, especially their quarterbacks, but having two in Franco and Rocky, the lesser, but great one, having a decent portion of his foot blown off in Vietnam, yet he was both warrior and athlete, in the greater sense of that, and maybe more things.  

Get your virgin on

 
   "Get your virgin on"
   
   The worst day of the Virgin Mary's life, as Her heart/soul was pierced with a sword, under the rules of Occam's Razor, which would suggest, was watching Her Son die, getting brutally beaten, mocked, stripped naked, and listening to Him scream for Her @ Calvary.  Sure, for Jesus--He got to go to hell and kick some ass, unlock the doors, and do a prison break, but it was brutal for the most gentle of Holy Souls, Her yet to become, but always was:  Queen of ALL virgins.
   And yet She remains not in Heaven always, in a way, floating on the fuzz of a cloud, crooning Christmas carols, nor do the Elect, mostly--I would fathom.  She can super-position Herself, remaining involved in the ways of men and angels on Terra's battlefield, making a difference instead of enjoying the vacuum of paradise. 
   Yes, we mostly need the fundamentals.  It is dangerous to dig deeper.  But sometimes, you find out who you are, if you do make crusade.  As long as you walk alongside Christ, you can tolerate plenty of politicians and surmise the fruits of creatures, not judging, but avoiding or confronting.  If they think you'll avoid them; next, confront them.  If they think you'll confront them; next, avoid them.  
   Totally, Jim Rockford did it all the time.  

The Mystery of Life

 
   "The Mystery of Life"
   
   600,000 people, approximately, disappear each year.  Feds called into the State of Alaska like none other.  Implants.  Abductions.  Get a certain blood transfusion; next, pseudo-physicians take your blood everyday.  People, music, television--all programming you to doubt.  Like we're being bred for death, if only to become food for the Earth.
   Are all these people crazy?  Some things I've mentioned are fact.  Depression, blah.  But Multiple Personality Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Schizophrenia and others seem wondrously weird, as if not natural.  What man doesn't want to engage in sloppy intercourse?  From his perspective, a harlot's genitalia resembles a beehive, and he will not insert his dingus.  Good for him.
   So, you know everything?  I don't save that the possibilities are limitless.  Look at Schwarzenegger:  "Hey, I'm not a cop--I'm a player."
   But we forget.  We don't remember.  And as my German grandmother's father said to her when she married a poor Serb:  "You've made your bed, now sleep in it."
   Her heart however, did her well.  It wasn't all roses, or was it?  The best part of having a spouse--there's always somebody to nag.  Every spouse yearns for their significant other to die before them, mostly.  How many dumb guys I've met that say their tramps love them, and that they would never hurt them.  Possibly.  Possibly not, way more.  So, learn how to love, even yourself.  Be who you are, and not the envy of your sister's larger breasts, for they can knock a guy out.  Cupcakes are yummy.
   Is this like a caveat of Christ?  He is the Author of Life, and Big Brother (Him) wants us to believe, even if the world calls us fools.  Jack Kerouac never met a beer he didn't like, never saw it coming, and is iconic, so alive.  My butt doctor won't receive such recognition.  But there's a place for the authors of confusion as well--they get to meet their Daddy, while those that reside in truth, get to meet their dynamic Dad.  God Almighty.  

Mafioso without magnums

 
   "Mafioso without magnums"
   
   A savage saint kinda/sorta mentioned this; thus, I'm coyoting and paper-slinging the good news; next, delivering that resurrected media print, here we go:
   They say Trump can't get things done.  Hell, he's the only non-politician in the mix, save a few shiny objects in the flooding fountain.  Politicians are Mafioso without magnums; specifically, they're crooked goons, too wussy-washed to fight like a truck driver, but have dime-store thugs do their dirty work.  They're bought, sold, and paid for.  Of course they kinda labor, yet so does the bum, strolling from trash can to trash can--if only to feed himself; however, politicians are in the pocket of a corrupting power--give them term limits.  Trump reigns under that idea.  Conservatives, it's not his problem--blame the cheaper suits.
   Reagan and Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd were pals, of sorts.  Zodiac knowledge, survived assassination attempts, thirsted for the reversal of communism in order to actively allow people faith and some green.  Both, sharp dressers.  
   Not much in the skies lately, here.  But King David's words concerning the clouds and what they conceal reminds me.  You can check the flight schedule for commercial aircraft, and you know the Piper-types when you hear their piston-driven propellers; at the same time, the other ones have a sense of mystery.  Uncanny craft.  Maybe just ours.  Maybe going to the Pacific to hunt seminal submarines.
     

St. Joseph HD

Steelers - Harris SBXIII TD#4

Bob Falfa

 
   "Bob Falfa"
   
   Is Bob Falfa, Boba Fett?  He piloted a 1955 Chevy in 1973, back earlier than that, actually.  Time is fluxing, boy.  You got Toad, the Pharaohs, and hot girls with cherry lipstick; plus, a magnanimous martyr.  Every girl likes it when a guy peels out, putting rubber to a road determined.  Mother Earth can take it, throw a cigarette butt out your window, just don't tell Her.
   Cowboy hat or buzz cut?  Western shirt.  White.  A man looks his best in a white shirt.  John Milner always wore a white shirt.  Didn't have a blaster, ya know--laser-like piece to shoot stormtroopers. 
   Mace once asked, in a periodical:  "Does Jabba the Hutt look like a bitch?"
   Carry your oil, your prayers, your faith, hope, and charity, never letting go of your portion, though sharing a tithe with others, at least.  Approach the bridegroom, always.
   C.S. Lewis, kinda/sorta:  "Jesus was either a lunatic, or the Son of God."  They didn't even have Prozac back then, and Jesus controlled His passion well.  Not a problem.  All in the northern direction of resurrection.  

Mercurial Blurb, Sorta

 
   "Mercurial Blurb, Sorta"
   
   Better in Redlands, California--always, mostly, sometimes, I guess.  Still, a Yankee gets up in the morning being brutally cool--instead of immediately "knocking the chill off" by way of resisting the frosty hell of winter, he kinda/sorta embraces natural adaption.  It's just a frosty hell, not a bitterly cold one; nevertheless, the southern man cranks on the heat, gets in his comfy fuzz, and brews him some java for enjoying the weather-girl from downtown; on the contrary, the Yankee people, and I've had protracted time with some northern kin; anyway, leave it cold at first, adjusting to the northern Earth of it all, do too brew the coffee, using baby water with added minerals and no fluoride; next, light a Lucky with a sulfur-sparked match, never flicking their Bic to betray old school, and watch the main anchor man with no contempt; however, still talk to the television and call him a toots.  
   And then, Lee made his surrender @ Appomattox, but never forgotten in the crystal-clear chronicles of history.  

SONIC commercial mindblowing

Pure Leaf

 
   "Pure Leaf"
  
   Make folks feel guilty--you are programming their sub-conscious, sinking doubt, making them anchor their possibilities.  Let them have their poison.  You first.  Life is a battlefield.  The pizza man can get killed by a hooker at a hotel with a blade and case of crabs--sleazy, real stuff.  Keep your hands up like a two-fisted product of the British Aisles.  Did I mention I like Roger Moore?  My Dad fancied him.  
   List ingredients--so we know why we die, yet live while able, on better than, or powerfully aided by, modern medicine.  You decide.   Pure tobacco leaf.  Organic.  Paper from recycled paper.  Cotton, from the modern south.  American smoked.  Smoke purifies, an Italian father told me.  We have many fathers, if we look.  Slow learners.  I know.  Get the crap out of the way first.  Love and thirst for being an old fox, or bird, or goldfish.  "What you talk'n 'bout Willis?"
   I used to like cereal.  Big Daddy pronounces:  "Sear-real."
   The dog is mangy.  Metaphorically, maybe--maybe not.  I'm not messing with her--she's totally tough.  Friend had a pit bull mix--I hung out with them.  Never said a word.  Was content being a friend.  Mutt took my cup of coffee, right out of my hand.  Two newspaper couriers, driving dumbly, but having dandy fashion--he wore glasses.  Was smart.  Has a graduate degree.  Likes pizza.  
   So, still no TACO BELL.  Charlie Sheen needs to advertise for them.  Wild and weird.  So domesticated under the coat.  

A-Team Intro High Quality

Boy, that's: hors de prix

 
 
   "Boy, that's:  hors de prix"
   
   When the rich, though non-regal, man offers up his own visitations, remind his bourgeois car's personality and false ego, though it's an android, and may pilot him off a cliff if he upsets the sentient chariot--just say, though not to the automobile--it reads your mind:  "Boy, that's hors de prix."
   Hell if I know.  My chien de meute always wants to evacuate poop on Holy Ground, and I feel like Highlander, minus the blade in a trench coat, for my blade is somewhere else; regardless, not in a state of limbes, though fascinated by the super-reality of real life over television.
   Never did make it to TACO BELL.  I don't think I ever will.  I just say it, so I can feel all-too-human.
   Nice weather.  I wonder about Michigan, and how Yankee college ball is exciting this year.

Pleasures of life

 
   "Pleasures of life"
   
   "Damn't dingbat--you are blocking my path to the blood-wine."  Any good Catholic would say it; indeed, the difference between Catholics and Protestants?  Catholics actually say hello to everyone at the liquor store.  
   Love thy neighbor, for your neighbor is a slayer.  The dude that bags my groceries is fluent in German.  How many college-educated people can speak German without flinching?  Not enough.  But in other countries they are multi-lingual.  Is language not a gift?  
   You phony doctors think you're so fuzzy, yet the dastardly dynamic Doc Holliday says:  "What a peach."  A simple peach, he repeats, so lovely, with platinum, though non-pretentious hairs, like my lover in the south, melting the whistling wax of wondrous white, all in child-like innocence, not for you to selfishly detail, but a musical mystery of gray birds not given the lusciousness of life to be noticed, yet she mystically mimics, like a collegiate circus person, until let lassoing loose on this here weird world.   
   Not going to TACO BELL.  A two dollar bill can only get you so far.  But all that potency on the flip side?  I love the 70's.  The 80's too.  Even now . . .   

Chess & God, perhaps--perhaps not

 
   "God & Chess, perhaps--perhaps not"
   
   He sets the Chess board, only for Himself.  He only plays for Himself.  Doesn't care if He wins; He's not very competitive; moreover, He lets His virginal daughter win all the time--He always allows her the fuel of victory.
   He has pawns.  Pawns don't move fancy; on the contrary, many a pawn has captured a king.  He has rooks--straight shooters.  He has knights--knight moves are L-shaped only.  He has bishops--sideways symmetry.  He rarely moves, one space maybe; still, has a few trickster abilities to shift, as if unseen, like an old paladin on the battlefield.  A QUEEN--the most powerful, possessing almost unlimited movement on the board, when it is her turn, and you be wise in knowing--no piece wants to see the QUEEN wend her way, for she does what she pleases, when it's her turn.  She's been a good girl.

Shock Treatments, FDA approved; plus, Fleur-de-lis

 
   "Shock Treatments, FDA approved; plus, Fleur-de-lis"  
   
   Arrested for herb; thus, we should light up his cranium with high voltage that we can't control--sounds great Uncle Sam.  Remember what fibers the first American flag was fabricated by? 
   And unicorns and the the New Orleans Saints have much in common.  Always looked perverted to me; however, a man might carry enough love and light to purify the waters, only tamed by virgins, denouncing the bull's eye of naughty nurses perpetually placing doubt into your sub-conscious--just for kicks, me thinks.
   Whatever happened to LEAVE IT TO BEAVER?  We were horribly cloaking our passions, some say.  Possibly.  Invention of the birth control pill equals party all the time, party all the time, party all the time--I can still hear Mr. Murphy sing it; then, I listen to some BEACH BOYS to calm myself.
   We're all wired differently.  Not every man tastes the same colors, for some men are color blind.
   I think I'll go to TACO BELL today.  Those girls up the street at SONIC are cute; at the same time, when I brought the foot-long home for Big Daddy, he rebuked it, proclaiming:  "Boy!  There ain't no meat on here."
   I always wanted to see Alaska.  And to all the people who recycle--do you care more about a piece of paper than the manipulated and extorted?  I guess so.  

DMV @ Tennessee

 
 
   "DMV @ Tennessee"
 
   I was dreading it for months--driver's license renewal.  Thank the shimmering stars, step-daddy took me.  I was quacking like a fifty-cent milkshake, fueled by anticipation concerning facing the angry masses--a public scenario, way more disorderly than me.  People rushing, texting, glued to computers, thinking about nothing save sex and money, me too sometimes, but I get over it; regardless, Bubba Cheese was my bodyguard, and having a motley synergy of anti-sophistication seemed good-old-boy enuff.
   Where the hell did all the Americans go?  One dude with kids from wherever, and the DMV folk were garbed in the bling of bounty hunters, looking more like rogue law enforcement than ordinary people--what a great movie; I love Alan Alda.  
   There was a blonde lady in front of me.  Nice.  But she wasn't even from here, coming in by way of Switzerland, and the dude that waited on her lived in Germany.  What the hell?  It's okay Mark, breathe, and wash your hands when you get the hell out of here.  Do I have to pee?  Is there a booger dangling from my myriad of nose hairs?  An elderly man got his CARRY permit, and my gun-slinging step-dad grinned.  It only takes one shot.  Don't spray prey.  He frowns on the 9-millimeter.  Says the Germans don't know what kinda bullet puts a man down.  The 9 is too high velocity--no stopping power.  Goes right through you, like my mother's old lamb roasts.  Holy Fire, Bubba Cheese is a rhinestone cowboy.
   We got the hell out of there.  I took a Duck Dynasty photo.  I don't need guns though.  Got a bullwhip from a hot bartender years back in exchange for giving her the favor of a nipple fling--women are weird, always hoping men are looking, save the nice ones.  So, that's it.  Boring.  Her breasts are waiting, fella . . .

Mary, the Blessed Virgin Mother HD

Talking to old friends

 

     "Talking to old friends"

   Shazam Goober!  Always liked Captain Marvel--before Marvel adopted it, kinda gender-bending, but I've been there, as have most, and I didn't realize how imperative the Unicorn Nation was, just prep-school ladies, too young for my eyes, and be a priest man--health insurance, a free place to live, same clothes everyday; plus, you don't have to have a nagging wife.  She'll kill ya man, metaphorically.  I love metaphor--I'm all allegory, symbolic, comparisons, and not, but straight in the arrow, and my dog is long in the tooth, and she still runs like a puppy--the terrier spirit.  Noticed another terrier nearby.
   I can tell he's an old friend.  Just that.  But it's nice to talk to an old friend, even if that is only who he awesomely is.  I'm used to the electric suck.  And can you be a weregolden-retriever?  People author books on Lycanthropy, even me, and Great Britain actually showed up.  Roger Moore was my favorite.  He looked like my Dad, a little taller; also, more slender; however, he had an elegant suavity about his essence, boy.
  So, old friends--you were always in.  But she was not my heart.  Did you think so?  Some girls have power over your mind; on the contrary, some girls have power over your heart.  Which is worse?
   So, just be a truck driver.  Metaphorically I'm talk'n.  God forbid I give advice.  Cut that hair you hippie.  How many times did Jesus hear that?  But he washed it, you schmuck.  He was a nice, tough guy with a heart.  That's how simple God is.  Simple.  True.      

Christ and Ice

 
   "Christ and Ice"
   
   When a male child is born, even a female, the mother usually charms with grins and smiles, a cruel wink or all the worst, to further forge her offspring; nevertheless, the father is as he is, an older man, gray around the tips; indeed, his tips are frosted.  He stands in your face, without magic, though has plenty.  Uses muscle and machine.  A craftsman.
   Christ was not trained by a rabbi or a charmer.  Was trained by a virgin--the Queen of ALL virgins, though even a virgin can lose her life on the battlefield, but not before taking an army of men with her, reminding:  "You will be judged!"
   A virgin has no charms minus magnanimous mysticism, a constellation, an army, a pack of purity, as white as snow, and when pushed, as cold as ice.
   Christ had the best of parents.  

Sublime Tribes

 
   "Sublime Tribes"
   
   Not my place, nor yours Sucker, yet to have adoration for people--if somebody wants to hang out with a Mutt Irish girl, many modest Saints (metaphor) are available to sing you the sublimity of Shamrock sound--you know, like the CRANBERRIES.
   I support no one, in comics and film, save the PEANUTS Gang, and even then I ponder; still, it's in you too.  The history of the world.  Make your innards be filled with magnanimous mystery, haunting characters crafted for smooth and cool.
   Not all were eating hearts.  Some.  Yet many differed, from the West of Apache, the Northwest of Crow, the Northeast Iroquois Nation and such--I think I'm getting this right, fundamentally.
   Pilgrims were divided, in a sense, too.  Some didn't always wash their hands after naughty things.
   And yes, I like the Levites.
   But Jesus Christ never really had to wash His hands.  They were always clean.  He just did it to tranquilize our anxiety with Spirit smile, for beauty can kill or heal, and best--if it has a sense of humor.  Movies from the 1980's come to mind.  When Reagan was strongly, Commander in Chief.
   I suck with the art of business, yet the "just say no" of Nancy, and the peace through strength, and the lack of commentary about the division of people, because it hadn't been invented at that time, for that time.  I guess he was a movie star is all, and I liked to watch the man on television as a little kid.  

Big Trouble in Little China Pork chop express

Fruitcakes and Wheaten Terriers

 
   "Fruitcakes and Wheaten Terriers"
   
   Holy Fire!  I'm invoking Tone Loc.  He was in a Western.  Played a cowboy.  That's pretty cool.
   When God was passing out brains, Johnny Carson got a nice one, and I got a fruitcake.  Johnny Carson never liked fruitcakes.  The cake, I mean.  
   Again, the Northern Europeans and the trickster god, the supreme ruler of the gods, not the other one.  The old man on the battlefield.  I guess, kinda, if the One, True God didn't like me, he wouldn't play pranks on me all the time.  It's only to chisel me further, I surmise.
   And my Wheaten shifts, anchors herself on the Earth; next, takes a big, raunchy poop when I see a pretty girl at the park--all the damn time.  She loves to humiliate me.  Good for her.  

Miami Vice Theme HD

Funky Cold Medina - Tone-Loc (w/ Lyrics)

Honey Badger Liveth

 
   "Honey Badger Liveth"
   
   Don't know the details.  Don't need to.  Bullshit resides there.
   Anyway, the mother of a honey badger shoves the baby in front of a scorpion and allows her child a few stings.  Introduces him to more venomous creatures along the way; next, he's an adult, can fight a cobra, get bit, die, two hours later--he's freaking resurrected.  No horseshit Wang.  No horseshit Jack.
   Is now the time to again mention that I love the American truck driver?  Guess not.  Yup, and the American badger and coyote hunt together.  A predator''s synergy.  How weird is that?  Or is it?  Come on, now.  Second unto the Great Spirit, like an old man trickster, alongside a ferocious fighter, like unto the mighty wolverine.
   Nature is talking.  Listen.  
   But what do I know?  I still remember the 1970's and a peanut farmer's dream.  But old Jimmy is still kicking it.  Good for him.  

Doctors--drug-dealing scum?

 
   "Doctors--drug-dealing scum?"
   
   If a certain herb was legal; next, the pharmacies would go out of business.  King David:  "Wine to make man's heart happy, and herb for the service of man."
   Plenty of people use herb-derived medicine; moreover, never get addicted.  Some herbs can't kill; however, the shit modern physicians push can kill--it's wicked.  How do they know my serotonin needs fluxing?  Where's the evidence?  How do they know it is truly psychosis?  They don't!!!
   They are in their world; thus, be in yours.  You alone own your own temple--not them.  If you need it; next, take it; otherwise, don't let your doctor play drug dealer to you.  Know all about your medicines.  In one day, an American physician can prescribe more poison than a kid on the street does in a year.  But he's a doctor--he's educated, and a noble man.  Is he?  Nope.  Some might be; however, most are not.  Got that piece of paper that says they're smart; then, they start ripping the souls out of good people.  It's a sinister system.
   What's a marijuana cigarette gonna hurt you, if you don't act a fool and watch porn or waste the gift on playing video games and being a nobody?  What's a beer gonna kill you?  But their prescriptions will--yes, they will, and they do, every damn day.
   Some are sublime.  Some actually heal.  Others keep you hooked, or the doctors and their continual chant keeps you hooked.  The naughty nurses questioning you, putting doubt into your sub-conscious, over and over again, until you are a slave to them.
   Fight.  Spit your tobacco on the ground, and fight.  We all got it coming, don't let the bullshitters take you out.