Hawk On A Deck - Nashville, Tennessee

Amos Hart--40 Punch

   
   "Amos Hart--40 Punch"
   
   Ginger was cranking up the nicotine by way of a non-filtered Lucky, going old school, and Bucko was one big tail wagging in the back while Amos Hart piloted the 350 Rocket; next, on a clue to the highway, no traffic save the drones overhead, a tuned-up Toyota approached the archaic eight-cylinder, sounding like a screeching zipper mixed with a naughty nurse's nails on the chalkboard; however, the Olds sounded smooth.
   Some good-old-boy with a Mexican mustache, very fancy for Johnny Depp and the Jump Street Gang, leaned his head out into the Arctic temperatures and shouted a 40 Punch challenge to Amos, which of course he accepted, not liking competition, but having pure love of the game.
   The Toyota shot-off like a loose condemn when the confetti sprayed, Ginger said a "Hail Mary" for thinking such things; then, she realized this world has given us all "Grody to the Max" images, and the Cutlass just hummed like a hair-dryer, not winning, but remaining eternally classic--a well-respected construction of the highly cerebral granny cooter.
   And for her sins, Ginger would pray the Rosary today, adoring the Glorious Mysteries of Sunday.  

Trouble- I AM BANNER!

Amos Hart--Never change the color of a Hot Rod

   
   "Amos Hart--Never change the color of a Hot Rod"
   
   Amos Hart listened, as Solomon instructed, in Biblical fashion.  Yet not to nurse nasty words, unless the architect intended to charm.  
   Not a sparrow falls that His Father doesn't know about, Jesus mentioned.  Not animism today for Amos, though Bucko and his Aloe Vera plant were giving oxygen, or something nice.
   Amos didn't care about size, color, gender, multi-hued violet or amber eyes, well--it meant something, yet if the LAW of His Father and Himself are followed; next, Earth experiences a gelled mercy.
   Amos Hart bought some spicy beef jerky for his pal, Bucko; at the same time, he bought two pieces for himself, on sale @ Walgreens.  How nice was the check-out Lady.  And she fought despair everyday, for we all are the same, yet lack focus on a shared intention.  Amos laid rubber out of there, goosing the Olds.  It allowed the asphalt Earth to know that he was still on the battlefield, as are many that have passed, as if children or truck drivers, observing, and more . . .

Pigeon vs Peregrine Falcon - Animals: The Inside Story - BBC

Amos Hart--Major Prophet

   
   "Amos Hart--Major Prophet"
   
   Amos Hart heard the informative wind whisper of an older lady, dubbed bonkers and completely crackers by the local men in white, armed with straight-jackets and rubber hoses; however, Amos knew all stories have truth, especially if the speaker has been disqualified by Caesar's burden of bogus law; however, even Jesus became the King of Rome, allegorically, before barbarism; next, the Empire was buried from the inside, an insidious implosion of selective sorts.
   So, approaching the lawn furniture in her front yard; plus, noticing the Mountain Dew cans, crushed, in the back of her pick-em-up-truck, Amos was greeted by her crow's feet that ran bird-like and symmetrical, and she mentioned Ezekiel's craft, much like what the F-18 pilot witnessed with his gun-camera, but simply voiced to Amos a typical hint, as it goes with many modern alarmists, before he retreated with Bucko in the Olds--the lady's electricity could've french-fried him otherwise; anyway, she spoke from The Book of ISAIAH; specifically, Chapter 49, like this:
    "And he hath made my mouth like a sharp sword; in the shadow of his hand hath he hid me, and made me a polished shaft; in his quiver hath he hid me."
    "But thus saith the LORD, Even the captives of the mighty shall be taken away, and the prey of the terrible shall be delivered:  for I will contend with him that contendeth with thee, and I will save thy children."
   Amos was swift to report, but not delusions, for Freedom of Religion is still BIGTIME in the American South, the Bible being something lawman swear on, but they are hypocrites as they don't even believe it; however, Amos Hart was too fearful to dismiss the Unearthly Power of Almighty God.  And Bucko agreed, without the temptation of a savory meat bone.  

Amos Hart--Samson and Jesus

  
   "Amos Hart--Samson and Jesus"
   
   Of course, Ginger had to make a volcanic entrance into the lava-like scene, erupting in classic fashion, a very classy lass, and spill the hot taco beans on a fella she fantastically fumed over, in more ways than one; however, her fiery flame always innocent, always returning to the Proclamation, and being a child, with Unicorns and Arthur's Quest to imbibe more of Christ, and she voiced:
   "The fella's mother told him TODAY, that his hair was too long.  He told his mother that his heroes were Samson and Jesus.  Both had long hair.  Both kinda from Nazareth.  Samson didn't mind a lady, while Jesus was tea tree oil purity, more importantly:  Neither could be bound."
   Amos Hart took the Sister out in the Cutlass with Bucko.  The 350 Rocket was glad to pilot the company of three, dog included. 

Archie Bunker on Democrats

Amos Hart--Damn Globalists

   
   "Amos Hart--Damn Globalists"
   
   So many meatheads, and so little cows to go around; then, why does America have so many hamburgers?  Where's the beef?  Amos Hart pondered these in-depth questions; moreover, wondered about that guy, the dude who quasi-Kevin Feltner, an inter-dimensional phony from the Draconian forge, arrived simultaneously with deputies; next, lied about it, as were all the medical records from Williamson County full of false testimony save the platinum blood-work; otherwise, the whole platoon of deputies armed and gloved, confronting a man laying beneath his mother, their guns inches away from the granny, and any accident could occur; still, the Virgin Mary saw, and Feltner's head is a permanent speed-bag for her ivory fists, unless he repents and is saved, and the whole system of phony lawyers and deep-state deputies would be wise to follow, on their knees to Christ.
   And the first Bush called them radicals.  Damn Radicals!!!  Then, perniciously puked some Asian food, but can you blame him--have you ever eaten that stuff, especially if they sprinkle a little of the small intestine wiggle within, and chunks can fly regardless of what NASA says, huh?
   OH YEAH!!!  Amos Hart thought to himself.  F-18 gun-camera can't believe.  Too bad nobody else will actually think.  For the chicks are hot and skanky this day, and the blacked-robed pricks have a jury stacked.  Can certain blood-types request only certain blood-types on the jury, as they are their true peers, or would that rig the rigged system in the direction of honesty?
   What happened to honesty?  It saw the dragon's gold.  Not nice to bite the hand that feeds you.  Oh well, Amos knew Santa still had an Orthodox Christmas.  Futurity and time-shifts for high-elves, and the children of all ages they rescue.  Virgin Mary was pleased Her Son was simply a carpenter.  The Craftsman--that's what they called Jesus.  

Amos Hart--Paul Atreides

   
   "Amos Hart--Paul Atreides"
   Muod 'Dib ran, did he; specifically, Amos had told his mother that he wanted to be a survivalist up in Montana when he was in his sophomoric twenties; next, she laughed, told him that he'd never make it; then, he retreated like a tail-dragging coyote up to his northern-placed bedroom, cranking on the tube and unearthing DUNE (the Sci-Fi station mini-series); moreover, he recollected encounters of bullying and people who don't like YOUR dog sometimes; thus, we get a bit gloomy in the glands, tear ducts pour stale wine, and the grape seed extract is taken for many purposes; plus, it's hard to find @ Walgreens, where the check-out Lady spins yarns concerning her time in Finland, and among the Sami, before selling a pack of cheap/drug-store cigars (cherry flavored), and exiting occurs, up in peace pipe smoke, knowing tobacco is the main reason for what they call meditation, which to Amos was prayer.
   Bucko and him took the Olds out.  The 350 Rocket was hungry for prime, and @ TACO BELL did they anchor the granny bought muscle, rumbling up to the parking lot in classic smooth, and finding sanctuary in a dozen tacos between them--dog and man, best pals, cause the Moon wanes, and hearts break, unless the coyote gets stronger, and suburbia is a home to many, and maybe--in peace, and I'm talking actual coyotes--canis latrans.  

Amos Hart--Pious Bastard

   
   "Amos Hart--Pious Bastard"
   
   Amos knew he was a cynic, yet no charlatan, thirsting only after his own pool hall purse, knowing Jesus hung out with Bruce Springsteen types before the rock and roller had money; still, the Boss may not be a bad dude--I don't know him, liking seclusion and the way of a phony ranger, as if the suburbs offer a true camouflage for anything save omnivorous coyotes that are prone to skulk.  
   Amos knew as well:  Every Constellation, including your sign of the Zodiac has planets and stars; plus, moons and more, as if STAR WARS was a mystic's dream, in the genesis, during the 70's, when Carter ruled the roost, and with dignity and truth, doing what he was elected to do, being peaceful and kind; however, war was brewing, and Raygun stepped in, while Amos was trout fishing somewhere in the South-East-Geothirst, never drinking the water which was high in fluoride, yet sharing from Bucko's bowl--his excuse:  He purchased the rock-charged water for his dog--that's what he told the chicks at the pet store, if only to be social, which he was not; next, sweat bullets till a vomit in the alley, thinking maybe they hadn't bathed their corporeal portion, as if only a good set of sniffers make you puke in the sink for no other reason than body odor, but some guys prefer the perfume of girl sweat, yet--not Amos.  Neither did Bucko.  

The Ex – Rolled Chicken Tacos (Commercial) | Taco Bell

Amos Hart--Lazarus

   
   "Amos Hart--Lazarus"
   
   Amos Hart.  Wednesday morning; specifically, a minute past Midnight.  Bucko next to him in bed, where King David mentioned he prayed from sometimes, a man after God's own heart--maybe the prototype for the Sacred Heat?  Awakening.
   When Lazarus died--was it the best day of his life?  Didn't appear so to Jesus.  Shortest verse in the Bible:  "Jesus wept."  Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Holy Mary.  Are NDEs all resplendent?  It doesn't seem so.  Then why the prayer?  Amos knew a guy deemed dead and around 114 pounds in Baptist Hospital in Little Rock.  Guy should've sued the hospital.  Nurse flipped his skeletal body over, saying if she was like him; next, it would be her time to go.  Guy is still alive--twenty years later.  Screw that nurse.  She's no fighter.  Gotta fight for everything God gives you.  Don't let anybody selfishly thieve it away.  Your iron fists however, should not exceed the crime of those that sin against you.  Daniel Rand knows this, him better known as FIST in the 1980's. 
   So, as a journalist with no limitations, Amos knew that everything exists, and just as there is good, so is there evil; plus, neutrality, which doesn't give a rat's ass either way--they might have the coldest of hells if we listen to the rants of Jack Kennedy.  Gotta choose a side.  No wussies.
   Oh well, Amos went back to bed.  Lucidly dreaming of the FBI's corruption, hating Trump, not believing a celebrity is more honest than crooked lawyers thinking the Democratic Party is ushering in another phony Messiah.
   Like Trump told a secretary he hired decades ago:  "Men are better than women; however, a good woman is worth more than an army of men."  

Amos Hart--NDEs

   
   "Amos Hart--NDEs"
   
   Amos Hart couldn't bring himself to pen the prose needed to give life to a deceased man, him having bitched about passing, saying that he had been harassed his entire life by unseen forces; specifically, everybody locks themselves into the world in which they were indoctrinated, and this man was simply a free agent, armed by God with a rare blood type; moreover, many folks possessing such blood tell fantastically freaky stories, and it has been documented by myriads; plus, buried by burdens.
   Amos knew he could throw in many government and military men from Arizona, Canada, everywhere, or even the Pentagon's latest concerns; however, people still live in a 3 Dimensional World, unable to grasp anything more than low frequency, imprisoning others with their tribal mentalities, and even stealing the Spirit of Christmas, which is that all possibilities exist, if not shackled by negative utterances, not even profane, mind you.
   Too, Amos knew that he loved Bucko.  There was nothing more locked in love and friendship than a dog working on the reward system for a man.  It was simple, as could be all things, but we go into the details where lies reside, and Cinderella still scrubs floors.  
   Amos was just glad it was Christmas, and that one Jewish Man decided to be a Rabble-Rouser, hoping to awaken this planet.  Many call it a prison planet.  Many don't.
   Amos went to Mass.  Bucko sat outside in the Olds.  He enjoyed it.  The best part was the Eucharist.  Touching Jesus, gently.  

Amos Hart--Yuletide

  
   "Amos Hart--Yuletide"
   
   Putting new oil in the Olds, Bucko licking his epidermis, a patch of skin displayed through the poverty of his pants, and while women don't fancy Khaki much, what did Amos care, for he didn't fancy women much, since washing hands went out the window, and wasn't the Virgin Mother from the Levitical Line?  Some say yes.
   Not an extorting Aaronite, yet how Jesus perfected it, offering anything on the table, and no man speaks clearly for Him, unless of course that man believes every word of Jesus, and that He shot up, possibly at Mach 3, possibly not, He wasn't a showman, but a mere carpenter, though slave to no thoughts that did not gel with His Father's, God.
   Amos Hart had to crank the filter off by inserting a screwdriver and doing some twisting, for Bucko's kisses had made him crush it earlier--oh well, the glory of grease and stain, that's why they invented LAVA soap, and though part cooter and full journalist, Amos rather enjoyed the pharmacy; moreover, was pleased that Walgreens had put Gingerbread cookies out this year.  Thought he saw a real elf there earlier, but you can't just go around and say that kinda stuff, even though the government can't control such aeronautical happenings nowadays--or could they ever?  

Elvis Presley "I'll Be Home For Christmas"

The Abyss 1989 Ed Harris CPR to Mastrantonio

Larry's Fancy Lighter

   
   "Larry's Fancy Lighter"
  
   Holland took it, in a special way.  He preserved and honored the Lighter, buying special flints for it and polishing it up in immaculate fashion; plus, he added high-grade lighter fluid.  Forged the uncanny tale that Old Larry got it in the Korean War when he was in the private company of Asian Nation Ladies, back during his daring days in the high-flying Air Force--Holland appreciated the hell out of that particular Lighter--it was myth, and rooted in some aspects of truth.  
   First time they did mimic my step-dad in front of me--Bob put a smaller lighter in my face, cranked on the flickering flame; next, did the Southern Man mimic, exclaiming casually:  "In your eye, boy!"
   We always impersonated everybody's father.  And for the bad ass Green Beret, we'd say:  "Brent, go scoop your dog's poo."
   And as Patricia, Larry, and me came back to the Little Rock anchor from our long journey to the  salty shores of Richmond, Larry asked Holland after Christmas:  "So boy, was Santa Claus good to you this year?"

White Christmas-Elvis Presley

Amos Hart--Samson Effect

  
   "Amos Hart--Samson Effect"
  
   Amos Hart did a 40 punch in the Cutlass, the 350 igniting to life through hammered acceleration, and Bucko's tongue not flapping, but safely inside as the granny's old cruiser cranked it up to ninety in no time, and there was no lawman to see the Oldsmobile thunder.
   Thought of Samson.  They need a Samson prayer card.  Have Freedom of Religion in America, like in Rome at one time, and plenty.  The Neptune Festival or whatever it was that Amos' Uncle used to tell him about--how cool is that, and weird, for does your town have a Neptune Festival, and some do!?!
   All the gods were present for Amos; plus, all realities.  There was no other choice.  A journalist has to make cracker jack decisions, meet a deadline, drink sour mash out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald flask and be a degenerate spy, at first; next, the levels of sublimity kick in, and you no longer wear a trench-coat, waiting on the cape, or maybe even a mustang to ride on.  The point doesn't matter if you don't know who shot the arrow.  Amos ate a gingerbread cookie as he drove, and kinda fast.  It was great for a man to multi-task.  Unless of course he was watching STAR WARS, or ingesting the purely instrumental frequencies of Bach.  
   

Amos Hart--Ginger's Stocking

   
   "Amos Hart--Ginger's Stocking"
   
   Above the pool hall he lived over, Amos Hart wasn't fancying a gregarious game of Billiards with the boys, smoke, and strong spirits; on the flip side, he was casually petting Bucko's pelt, drinking a cold beer, a Pilsner, and puffing away on a cigar, the cherry dancing in the neon-lit illumination of a groovy studio-apartment type of thingamajig.  Ginger entered, howling silently with her chatty eyes.
  
GINGER
Merry Christmas!  I had to break the silence.  Getting spoiled and lit with the ale, huh?

AMOS
You know me--"alcoholic" isn't necessarily a bad word, especially if only your phony friends label you that, when they mix Crown with Coke and cheat on their wives, telling their kids Jesus is a royal racket.  Wonder if Samson is pissed?  Wasn't he a Nazarene as well?

GINGER
Many similarities between Jesus and Samson, yet Jesus stayed away from nasty women, carnally--that's why many followed Him.  If He wouldn't give it up, they desired to know His control, which of course, He had over everything.  And by the way, Old Saint Nick put a candy cane in my Snoopy stocking.  Doesn't he know Nuns don't eat sugar?  (Pulled out a Lucky and struck it to life with sulfur's flare.)
   
AMOS
Hey, it's toasted.

GINGER
So will be the world one day, maybe soon, unless the true racket ceases.  They rig, but not like Spider-Man jury-rigging his web shooters.

AMOS
Always liked Web-Head.  

The Fast and the Furious Ferrari vs Toyota Supra drag race. R.I.P Paul W...

Amos Hart--Dual Exhaust

  
   "Amos Hart--Dual Exhaust"
   
   Amos eating a SNICKERS, cause SNICKERS does satisfy, and to remind his future wife of that; otherwise--it all sounds like a lot of work.  At the sit-down gas station, an Elegant Cooter approaches:

ELEGANT COOTER
Is dat ur Cutlass with the V-8, boy?

AMOS
Can go to Midnight Mass @ 11:30 and still be there on Sunday and a Holy Day; as a result, I totally win.  But how to keep the Sabbath Holy if your son falls down a well?  Will you not miss services and rescue him?

ELEGANT COOTER
Damn boy, got me nuth'n 'gainst dem Catholics, ain't no sum bitch here or yonder.  Just got me a HEMI Block with high-outtake exhaust, and increased air-induction through my cowl backwards hit-me scoop.  Blow'n horsepower into the carb off my windshield.

AMOS
Not gonna race.  Too tired.  Maybe I should get a life.  But what's the worth in that?  

Men without Hats- The Safety Dance (Lyrics)

Amos Hart--Unveiling

   
   "Amos Hart--Unveiling"
   
   Amos Hart calmly sat with Bucko in the Olds, powered by the modest yet potent 350 Rocket--a zinger from the electric past.  Like he always knew inside, and as the American Government has basically admitted:  "We are not alone."  Reagan had already told us that there are non-terrestrials among us--we never listened.  Fairy Tales, Religion, you name it--and most children always know, before they age into adolescence, witnessing the greed and lust of false gods; next, their ability to see becomes as were Samson's eyes, burned out, and blind to the illusion that so many live under.
   The American Courtroom has no right to argue anything anymore.  The Judge is not Jesus Christ, the attorneys are fraudulent finks instructed on the art of lying, and the juries are hand-picked by these lascivious-living liars.  The psychiatric units are filled with illegal activity as well.  The government cannot truly declare ALL they know, for many people would be incarcerated, abusing those who have been abused already, and on a supernatural level--that word simply meaning, more than natural; however, as many bad ones as there are, it equals out with the magnanimous might of altruistic Angels and Holy Living Creatures.
   Whatever happens, most fear Christ's return . For if the Son of God were to truly encounter a soul void of repentance; next, Occam's Razor suggests that the endgame scenario might not be good for that particular soul.
   All the myths, art, everything speaks of sublimity outshining the false illusion of deceit.  We shall see.  

Amos Hart--Living in the Dark

   
   "Amos Hart--Living in the Dark"
   
  Amos Hart lifted a barbell; next, put it down and lit a cherry cigar, cranking it to life with the flip of a Bic.  Illumination, yet the trash-man and loony bin resident may indeed be correct, sir.  Just released government footage of planes and aliens, maybe--cloak and dagger stuff.
   Reagan admitted plenty.  Nobody listened.  And those few that did found their honesty caged in straight-jackets, not because ALL of their minds were forging phantoms, but because things be weird sister--just look back at your high school yearbook and glance the lack of humanity that lives in the savagery of Pony Boy adolescence.  
   And when nobody believes you; next, they punish you, and the water gets more of a fluoride and antibiotic tint, or Pac-Man is replaced by love-making androids.
   Amos Hart knew.  Should've been a truck driver.  Keep moving.  Drive through the accident, like they tell you in NASCAR.  

Amos Hart--Interrogative

   
   "Amos Hart--Interrogative"
   
   Amos Hart was playing smooth and conductive metal in the theater of his mind, not harping on the keyboard, just a journalistic tendency to loathe the secrets of the dark--Enoch why are you asking these questions?
   It wasn't theological for Amos Hart, though he liked shepherds, short story prophets, and had a nucleus concerning the basics of kinda like what King Arthur was trying to drink, or whose blood rather, a babe born on Christmas, not a pagan holiday, but plenty just seamed in as lesser foundations are attracted to the more potent topic, like Jesus.
   A journalist doesn't hang, shoot, or kill.  Just words.  And yet the corporeal judges and killers sprint retreat after hanging a man @ noon, when the rooster has already run, and the hens are laying simple-man gold.  Most folks fancy steak.  Good cuts, lean, without the waste of deep chew, though some prefer the poor man's gristle, like a wolf's mouth savoring the savage basics.
   Amos bought the Olds.  Nice.  Smooth.  Multivocal.  And Bucko was right next to him.  

Dire Straits - Money For Nothing music video (Good quality, all countries)

Where did David King's money go?

   "Where did David King's money go?"
   
   Worked at Lockheed/Martin.  Patricia Ann King put him through college.  A smart man that loved his disabled son.  Where did all his hundreds of thousands of dollars go?  To a vagrant, partially, in Arkansas?  To two attorneys, partially?  In the pocket of a document shredder, partially?  Just questions.  And good ones.  All while a little boy and his disabled father suffer with nothing.  

Pay Attention--Notary Fraud

   
   "Pay Attention--Notary Fraud"
   
   Dismissed, due to favors and further web-spinning; moreover, a deck reshuffled, attorneys with great wealth involved, reputations clean, but only on paper, and does it not all lead to attempted murder?  Just a question.  
   What if they took Patricia Ann Baity, at the time, diagnosed with Alzheimer's Stage Four by Doctor David Edwards, who had her on four Xanax a day, among other things; plus, Seroquel, and plenty of paralyzing Haldol--both being heavy anti-psychotics, her of unsound mind and body, and made her sign documents at the Notary in Bellevue, Tennessee--Highway 70?  They did.  Fraud:  Deception for financial gain.  They're good at false testimony.  Like being struck by a cane--more false testimony.  Read my past Blogs.  Dig deep.  Surely a brave man will roll over.  Nah, the brave are all dead.  But they're rich.  You could have a piece of the pie.   
   And wait till you get a load of the first two pseudo-caretakers.  These women were jewels.  They like peach pits, poison, and dropping old ladies in the shower.  Hey, relax.  Truth is crueler than fiction.  

Amos Hart--350 Rocket

   
   "Amos Hart--350 Rocket"
   
   It was only a two-barrel, but she looked to be in her prime, and always would.  Amos knew that the bleu beauty was like unto a French dame whose children did not need to be reminded of their folks' failures or crimes--the axiomatic truth, not some yarn spun by the masses to induce time traveler hysteria, unless you own a DeLorean.  
   Parents hurt their children best, for when the kids find out their parents are bums--it all goes to hell for them; moreover, the glamour and illusion are gone; however, when a child has been brainwashed into thinking their parent is bad; next, unearths the truth that his mother was actually a sublime creature, well--that child, as an adult, inherits a crown and continues with the magnanimous work of spreading Good News, which is all about exposing nefarious action.
   Amos Hart couldn't take his eyes off of her.  He hated to cheat on his Datsun; still, the 350 Rocket was smoking smooth, better than four wheels strapped onto 454 cubic inches of SS (outta control) with LS (Lots of Speed); on the flip side, a redneck Yankee is curious about the heavy lifting, and the force that causes and manipulates the rotating circle of life.
   Amos couldn't purchase it, yet Bucko complained with a bastard's bark, and everybody needs a back-up, especially if it's a granny's hot rod.  

Jesus Arrested

Amos Hart--Corruption in Tennessee

   
   "Amos Hart--Corruption in Tennessee"
  
   Amos wasn't proud of his piece, pride being rebellion against God, for we did not fantastically forge ourselves into existence; nevertheless, read a Harvard Blogger, him listing Tennessee as the most corrupt State in the Union--damn, the American South hates that word:  UNION.
   The guy Amos Hart had penned his auspicious article about was followed by a Dr. Grenier, though the guy had no knowledge of the phantom pseudo-physician, nor did the guy suspect negative (in words) ELF waves were being used by insidious forces to disrupt his neurological pattern, but we all know WAR is a ridiculous racket.
   The fact that his Rabbi, his physician, and his brethren were contacted was not by mere chance, and there was always the possibility that money was exchanged for unscrupulous favors, at least involving phony attorneys, rolling around in stolen money and having dirty sex with their wives as they imagine those females to be perfect porn princesses that they regularly flog the bishop to during their down but up time.  How high was the corruption?  Sometimes it takes plenty to murder a little man.  Gotta get him alone, if the ELF waves aren't working.  Santa's elves are nice, and even Amos' brother had pictures of them in a 1980's PLAYBOY magazine, hanging out with Saint Nicholas and stuffing stockings with the serendipity of lip service.
   Nobody would be brave enough to uncover such sinister scenarios, for they would be threatened, and Amos Hart knew bodacious bravery was a bold declaration of past soldiers, pure paladins for the purpose of porpoises.  Amos already knew the hospital and local law enforcement had given false testimony, as well as a guy named Feltner, but Amos didn't gave a damn, because their wives were as asymmetrically ugly as bearded ladies lathered in lascivious longings, yet their husbands couldn't give them anything long save breaths without beatnik beauty, like might Kerouac.
   When corruption is high level, people continue to cover their tracks, reshuffling the deck, turning people over to the government, and believing mercy is in murder.  How enchanting, but My Pretty Pony likes to pounce on non-repenting perversity, with horseshoes made of bronze.
   Amos Hart would not give up, finding fuel in the flavor of beef jerky, like a cowboy, and decided to Christmas Shop for shiny things, as are "Wheel of Fortune" contestants fascinated by such sparkly objects.  
   Saw a drone.  Nah, it was a microscopic Santa, getting small for the love of reindeer aeronautics.    

Amos Hart--Christmas Rabbi

   
   "Amos Hart--Christmas Rabbi"
   
   Amos got the zapping news from gregarious Ginger, though she stayed in her polite pack, never mixing with uncouth hounds.  She told him the scoop on some falsely accused dude in Nashville, all orchestrated by many-a-yutz, and she wanted Amos to pen the solid truth, not the fabrications of envy and lies by pumpkinheads without the ignition of brain candles.
   Amos got on it like white on rice.  The guy was given, against his will, a catheter.  Went down to his prostate.  They didn't care that years before his urethra was re-constructed, along with his bladder walls; plus, they pinned him down, took his anemic blood, draining him more lethargic, stealing his religious freedom, though four nurses, gay men included, couldn't thieve away his Saint Raphael prayer card--his weak arm and hand holding onto it against their monstrous muster that proved impotent and weak.  Like Samson--he wasn't easily bound.
   Put him in with some over-eating simian type, college educated, which in her case meant dumb as a dingbat, having only focused on swallowing aggression in her life.  Too, said he spent his money on tobacco, when they were drinking the shit out of it, collecting porn, and suicide kings themselves, smearing him to his Aunt, saying he had no enjoyment in life, when he loved to eat healthy and shop at the pharmacy as if he was a Wiccan, all in hopes of health for the miraculous masses.
   Worst of all, his inheritance had been thieved away, them saying he wasn't worthy, dividing it up among themselves, as attorneys are greedy guts, always wanting more, constantly speaking with forked tongues--just look at the crooks in Washington--all rich and successful, in a manner of fooling everyone; moreover, his daughter lived in a little room, got one meal a day, as his ex-wife wasn't exactly the Virgin Mary, but sold herself to the highest bidder, taking some of his inheritance, and not sharing it with his daughter, Zoe.  
   Stolen from, lied about, smeared, exploited, manipulated--Amos was just happy that the Archangel Uriel had no sense of humor.  True justice, like with a Virgo, and sometimes peace is kissed, if only in innocent fashion.
   Amos Hart got on the keyboard, gave machine gun script, automatic; plus, ate some cotton candy, lime-green, and recalled the days when people gave a damn, which seemed like never.  Oh screw it, Merry Christmas, all based on a carpenter and Rabbi who followed a higher code and got pissed at the criminals and crooks, exposing the lust so many have, as they are their favorite persons.
   It's good to be a baby in a manger, for Wise Men wish you well.
   Amos cranked up a cherry cigar, remembered the coyotes, and even gave a damn about the bounteous bunnies.  

You know what Ol' Jack Burton always says...

Amos Hart--Celestial Wolf

   
   "Amos Hart--Celestial Wolf" 
  
   Amos Hart gathered up a few coyotes in the back of his pick-em-up-truck, an old Datsun that was re-fabricated, having an electric-blue paint job done by some good-old-boys.  
   He released the family of coyotes, saving the suburban bunnies, and his journalistic nature took over from there, him forging the eternal steel of words and merging it with newsprint for the few that got his vociferous circulations.  
   He looked upwards to the sky that night, lit a cherry cigar, blew a smoke ring to the spirit world, and knew the Heavens housed many dogs way beyond the battle for Earth by the more advanced cultures.  Such as the LUPUS Constellation, which had around 9 main stars, 5 kinda/sorta having planets.  It got him plenty hot under the collar that back in his day the bogus science teacher boasted that there was only a mere 9 live-action planets in existence.   Goes to show science.  As blind as it gets.  But aren't we all?
   Amos bunny-hopped into bed, covering with his Chewbacca sheets, and Bucko was swift to snuggle sideways, the twosome spooning--dog and man, like with Saint Rocco, and his staff wrapped in copper wire.  Hell boy, those old Saints were making their own superconductors.  Wonder if they had bubble gum too?  

Amos Hart--Sheepdog & Gom Jabbar

   
   "Amos Hart--Sheepdog & Gom Jabbar"
   
   Okay.  Ginger was a Nun.  A hound for the Lord.  A Dominican.  Chaste, save her nicotine habit; specifically, an ascetic Nun who burned Chief Mojo Rising.  Good for her.  Back in the 1950's--a Nun could have a smoke break.  
   Amos Hart was a dog, in many ways.  Every Good Shepherd needs a sheepdog.  Ginger said to Amos:  "My friends had this dog they said was human; next, the mutt tore open a chatty chipmunk in gory fashion.  The dog was just a savage animal."
   Amos replied:  "What?  Are you the rainbow-eating angel spirit-feeder.  Like you haven't eaten meat.  Cows have PAX in their eyes.  And Jesus cast the demons into swine; thus, I'll bet he was a real Hebrew.  Totally, I bet he never ate a pork chop."
   "You're such a brat."  The words from Sister Ginger.
   Amos knew he had to trap a coyote.  But when setting a trap for second unto the Great Spirit--the animal usually traps you.  Amos meekly kissed Ginger's hand, she was a Sister, maybe his, saying:  "There is no way out."
   Yet Ginger also vocalized mercy: "A sheepdog never goes to slaughter.  And if he does, puppies are golden.  Get me?  I've already played the pestering part of steroids and their side-effects.  Now, take your hand out of the Gom Jabbar.  Too, save some bunnies, will ya . . ."  

Amos Hart--Cutlass Blue

   
   "Amos Hart--Cutlass Blue"
   
   Ginger's scarlet mop; moreover, an explosion of girly curls that crowned a pair of emerald-green orbs pointed at Amos in the face, and with her bird finger no less, exclaiming:  "Dude--those eyes are hazel, you blind fool.  What's that, like 7 percent of the world's population?"
   Amos puffed on his cherry cigar:  "Shit, like the metaphysics is talking again.  Gonna get locked up Ginger.  Besides, I like chocolate brown--it paints my blonde nimbus with mystery and savory copper flavor."
   Ginger struck back:  "If you want your cage rattled, deny yourself.  And don't think the lady with purple eyes doesn't care--she was there to encounter you, so delicately, and you piss it all away on worrying."
   Amos blew a smoke ring, not like Gandalf:  "Tricks are for kids and shamans.  They taste good."
   Ginger's face flushed to match her passionate mane:  "And the blood is the life.  Too, spirit counts--gotta have that gel."
   Amos fed up:  "Look, are you gonna help me save the bunnies or what?  Coyotes freak people out, and these spoiled suburban types living on golf courses while the homeless rot--well, they are very keen on shielding their rabbits from a canine's carnivorous grip, even though coyotes are omnivores, like Bucko, he even drinks Coke; next, after licking it up, offers a big burp."
   Ginger kissed him fiercely, on the mouth, just to remind him, there was no carnal cravings involved--it was just an anti-gravity anchor, so that he wouldn't be pinned down with pessimism; then, she smiled, saying:  "Okay, save the coyotes, and the suburban bunnies.  And by the way--George Washington wouldn't have survived with the press as it is today."  

Amos Hart--Multivocal

   
   "Amos Hart--Multivocal"
  
   Ya, I dig spitting on the sidewalk; plus, why can my dumb by delightful dog urinate in public and I can't restfully relieve my urethra's need to dynamically dilate and happily whiz behind a dumpster in an alley after the diarrhea on the commode in the shady eatery made me change my mind about urinating in public?
   My name is Amos Hart.  I'm blonde, have chocolate brown eyes; also, I'm a modern journalist, penning the squeeze upon criminals, and nobody seems to care, but I spit on the sidewalk, so I figure I'm in league with prostitutes.  I carry a snickersnee for protection.  Tennessee knife laws are pure freedom, and a blade is good for close-quarter combat, or as my educated dame declares the act of sharp fisticuffs:  "Combative anthropology."
   She's a firecracker.  Chaste, metaphorically; specifically, she only falls in love with love, falling forward, and never dresses pretty for herself--she just is herself, and pilots a cycle, an Enduro that's lime-green and mean, running like a scalded dog.
  But back to me.  She, uh Ginger--is just my partner.  My story is where it starts before I crafted her with my rib; moreover, the portion of my rib's frequency, so to speak.
   I like the smell of antiquated print media.  A magazine, a paperback book, and a newspaper.  I can't smell the EMF stuffamajug from the computer screen, and I always get shocked, not always, but when I touch my dog after surfing for a new Ka-Bar to possess, only in order to make me feel more like James Bowie.  But don't want a blade as long as his; I'm no showman.  I like puppies and seeing the ponies run.  Wanted to be like Bogart or Magnum; however, I don't own a fancy coat, and journalists are all considered riff raff nowadays.  Go figure.  Like Joyce knew--when you put words on paper, somebody is going to get pissed off.  Hell, it's even true with just talking.  So, I go to the park and take pictures of birds, mammals, and the sleeping beauty of the Moon losing a bit of reflection.
   Liked Huckleberry Finn better than Tom Sawyer.  Sawyer seemed a bit of a snob--in my opinion.
   Oh well, gotta get on the beat.  There's an angry coydog picking off suburban bunnies.  Not a hunter, just gonna write about it.  My dog's name?  Simply:  Bucko.  When I take him to the vet--it's Bucko Hart.  

70 Virgins b

   
   "70 Virgins b"
   
   What an exoplanet.  Spica's white/blue hue does shine upon it.  Virgo--a nice constellation.  Many more.  Do they not protect their own people--or whatever they are?  Things can be concealed, or uncovered, determining the reasons.
   Portals.  There are plenty.  Everywhere.  Mostly, people tend to be a little hostile concerning immigration.  Be careful where you go, unless you simply love danger, wanting to be shipped to Thule, Greenland as a petty officer and fight river pirates all day.  You gotta have a grappling hook and be a gunner's mate.
   The doctor lives in his world.  The priest lives in his.  There are many worlds.  The truck driver rolls on through them all.  Truck drivers know.  It's all real.  People limit themselves because they are told to do so, indoctrinated into doubt, or want control--their flavor.
   Allegory, maybe.  Maybe not.  What's wrong with a benign brainstorm?  Are we not allowed to think anymore?  Someone always gets hurt.  It should be the selfish, and I'm sure the Creator's Laws favor the non-selfish, especially if the selfish try to poison your dog.
   All you wanted to do was go out and get a chili dog here and there.  They were told by envy that since you don't drink from their controlling cup--you must be terminated.  But even the Terminator made friends with some of his prey, lowering his gun and breaking bread in sublime fashion.
   Are there not portals?  You want evidence?  No you don't.  You have no intention of belief.  You just like to argue and be selfish with the brain God gave you.  But who are you?  Don't look so damn great, like a cowboy.  You want it all your way; next, steal faith from people instead of giving them such.  Where your heart is, so is your treasure.  So why steal anybody else's?  
   I don't miss the Muppets.  Is the McRib still available?  

Saint Nicholas--Christmas

   
   "Saint Nicholas--Christmas"
   
   Is bleu a Christmas color?  Is art, only what it means to you?  Sometimes.  Power goes both way. 
   Luke Cage, in the 80's comics, with simply called by the big dude:  "Fist."  Anyway, he would also say:  "Christmas."  Have we lost that Luke Cage and Fist?  Now we have androids.  Goblins and brownies; plus, angels and mutants made Earth crowded enough (allegorically), now my phone records everything, thinking I'm a normal man, and tantalizes with tempts concerning the reward of normal treats, watching me give it my own damn confusion, yet unfolded, in a symmetrical laundry basket, before even the wash.  The cactus was--CRANKY.
   Yeah, but water lives in there; plus, aloe is near.  
   Saint Nicholas.  Christmas.  Bing Crosby as a singing priest.  PEANUTS with Snoopy and Charlie Brown; also, Linus and Lucy.  A doghouse that magically morphs into a World War One dog-fighting vehicle, or a vessel built for war.
   They say Saint Nicholas got in a fist fight at a fancy council.  Maybe he did.  Sometimes, we believe what they tell us.  And sometimes, it's true.  There's something remembered about the Spirit of Christmas--in my opinion, and in the hearts of millions, not just me.  Build a family snowman.  Make an angel, even in the dirt.  Be a dog.  A holy hound for the Lord.  And, Saint Nicholas.  Remember . . .

Kennedy & Trump

   
   "Kennedy & Trump"
  
   Jack Kennedy and "the Donald" Trump do not need to join your club; indeed, Kennedy lavishly lives on, with an awesome and eternal flame, and Trump is our modern reality President.
   Kennedy couldn't be indoctrinated, for he was born rich, Catholic, and good looking; thus, he didn't need favors, already secure by Camelot's Round Table--a family with class and ultra-suave smoothness.  And what normal man would turn down Marilyn Monroe?  Well, since her tits were better than Tony Curtis', I'd turn her down, but I'm a wacky and weird wimp.  Specifically, Kennedy would not join schmuck clubs, and that's why he pissed people off.
   It's the same with our modern Commander in Chief.  Trump is richer than the rest, and he won't be indoctrinated, nor bought off.  It's not that he thinks he's better than social clubs like the FBI (Federal Bureau of Intimidation)--it's just that he actually is.  And that's why they hate him.  He likes the Blue Collar man, hot women in appropriate fashion, and rock and roll; plus, the Christian preacher--good for him. 
   People that join corrupt groups only become more corrupted.  Nobody can save the world--that already happened, its architect, a Jewish carpenter.  

Elect Jesus, then

   
   "Elect Jesus, then"

   Commander in Chief--they throw everything @ him; specifically, plenty of manufactured  malcontents; however, only be thirsty for regal righteousness; next, you are queen-like quenched; otherwise, thirsting for yourself, unless attempted murder in your non-start-up direction, it doesn't wend well; therefore, align yourself with stubborn sublimity--why not?
   Everybody's poop smells snarly, unless you were lost and weirdly minding your own business in the fabulous fields, seen and spied as a specter of smooching stories that are strongholds of bodacious benevolence.
   Some like country.  Some like rap.  Some like smooth jazz; however, others fancy folk--never can tell.  Do your best, and remember:  the innocence of a child, a true child, that which imperatively  ignites innocence, not some meth-forged delinquent getting toxins into the dastardly discharge, or a mollifying matriarch that mistreats with aloofness, yet a damned daredevil voting for freedom, in the true sense of the word on the American ballot.  
   Make the field awesomely optic.  See and know instead of blinding.  Allow them their gifts, and you yours--just never abuse or think you are commando-sworn telepathic, unless you know you are--never can tell.
   Life would be plenty easier if we were all truck drivers with friends in the mystical restaurant business, in a sophisticated sense of the Blue Collar, though never replacing the Roman Collar.   

Back to the Future - The Power of Love

Thundarr the Barbarian TV cartoon intro (1980)

Prayer to St. Rocco

    
   "Prayer to St. Rocco"
  
   O Great St. Rocco, deliver us, we beseech thee, from the scourges of God; through thy intercession, preserve our bodies from contagious diseases, and our souls from the contagion of sin.

   Obtain for us salubrious air; but, above all, purity of heart.
  
   Assist us to make good use of health, to bear sufferings with patience; and, after thy example, to live in the practice of penance and charity, that we may one day enjoy the happiness which thou has merited by thy virtues.
  
   St. Rocco, pray for us--3 times.
  
   In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen  

Taking badgers on a walk

Power of the Cross

   
   "Power of the Cross"
  
   Sometimes, a transplanted Yankee Lady must offer vociferous twang--here and there only, always remembering herself, never erasing a portion of sublimity, gregariously gelling with a Cinderella-Victory futurity--I mean all the Franciscan humility dubbed with the Passion of labeling yourself ultra-cool, like a Fool for Christ, only to be adored all the more since you stood up for the merciful majesty of Jesus, or as the Southern Baptist kid bluntly and boldly says:  "Give me some Jesus."  And they can be true; moreover, potently determined in their fabulous faith, maybe it smoothly determined for ALL time by God Himself, who is Jesus' Father.  And smooth is a 1972 Cutlass armed with a 350 Rocket; furthermore, it only housing a tame two-barrel, driven by a nice and cool guy.   

From Cross to Crucifix:
  
1.)  CROSS:  Potent against most vampires, at least showing you have faith; thus, they know you mean a bit of business, even though you like Country Music too much.
  
2.)  ORTHODOX CROSS:  Werewolves are a bit shy about this one, but will approach you, for the lower bar shows great mercy for Christ; however, one must still remember the violence involved, and the werewolf will depart.
  
3.)  CRUCIFIX:  Puts pressure on those adorned by it; nevertheless, offers the ultimate Passion; next, wards off high -level villains from the DC Universe, mostly Earth One characters--you know what I'm saying.
  
   All of these Crosses bring psychological and spiritual improvement for most Christians--in my dog's opinion. 

Honor Conception Today; plus, Blood Is The Battery

   
   "Honor Conception Today; plus, Blood Is The Battery"
  
   We are charged by our blood.  Messiah says:  "The blood is the life."  Electricity, in enough ways, conducting copper, and if anyone says you're anemic, make sure they see the whole picture with the iron.  Enough already.
   Honor your mother as best you can.  If it's in the trenches; next, a smoke among the Arctic temperatures to fuel your labors--do it.  Sure there is legalism; however, truth outshines, and your place is where your heart is, reflecting others, and doing penance before going to Confession, cause that's how a country girl rolls, in sawed-off shorts, and always, acting humbly by having a heart that sees its treasure in truth.  And they're not Yahshua, not nearly.  Some close, but most . . .
   Just stay in loyal league with your magnanimous kin.  And pray without ceasing, always having the Spirit in your mostly obedient actions; nevertheless, sometimes Passion is perfectly pure, especially in an Angel of Great Counsel; specifically, JESUS.  

Coyote and Badger

   
   "Coyote and Badger"
  
   An innocent and loving woman is with child today.  A Queen of Peace.
   So, Mr. Coyote comes romping in, a bit clumsily, and Miss Badger is happy to see him.  The coyote doesn't try to bite her, for his father told him it was a bad idea.  And Mr. Coyote helps her get food.  Even though sometimes--he gets the food.
   Miss Badger knows--it's a fantastic friendship.  You scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours, or however.  Two different types of non-cuddly creatures, both great in their own right, having a synergy of sublime survival.  What a wonderful day to be alive for Mr. Coyote and Miss Badger.  

American Badger versus Wolverine

   
   "American Badger versus Wolverine"

   I'm coyoting much of this info; however, every student needs an honest teacher--are you honest?
   The American Badger and Wolverine only have one weakness among them, which is gluttony; on the contrary, all else was given by God for survival, and to show the larger predators that the "Little Guy" can be a real spunky bastard.
   An American Badger's teeth are not as long as the Wolverine's, nor do they possess the most monstrous molars, as does the Wolverine.  And while the Wolverine's claws are fixed but semi-retractable, the American Badger's claws are a little less; moreover, they both have tough hides, and maybe the American Badger's hide is a little tougher; plus, the American Badger has some blood immunity.
   Both of these ferocious animals will fight to the death, especially the Badger.  The Badger will always fight to the death.  A Wolverine will kill you through suffocation.  One killed a Polar Bear by locking its jaws around the colossal mammal's throat.  The Badger goes for the genitalia, disfiguring it with bites and lashes.  
   So, who would win in a fight between the American Badger and Wolverine?  Never can tell.  And we shouldn't find out.  For these little but fiery animals have already been put to the test.
   Just know Big Wolves, that making an attempt to kill a little badger digging a burrow will not go as expected.  You may kill and devour the little guy or girl, after hours and hours of battle, but you'll never be the same afterwards--if you live to howl about it.  And hell, I love wolves.  Coyotes are just wise enough to make friends with the badger, mostly.  

Simon and Simon theme - intro - simon kardeşler

Where did the coyote go?

   
   "Where did the coyote go?"
   
   Canis latrans, or sumth'n--nobody exactly knows nowadays.  Every minute in the United States an old school coyote is killed; next, ten take his or her place.  Yet as the ultimate survivor, and friend of the badger, the coyote interbreeds with wolves, dogs, maybe more; thus, is it exactly even a coyote anymore?  Moreover, are wolves, through the genetic manipulation of the coyote, gonna be re-introduced back into the American Southwest?  Never can tell--a truck driver might ponder, who never stays to kiss the virgin ornamented in the Fleur-de-lis, cause it's best to be chaste, unless of course God calls you to the action of high romance--and He can; He can do anything He wants--He's God, dude.  And check out the Red Wolf in Carolina--that's half coyote and half wolf.  
   The Sheriff here gave his weasel-like deputies the authority to shoot coyotes years ago--they were calling them coydogs, which was a big myth in Williamson County during the late 1990's--I was out and about in the area all night, talked to witnesses and spotted only garden-variety coyotes; however, unlike the fox who likes to entertain with hilarious antics, the coyote is more reclusive, not flashing the chicken in his mouth at you, like many a fox has done to me during my nocturnal time in the suburbs and beyond as a newspaper man working circulation.
   Oh well.  Androids, new wolves, coydogs, firetrucks, nanobots, hookers--it's all real, fella.  

Born in the U.S.A. - Bruce Springsteen - [LYRICS] [HQ]

Reminding phony sheriff, or Deputy Dawg

   
   "Reminding phony sheriff, or Deputy Dawg"
  
   Wanted to royally remind of July 4th, 2017--sleazeballs.  When you drug a disabled man out of his house, in front of his traumatized mother, on phony offenses; moreover, even you:  all the insidious architects involved, so as to further neglect and abuse a woman, my mother.  A woman who was hijacked into Notary Fraud by attorneys, and the toxic guilt still stains your sadistic souls--unless you confess, both honestly and humbly; otherwise, you can look over your sinister shoulders for the rest of your impotent  days.
   How many folks can you keep giving false testimony to?  Haven't you covered the bases?  Holy men and physicians.  Family members.  And when I was wrongfully incarcerated with dangerous psychotics, my Rosary Beads ripped from my hands, blood taken against my will, Grandfather's watch broken, my mother was sitting (crooked) at home, and nobody brushed her teeth, bathed her, or gave her a damn vitamin for an entire week, which equals seven days for all of you who attended Bush League Universities.  
   Good for you.  You people are officially odious Satanists, more or less.
   Keep screwing your ugly wives in your dirty money--it won't make her, or you, look any better, on the outside or the inside.
   God Bless America.  Trump.  The Virgin Mary.  And I even dig Elvira and Pee-Wee Herman.  

Arkansas Gyro (Kinda Culmination)

   
   "Arkansas Gyro (Kinda Culmination)"
   
   I think my name is Leaf Flint.  Got lost in the KALEVALA, as a pseudo-cerebral soul may say, if only to astonish, like a Valley Girl that spies a guy; next--he's in trouble.  What, some women don't look at men only in order to exploit them?  Some women are jealous of men.  Some are not.
   Don't trust the girl in the serpentine pantyhose and heels higher than her halo, for she's a man-killer.  Look at Adam and Eve, not going Talmudic and pseudo-scriptural; however, as Christ boldly declared to the father of lies and murder:  "Man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God."
   The basics.  Yet don't limit God.  That's going too far?  We are gods.  I didn't invent the phrase--it's purely Biblical.  What are we to do yet trust in Christ's bodacious benevolence of the supernatural.  
   If you're fairly kind, not out for a buck or the purse of credit; next, the sparkly stag invites you to hide behind his resplendent rack, like with the regal Rudolph.  
   Should've been a truck driver.  It's kinda like being in the Army, but you don't get to beat people up as much--only on holidays.    

Arkansas Gyro

   
   "Arkansas Gyro"
   
   Me, Leaf Flint, and I'm a girl, well, really a lady, lost in my middle-ages, driving a funked-out family wagon; however, hubby put in a small block Ford motor, dual-exhaust, high intake on an old-fashioned carb, and double-pump of sumth'n.  
   Always the Greek Food Festival, with our bunny child Patrick, we called him Pat, like the Rams' QB back before the Italian guy played in the 1980 Super Bowl.
   It was easy to eat there.  For the Yee-Ro.  That's how he pronounced Gyro--"Jie-Ro," I solidly say.  
   Schwarzenegger talks a good talk.  Comprehensible and articulated fella.  Down here, where the Hogs run screaming scarlet, bleeding a bodacious bastard's "poor man" team, yet so magnificently honest in their diligent devotion to the Natural State of thangs.  
   I just wish that I had inherited more expensive time to regally raise our wondrous child, while he (hubby) gathered up an awesome adventure, like a spy novel, in order to complete the magical marriage with live-action challenges involving esoteric espionage or covert ninja stuff.
   A girl can be a lady.  Too, a girl can dream that her husband is James Bond.  A pleasure to serve the British, and what it boldly means to be animated as them.  An elegant history, and futurity.  

McRib is back!!!

   
   "McRib is back!!!"
   
   Glorious Mysteries today.  Go with Pittsburgh gold.  Samson, kinda Nazareth, so much so, untying the bind, like flax fleeing disintegrationways.  Jango Fett's son's gun--an exact duplicate, not altered.  
   And the McRib is back.  What is more American?  Swine.  But a Hog is good for something--like a football team, charging fiercely.  And the potent aroma of BRUT.  So healing, Saint Raphael Green, like emerald armor, and the Irish know about this, as do they beer, poetry, and spirit.
   So, my ex in-laws who sang "LOVE SHACK" and performed 60's dance moves, though they only partied during the 70's--I would tell my ex:  "Get them the hell out of here.  I'll give them beer--now make them go."  Beer for a pleasant exodus, and for my horses.  Fond stirrings of my past; specifically, a gallant and ghostly Mustang housing the 4.2 Liter eight-cylinder.  Nice.  Weird.  Cool.  
   McRib is back.  

The Amazing Spider-Man (1978) - OPENING 2

The Delta Force (1986) - Jewish Passengers Scene (2/12) | Movieclips

King David--get me . . .

  
   "King David--get me . . ."
  
   Not a cold heart.  Not Mr. Freeze, or whatever the hell ever.  Just WON'T let people take what is not theirs.  First.  Base.  Maybe.  Still:  To pleasantly push in God's Face.  To shine His Lord's Light.  Never himself, in all his fighter/bard strengths.  A gray-haired nimbus, before a proper invention of the nimbus.  Moses is smoking awesome.  King David has the Heart of Gold, and Neil Young can't find it in Alabama.  It's kinda/sorta true.
   But really--King David needs not my or nobody's defense; he made it!  

Go to: Bar or Church?

   
   
   "Go to:  Bar or Church?"
   
   Don't be such a sanctimonious squat, or you will be selling the world Earth's fever, like Al Gore; moreover, don't be Mister Smarty Pants and think your shit doesn't smell, unless it doesn't.
   You have the Divine Spark, the Heart, the Spirit, what more but a remembrance of Cinderella do you need?  She is gorgeous.  Yet, like the phony Aaronite's may falsely think, you lust.  But you do; specifically, after the Sacred Heart, first owned by King David--in my opinion.  He was brutal.  Cold.  Froze people out.  Ordered deaths on his death bed, of ice.  His Son, Solomon--was all mind.  Life is a battle of the mind, unless polluted by a weakened sub-conscious full of phony bologna.  Go fry yourself a sandwich, you Bush League mystic.  Even me, at times, when I'm only talking to Brownies--they like too much beer.
   Just know:  Always judge yourself, for everybody else does, even if they don't give a rat's ass about you, they want to affect you; hence, affect yourself.  God is Good--nothing else; therefore, align yourself with God.  Always ask for more challenges, and you can do battle with giants.  Hell, you may be one yourself.  

Steve Earle - Copperhead Road (Lyrics.)

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (7)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (7)"
   
   Maybe to wrap things up--never neat and tidy, yet what you might call:  sloppy magic.  What a name for a band.  Sloppy Magic.
   Freddy Hart didn't hate her stalker Sister, Lady Shaqdiesel; moreover, was not upset at Hulking out of her clothes, or hilariously so as she morphed Were-Wheatenways.  Comedy, yup.  Tragedy, sometimes; however, ALWAYS comedy.  Life is a SEINFELD episode, it got Aceline through the cuckoo's nest, though Chief wasn't there and fleeing to Canada--they have nuclear power plants up there.  Canada is especially "Cowboy Way" in the West, yet not the far West.  I like to spell WEST.
   GMAN was way more downtown cool than the ravenous Red Tornado, thirsty for programmed justice, and your conscious phone is smarter than you, unless you carry a piece of copper in your pocket to calmly conduct the orchestra of going to a grocery market and spying the sway and strut of so many making you noxiously nervous, so much monstrously so that golden, cream-filled Twinkies magically appear from your pretentious pouch, like busy bunnies hopping, and the savvy Peter Cottontail gets liquid-papered by freaking Father Christmas, until he lives to lay eclectic eggs again.
   It all worked out, as this is not working for mundane me.  Gonna study Euclidean Geometry and see if that makes a damn difference--let the water flow, you damn beavers . . .  
   Freddy Hart got:  CASUAL.  Wore the Reebok brand, for an instant.  

Ninja 250 vs Car.