The Big Man

   
   "The Big Man"
   
   Resided next door to me, when I was an exiled kid.  Had a tough son.  Tough as steel.  The kid could take on ten other kids--one at a time--the Big Man Father taught him well.
   The Big Man loved my mother, like a little sister.  Loved me too.  Would come over, just to tickle me, innocently, as a child.  Would tell me:  "Mark, take off your socks, for a man goes barefoot.  Cut your nails, look clean."
   He moved away.  I was sad.  Afterwards, we visited his strong family near the border.  Went to an amusement park.  Everybody got conned into a frightening ride; next, weeping as the velocity was too much.  I chose not to ride the ride.  Felt ashamed.  Weak.
   After everyone allegorically pissed their trousers, the Big Man knelt down before me, comforting me, saying:  "Mark, it takes more courage to say NO than to agree."
   What did Christ tell Peter:  "There will come a time, and you will have your own home--there you will have many Fathers, many Mothers, many Brothers, and many Sisters."  Yes, justice and peace will kiss.
   Pax Vobiscum  

Morning Prayers

   
   "Morning Prayers"
   
   Beaten down the day before, lathered in the spicy aroma of Icy Hot, waking to see an old yet lovely dog, given a toxic peach pit by a nasty intruder at one time; next, I pet her, tell her I love her, find Mom, and I sing:  "Good Morning!  Good Morning!"  The wiping, the washing, the lifting, the medicating, the dressing, the brushing, the feeding, and plenty more.  And there are other decent souls who sacrifice their lives to look after a relative, because they feel when they die; next, they'll have to answer to God.  God will ask:  "What did you do?"  The phonies will say:  "Hey, I'm rich."  I think we all know how God will respond to such laziness.  
   Mom and myself start off by invoking Saint Joan of Arc--it's a great invocation--part of it:  "Ride with us in battle today Saint Joan."  And it feels like she does.
   My Mom loves horses.  I tell her:  "Brush the horse.  Ride the horse.  Feel its might and power beneath you."  If she sees people murdered on television, gruesome shows they always project to us, and starts getting a little melancholy, I tell her:  "Ride your powerful horse right over the bad guys.  Let nothing unclean enter the Temple of your mind."
   When I used to sit and tell my mother about the great French Saint, family members would look at me and say: "Don't talk to her Mark--you can't get through."  Screw them.  That's my Mom.  She deserves the best.  Not over 100 damn people barging into HER house over the last 7 years, talking about disease and death in front of her, pitying her as if she is nothing, or getting drunk and passing guns around in front of her, acting as if she's not there, and it all gets so much worse.  Most things I've documented in life.  Have all her blood work, her medication over the last ten years--the shit they were giving her.  Possibly, destroying a nervous system.  A pretty lady, and her whole damn life treated like a trophy or a subject.  I just always thought she was kinda/sorta a sublime flake.  Now, and for a long time--I see the strength in her eyes, the determination, and we pray, holding hands, tied together by our blood.
   We always start the day, and throughout the day, and end the day with prayer.  If I'm not totally zapped by all the crummy news and people showing up left and right, barging in, I read to her Psalms 103; specifically, a Psalm of David--the King James version.  "Bless the Lord, O my soul."

Good for Bob Marley

   
   "Good for Bob Marley"
   
   Listen to the lyrics--the freaking words:  "But I did not shoot the deputy."  It's a song.  Today, there's plenty worse.  Furthermore--Marley's instruction:  "Your best friend can be your worst enemy; your worst enemy can be your best friend."
   Paranoia?  Why?  You surgically say those words due to the axiom that he has got YOUR crooked number.  He knows you're a rat bastard.  So, my mouth is like Nixon's.  A quote from Nixon, or by Nixon, rather:  "Damn."  You heard me.
   They look at my Driver's License @ the grocery market if I buy a pint of Australian beer.  I say:  "1972, year of Richard Nixon."  They look at me like I'm mentally ill; however, they are just plain stupid.  Bush League college graduates--more or less.  What, you read THE CATCHER IN THE RYE and got wasted for four years, but didn't like Holden Caulfield?  I think Jesus might have liked him.  Just saying.  Is it wrong or illegal to be an autodidact?  

Pregnant White Wolf Killed In Yellowstone National Park | The Dodo

@ Insane Asylum

   
   "@ Insane Asylum"
   
   I never got to meet the Riddler--he spoke in parables, like Jesus--you picking up what I'm putting down?  I don't think so.  Anyway, they'd give this guy amphetamines and anti-psychotics; next, I'd ask him what they gave him--he'd tell me; then, THEY'D (Williamson County--Rolling Hills) say all the drugs were in the same class--giving more bullshit.
   I'd ask the nurses what Bush League schools they went to.  They'd say:  "It's accredited."  And I didn't tell them that so is bat guano.  Then, the Bush League nurses would ask me if I was hallucinating, and I'd basically ask:  "Are you ugly?"  They'd say:  "No."  Therefore, I guess they were hallucinating.  Then, they would try and dope me down, and I'd name off all the classes in which the medications belonged; as a result, they'd ask:  "How do you know all of this?"  I'd say:  "Jesus told me."  They'd ask:  "Are you hallucinating?"  I'd ask:  "Are you ugly?"  And believe me Bubba, they were--in more ways than one.
   Thanks to Belle Meade for fornicating with the Sheriff's Department--a wicked synergy of false testimony, when they were plotting to give mercurial burial.  Just look at Belle Meade's medicine cabinet, their alcohol intake, their porn, their family importing good shit from the West; moreover, the hatred of two decent people.  Everyday, Mom would always pull me aside--every damn day, saying:  "Mark, they said this and that--I'm sorry Francis can't live with us; I guess we'll just have to babysit all of their burdens."  And we did.  Mom and me.  Even saved a spoiled brat from a crazy man at the park.  They don't give a shit, never did.  But they'll call Priests, Doctors, hell-everyone I know.  Too bad their shit stinks real bad, worse than the common man.
   Anyway, Mary watches Her Son pull the weeds, metaphorically.  Nice.  Very nice.   

ZZ Top - All Your Lovin' (Lyrics)

Voltaic Junkyard--Paramedics

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Paramedics"
   
   Sheila was munching on a slice of Italian pie, just anchovies this time, no gummi bears, feeling less preggers, listening to the bullshit news; however, if you read between the lines--you kinda get the gist of it.  Paramedics report cops wouldn't let them in during the twisted shooting in Florida.  Maybe not pussies armed with inaction.  Maybe paid off.  Occam's Razor suggests they had contact with the FBI; thus, if your local Sheriff was associated with the FBI--he's usually a crook and fink, unless he likes John Wayne movies--in every John Wayne movie, the Duke gets shot in the leg, mostly.
   Sheila didn't care anymore.  Faction this, faction that.  CIA hate FBI, NSA loathe Park Rangers--just go out and read a spy novel or watch a Tom Cruise movie--what, you think America is totally pure and doesn't fuck with its own people?  Yeah, if you're tied into the lies; next, that's what you'll say.  Everyone plays everyone.  It's all agenda.  Paranoia?  Just ask all those parents of the myriads of teenage girls that go missing every year.  Where do they go?  Sitting at Grandma's house eating Chicken Noodle Soup?  At the Temple found by Mary and Joseph?  
   Sheila heard the adversary's voice in her head:  "Just shut up and take your Xanax."  She mentally had Bruce Lee kick him in the mouth; then thought:  "Thanks dude."
   Poor Adam.  Was he figuring things out?  A little brother, so normal, so led by the ways of an intruding world.  The smart man, well--he lives like Grizzly Adams.  Can you blame him?  

Voltaic Junkyard--Speaker of the House

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Speaker of the House"
   
   Adam wasn't completely stupid, or he could say:  "I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid."  After his second beer with Roger at the dumpy bar where burdened men went to sip away their sorrows, Adam got a little buzzed, kinda/sorta letting it out on Roger, as if suspecting, or maybe, even knowing the dude was a plant:  "Listen Roger.  In America, we used to have the Red Man, the White Man, and the Black Man; next, in the 1970's, the Yellow Man and Kung-Fu movies; however, now we have--the Sandman.  And at least we can say about the former President--he smoked some good shit, and still does.  All the black people live in tents in Los Angeles because of immigration.  A former Speaker of the House once mentioned that everybody wants to come to America, yet one piece of geography on the planet cannot simply absorb everybody."
   Roger was like:  "What, you watch Face the Nation or something?"
   Adam:  "Do you ever dream man?  Or want to play it genuine?  A phony is somebody who is not themselves.  Maybe I want to be myself.  Maybe I do love my home--the junkyard.  Who is television and bullshit to say it's not good enough?  Just once though, even though she's a girl and my sister--I'd like to pin Sheila in arm wrestling.  Wow, my sister is a strong goddess.  You know what I'm saying?"

At park with Mom and Bandit

Voltaic Junkyard--Montana

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Montana"
   
   Sheila had to venture beyond the bordering perimeter of the junkyard and get some milk and eggs; moreover, she vomited first in her bathroom sink, thinking about the whole soul-washed world--the gods putting us in a state of war against each other--they like to see a good fight; at the same time, testing us--not all bad, for they're weaning out the phonies.  Sheila knew that God Almighty wanted more for her--it bothered her.  She was hiding like a guilt-driven monk.  Sure she was tough, yet maybe more.
   She didn't make eye contact with anybody when at the grocery market.  Cautious.  Not knowing if a teenager is going to pull out an antiquated Mac-10 bought from a Mexican gang, who are known to stockpile weapons of mass destruction.
   Montana.  Get away from it all, but not within, yet merged in a sense.  Wide open spaces, when you can see the crooks and cowardly law enforcement coming, or the cops will just accept false testimony, pick up an innocent man, yet sit in their cars when they're outgunned.  Give Barney Fife more guns?  Does being a pussy cop equal being mentally ill?  Is being a liar mentally ill?  Is taking a pay-off mentally ill?  Or are these people far more dangerous and toxic?
   Sheila knew they were in the skies.  Is the F-18 pilot mentally ill?  Was he hallucinating?  What's he doing flying an aircraft armed with enough weapons that could destroy an entire city and yet he's talking bullshit about flying alien craft?  Or is it real?  You saw it.  So, who is full of shit now?  All pilots that report UFO's are mentally ill and should be grounded.  They're hallucinating.  Sheila smirked.  Everybody has an agenda.  Hers just happened to be fixing muscle cars and lifting barbells; plus, watching out for her little brother.  But yeah, Montana, far away--nothing but Indians, Cowboys, and wildlife. 
   She thought about it hard.  Grab Adam, take the Boss 302 and Wagon-Tail; next, head West.  Who needs the half-naked ladies on Fox Nasty News being just as phony as the mentally ill liberals.

Guns N' Roses - Sweet Child O' Mine

Guitar Riffs and Multicultural Octaves

   
   "Guitar Riffs and Multicultural Octaves"
   
   Feel queer about showcasing an 80's metal Rock Band.  There were no school shootings, just long-haired angels, hot women, high frequency, and men that simply punched out guys, or cranked them with a crowbar, drank beer, played kitchen poker, read science fiction, spit tobacco, and gave a shit about Ronald Raygun and Rambo movies.  Remember old men, like me.  
   It's the arch-angelic octaves; plus, the galactic guitar, so humble and classic the Gibson, yet supremely electric when the strings are mystically touched, beyond me.  

G. Gordon Liddy with Don Rickles on Conan (1997-01-27)

Voltaic Junkyard--She-Hulk

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--She-Hulk"
   
   Sheila just didn't know why she hadn't turned green already; moreover, the whole GOOGLE images of She-Hulk, some in pink high heels--like so valley girl gross to her, yup--the cool Valley Girl, lost forever in a fabulous history not remembered.
   Sheila knew to be herself.  She didn't like it always.  Maybe she should wear pink high heels and grab a guy and some Chinese noodles or a slice of Italian pie with anchovies and gummi bears like a woman nearing the birth stages, yet no dilation, as if a beamed out C-Section.  And that grossed her out, being pregnant.  What did the Hebrew Prophet possibly ponder about children:  "Children are like arrows in an archer's quiver."  It went along those not exact lines.
   She always had Adam.  The fool, being played and manipulated--as if she should not just smack down the intruders, invite Aunt Tootie from the East for a visit, display to Adam the true meaning of a torque wrench, but there's no money in a bunch of wrecked muscle cars and redneck pick-up trucks from the 1980's.  

Hold your portion

   
   "Hold your portion"
   
   Of course we all get a portion, even if sickly, we get a portion, layered deep within us.  And no man or angel has the right to take it away.  People always play you if you possess a kind heart, even if your blood is electric.  People want to thieve your portion--not all; there are Saints among us.
   I know I met a Saint once.  She was as white as snow, and fully charged with the Good Ghost.  An image that cannot be distorted, for God is Good.
   I guess if you want to lay on your bed, cry all the time, take your Xanax, and let your androids do everything for you--well, it is a Free Country, or used to be.
    What about a paperback book, and you can sniff the squid ink like a cerebral junkie?  And that watermelon incident still bothers me at times, yet not the poop in the pumpkin on Halloween with Holland in the Halls of Haunted History.
   Yeah, God gives us a portion, and we let people take it away.  Who is in charge of you?  The cranky nurse sedated on too many a benzo during her lunch hour, yet she still practices a type of medicine?
   Just lay there and die--that's what they want.  Hate yourself--that's what they want.
   Or like Jesus Christ, you can go out screaming.  "Woman--behold Your Son!!!"
   Good for the One, True King.  

My last wife: the Burning Bush

   
   "My last wife:  the Burning Bush"
  
   A great and passionate woman, descended from Italian and Scottish stock; still, she'll kill ya, allegorically.  She's metaphorically removed the testes of many men, sowing into them the timidity of trepidation.  My step-dad saw me put Kosher sea-salt down my pants the other night; moreover, he vociferously shot off:  "Boy--you salting your pecker like a holy man."  Holy crap, one woman kept me from being a virgin; furthermore, she gave me jungle rot.  I'd have to hose her down before the carnal mount, give a good swabbing off of her corporeal deck, and splice a lime--and I think I know what that means, even though I'm not an American Odysseus with a green parrot that channels the historical communication of others, though not shapes-shifting, like the American coyote; specifically, CANIS LATRANS.
   I love my last wife, like a sister, and an ugly sister at that--she wears no nose ring like an inviolate  virgin in the Old Testament; also, her intrinsic sexuality got me my own private hospital room when I was practically dead, and for the second time; plus, I'm sure the Chief of Staff enjoyed her yanking his, so--good for her.
   My last wife gets things done.  No horseshit.  She's a survivor.  Street smart.  Too, her Uncles love her, yet everyone else in her family bullshits her with tender mercies, and maybe her half-brother craves the creepy.  Shit happens.  Look at your own shit--not mine.  Like what--you never screwed the symbolic pooch?  I'd be rolling around in salt water like a Levite Priest if I did.  I'll weigh my sins against any man or angel.  How many dermal-layered pipes did you, naughty nurses, take into the vaginal cavity?  Yet you shoot off your mouth as if justice and peace have kissed.
   Like I said, forgiveness is great.  I don't hold no grudges.  I just SEE and know:  People are drunks, medically-induced drug addicts, have eating disorders, jerk off to reruns of Game of Bones, forge false testimony, give their children Pez Dispensers loaded with Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors; next, make you spineless with Benzodiazepines, getting the nervous system used to a chronic relax of the Italian noodle; next, you're screwed.
   I'm going to take some American Ginseng and slam a Bud Heavy--good for me.  Who wants to be a Valley of the Dolls Zombie?  We need energy, not sleep.  Bubba--you can sleep when you're dead.  

Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man (4/12) Movie CLIP - Marlboro's Birt...

Adolescent Angst in America

   
   "Adolescent Angst in America"
   
   The mentally ill, huh, press?  Having an eating disorder is more than synonymous with being mentally ill, and practically all Americans do.  If someone is an obese person who makes their own personal gravy due to anything besides a thyroid problem or California case of the carnivorous munchies--they're mentally ill.  Hoarders are mentally ill.  Most people live in filth, clutter, dust bunnies, unless hopping around all cool to induce a mysterious atmosphere, toilet smudge, or saunter about in their own homegrown toe-jam--they're mentally ill.  People who wear sandals, picking up all the spilled and spiked steps of those before them; plus, rat droppings and mice hairs--they're mentally ill--no?  Then, just stupid. 
   We're warned of this or that--smoking, drinking, the Big Mac, yet some of those folks don't do the dirt nap till 120.  And those people are always like:  "3 Dr. Peppers a day--that's what did it."
   You can get the wrong leg amputated by a doctor possessed with the spirit of a cheating wife, her slowly removing his scrotum in metaphorical fashion, this anxiety contained within the theater of his mind.  Maybe we should let androids run the whole show and just be lost numbskulls--people are always going to screw up--shit happens, but don't force it to happen.  Why butt into the lives of busy folks?  Furthermore, just take a look at what the tempted teenagers are into.  They're all medically doped, absorbed with kill games, and yet some determined ones enlist in the Navy, being better built than this old man.  And isn't that what family is for--to be assholes?  Not all of them, or all of the time.  When my Grandma was in her 80's and chain-smoked with us, she drove me so crazy that I hid in my room at times, telling her beforehand that I was going to the track and bet on the ponies.  Thus, who needs more interruptions while staying alive?  Go watch the last Rambo movie and see how it works out for you.  

Physicians & Attorneys bombed on psychotropic medication

   
   "Physicians & Attorneys bombed on psychotropic medication"
   
   Should you be allowed to practice law or medicine if you're imbibing psychotropic medication?  I know attorneys that drink the shit out of it, feed their fat heads with tons of psychotropic medication; plus, I know medical students that do it as well--WTF?
   How many people in this country take something, especially pharmaceutical pushed garbage?  2/3--at the minimum.  Moreover, they're total drunks, like some Deputy Dawgs I know.  
   Look at Kennedy's medical records?  What did the last President take?  Yet non-FDA inspected substances of potent purity are banned, because fools party, play video games where all they do is murder people, and frequently flog the bishop to the gyrating images of exploited young women and men.  Physicians lock us into a prescription protocol that has no damn right to be dictated by the deep state.  You've seen the drug pushers in the doc's office, carrying suitcases full of contagion--you don't think they get reports back; plus, kickbacks?  
   We got along just fine, and even better at times when America was a Free Country.  Now, it's all about control, the common people getting engulfed in a quicksand mire, losing their status, as our handlers merge and herd us into a global web of corruption.  The Ten Commandments, if followed--allowed a people to retain their geography, from everlasting to everlasting--that was the deal.  If America continues to break the True Law; next, we will be sucked and stuck into a binding glue.  Oh screw it--just go ahead and burn the Bill of Rights, for Congress thinks we're all nothing, when they cheat on their wives, spit on the Flag, and massively import people, not out of love, but for political purpose.

Leia Rescues Luke [1080p]

Monotheism versus Polytheism--Arkansas, boy!

   
   "Monotheism versus Polytheism--Arkansas, boy!"
  
   All of the gods exist--the determined documenting of the Talmud and Bible Itself is poetic and Hebrew-witnessed proof of that, axiomatic; moreover, King David and his wise son imported herb, spice, clean water, wine, beer, defense, chances, pure and simple health care; specifically, Nancy Reagan says:  "Just say no."  I will--to crack.  But a beer and the garden do not determine character, or if; next, poetic and attempting in the suave of survival--at the least.  
   Pictures of Freya, Nordic fixation, concerning the hue-infused vibrance of tasting colors hang in my atmosphere, like when you were a kid and craved Frankenberry cereal, got your scrotum snatched by a white-coated doc every 12 months, and had dentists drill your teeth, when they never needed to.
   Maybe love, or reverence for the American Indian, knowing at 18 years of adolescence how it feels to be in Arizona, at the witching hour, having anchored a Mustang 8-Cylinder on a dry heat surface; plus, knowing the seriously strong stare of approximately 20 Apaches, and yeah--I didn't feel like a cowboy, but a little awkward, like the intruder, and I knew I should never forget the ways of them home-grown upon this terrain, as if maybe many mixed, yet the living history of a hat's tip.
   Yet Jesus Christ hangs above the rest.  A Crucifix is wise, above all objects, in your room, having nothing greater or before Him.  Grandma always exclaimed:  "Just live your life by the Ten Commandment and forget the rest."  I guess it's that simple.
   Maybe a friend here and there.  Labor-living.  Men, whatever color--cool guys, and elegant chicks. Everybody gets shit yet has the counterpoise of a personal power source.  This country just can't simply absorb everything.  We are great--NOW.  Have mercy Uncle Sam.  The Bill of Rights does totally hang in my heart; furthermore, the Declaration of Independence hangs in my room, and a Southern battle flag with thirteen stars, but Old Glory hangs higher.  Hey, Arkansas made me the soul I am.  Nobody has more turf-forged quartz than those guys--in a way.  A place yet to be discovered by the future--in my opinion.  So yeah--God is Boss; however, an infinite number of sometimes pestering possibilities.  Jesus just seems, well--kinda extraordinary, forged in Holy Script and Spiritual Sublimity.  

Voltaic Junkyard--cuisine of casual

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--cuisine of casual"
   
   And constant consumption of Gatorade, as if surfing on the sonic signals of thunder, or stampeding on that Brave-Heart tundra during Special Teams play @ full speed, the shakes are infused, not just mere milk, and even if--yup:  Nestle Quick, but everyday?  What else.  Sheila was fed up with cage free eggs.  She went to the grocery market like everybody else, used the sanitizing wipes upon entrance; next, pushed a buggy and made not government decisions on diet, yet her own, whether buying sugar cookies, pickles, or blocks of hearty SWISS--she simply figured it out on instinct, not minding a Vitamin C here and there, better absorbing the iron, when eating upon the chewy munch of organ meat, and it's not a crime, though was to Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli.
   Sheila always got the sparkling water gelled with a B-Complex source, and found almonds beneficial to stool evacuation; moreover, a hyssop drop during the dreary days wasn't bad, yet always a Cherry Coke, and then some, on the weekends, for every girl, even a She-Hulk minus the girth deserves random sugar, or so it would be so nice.  These are the products they're offering us.  
   She had piloted the Boss 302 to the store.  She left in a casual prance of white-letters rotating and dual-exhaust growling like defensive German Shepherds, with that wolf's recent snout and uncanny smell of milkweeds and all the rest.  But rock and roll never died, for history will always exist, knowing nasty was never fond of an early bird dinner, where silver hair comes alive.   

Voltaic Junkyard--anchors aweigh

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--anchors aweigh"
   
   Adam didn't quite comprehend the HAPPY DAYS episode during which Ralph Malph was cruelly criticized for wanting to be a sailor, get a grappling hook, wear stripes, and have a Primary Military Specialty of Gunner's Mate.  Nothing gets a woman more loose in the loins than the Cracker Jack uniform, unless all they want is the money; then, they marry an officer, and the UFO didn't even bother to talk with the F-18 pilot off the coast of California, yet it talked to Ezekiel--wonder why?
   Of course Adam knew they'd call him mentally ill anyway.  Yet attorneys everywhere take Lexapro, Effexor, Xanax; next, wash it down with a bottle of Dago Red every night; then, give people bullshit, grope women, and are celebrated for serving the Lord of the Apes--where is Tarzan when you need him?
   Adam knew he wasn't like Sheila.  So special.  Built for war.  A conductor.  Still, he had couth; moreover, just a down on his luck guy with a comic book collection and a duty of hubcaps and more hubcaps; plus, socket wrenches and all the rest.  He didn't know if he wanted to leave the junkyard or not.  It was his home.  Sheila was his sister, angelic as she was, and always in her prime, ready to give him a quicksilver defense at a moment's notice; indeed, she would always make mercurial haste to save his bacon.  What a girl.
   He owed her.  Too, he owed himself.  But more importantly, he knew he was put here to please God; thus, he contemplated how to do that, drinking a Bud Heavy and glaring at the neon-cheese of a Motherly Moon.  

Jango Fett vs. Obi-Wan Kenobi HD

Voltaic Junkyard--hey Bubba Cheese

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--hey Bubba Cheese"
   
    Sheila recollected the residue of past memories; next, breathed herself in; then, breathed herself out, kinda going off like an atomic bomb, emptying the theater, and filling it only with herself and the Spirit.
   Hit so many times in the past, infused by way of false testimony, plotting, and every trick in the fake book to make her trip, yet a good right hand to the jaw usually settled things for her.  Like Frodo Baggins, that homely hobbit from her past, attempting to corrupt and smear her reputation as he hated himself, knowing that no matter how much money he had--he was still trapped in the body of a dumb dweeb, always wearing the noose of a necktie, and once, it got stuck in a mercurial shredder at his office as he was erasing his phony forgeries concerning Sheila; moreover, that unflattering salmon tie, hooked into light machinery, pulled his pubescent face towards the actuality of almost being shredded itself, until after a quick giggle, his secretary hit the cancel button, and the jerk-off remained on the planet for a little while longer.
   Yeah, Sheila knew they were all full of shit, so she built a wall around the junkyard, that sublime perimeter, to keep the contagious vermin from penetrating from what they couldn't have--control over her; plus, they were always pondering a slimy juggle of her bodacious breasts--she could feel it.
   She was filtering out all the darkness, it all culminating with laughter as she remembered telling a shrink:  "What about premonition?  What kind of mind-altering, brain-sedating medication are you going to give me for that?"
   Sheila flexed her bicep, grabbed a wrench, and tore down the big block of a Mercury armed with a 351 Cleveland.  

Song of Solomon--Chapter 5:1-2

   
   "Song of Solomon--Chapter 5:1-2"
  
   I AM come into my garden, my sister, my spouse:  I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honey-comb with my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk:  eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved.
  
   I sleep, but my heart waketh:  it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled:  for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.  

Voltaic Junkyard--adoration of nature

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--adoration of nature"
  
   Adam was lounging alone within the cramped yet salubrious situation of his junkyard scenery, not minding the metal, yet adoring the outside--unlike Sheila.
   Specifically, birds entertained him--he was amazed; moreover, marveled at the elegance of their flight and aeronautical achievements made with swift ease, as if instinct to fly; plus, survive.
   Too, he enjoyed She-Hulk comic books, and the pages were clean--it was the fictional art of a beauty, but not like his sister--yuck!  For he knew Sheila also fancied the green super-hero chick with a great punch.  It was his chance to exist.  But he had to make an exodus from his mundane labors, not out of lack of appreciation for what the junkyard gave to him--a history, a place that he came from, and in Heaven will return--if ya know what I mean.  Everybody is a unique soul--forged by the fuel of God Almighty; however, that doesn't mean His Son (Jesus) was not the surfer Jesus type.--never bound by the law as He was True LAW, following it with ease.  The rest of people are mostly schmucks, everybody, even those with kind hearts or money or a player in the Canadian Football League (CFL)--ya hear me.
   Ah, Adam did not discount his fortune, even if it was so casual.  And being casual is where it's at--not like that, but be yourself, kinda.  For True Law does exist.  Yeah, Adam liked birds, She-Hulk comics, and a surfer Jesus.  Not so bad.  

Voltaic Junkyard--instructed not to love

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--instructed not to love"
   
   Sheila knew her take-out delivery guy well; moreover, she trusted him, ya know--not to sprinkle some of this or that on her food.  He was a cool Chinese kid with a clean spirit, and long hair, as if woven from mystic silk.  She met him at the gate, waiting all lean and chiseled in camouflaged manner--God knew what he was doing when He constructed her, and that She-Hulk look in her eyes might frighten the rest, but Bao (delivery guy) knew she was sweet and cool.  So, Bao pulled up in his rice burner; next, did a Peter Cottontail hop out of the economically-inclined automobile and offered her the sanitized cuisine.

SHEILA
Thanks my man--always a pleasure.  Now, have a good one.

BAO
Why you always rush me off?  Why you have no friends?  You gorgeous.  No boy toy?

SHEILA
You want it plain and simple?  That's how I fly.

BAO
Of course--you sweet girl Sheila.

SHEILA
Some people are instructed not to love.  And we all yearn to be loved.  And I know the right passages; specifically, the types of love.  But fools think we're all like them, not knowing that an angel's kiss can be more innocent than marriage from two people who don't give a rat's ass about each other.  Not everybody is into rabbit humping--get me?  A touch from anything that wishes you well--it's freaking electric.

BAO
You like Bao?

SHEILA
I love ya guy.  Extends her hand, which Bao takes and shakes.

BAO
Wow--strong grip, and yet--so lovely.

SHEILA
Have a good one--till next time . . .

Coyotes in neighborhood this morning

  
   "Coyotes in neighborhood this morning"
  
   At 3:00 AM I awoke to the sounds of yips and yaps.  Didn't want to mention it, for don't need overzealous law enforcement hunting these creatures; however, I must, for the coyote is a teacher; specifically, a wise/fool.
   While being stalked and hunted all their lives, one killed every minute in America, the coyote is one of the most loyal animals, usually mating for life, and loving their pups.
   If you don't fear them--they can't hurt you.  They teach us to laugh at ourselves, not take our lives too seriously; plus, warn us of trickery.  
   I exited my suburban stronghold, armed (ya never know), and went out to take a look around.  The Moon was not visible, and there were moving clouds with only a smudge of stars ornamenting the Heavens.  
   I wish them well, and am always aware that there are very few coincidences in life.  Long live dogs.  

Voltaic Junkyard--redneck barbecue

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--redneck barbecue"
   
   Adam thought he'd listen to a little country music, though all the chicks in the business wore high heels and party dresses, when they really needed blue-jeans and cowboy boots, with a straw-hat to match--for hasn't reality television showed us enough fat asses?  And what man would want a fat ass?  Of course many non-evolved types have their heads--FAR UP THEM!
   He remembered the girl in his youth, and as King Solomon mentioned--that's the one whose bosom will entertain you all of your days.  She wasn't curvaceous, and definitely wasn't sitting on two tubs of low curd cottage cheese.  She was just--nice.  Sweet.  Honest.  True Blue.  Blonde, for real.  Blue-eyed; plus, wore the casual cool of a baseball cap on Saturdays with a pony-tail cascading lovingly behind, swinging angelically across her invisible-winged shoulders when she gave motion to the force of her soul.  Most importantly--she gave a damn about him, and that's all that mattered; however, true love is a rare occurrence, for envy gets the best of onlookers.  Adam missed her.  And now, all he had was Roger to pal around with, go to the bar with, and they'd both talk about their overly mundane lives--Adam not knowing Roger was a federal informant, of course.
   Adam had luck--it was just all bad.  On the other hand, Roger had class--it was just all low.  Boy, we gotta untangle this yarn here.  

Voltaic Junkyard--an innocent child

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--an innocent child"
   
   Sheila held the child in her hands, if only in a dream--her youngest brother, David; moreover, he was just like her, before they murdered him--the story goes:
   David--dead @ birth, basically.  A father soon to have gone crackers, channeling all the iniquity of the world, yet David didn't even live long enough to see him go.  What happened to the kid?  What didn't?
   Blamed for things on the playground, which he did not do.  Pulled off the monkey bars--his face smashed.  How they followed him.  Weird dental visits.  Parkinson's-like jerking during sleep.  Boils upon his face.  Girls told to stay away from him.  The girls that did so, calling upon demons to murder him.  Hated.  Mocked.  Spit on.  Sickly.  Arrested due to manufactured speech.  Even Sheila couldn't help but lie to him, as if he was a magnet, drawing in perpetual destruction; at the same time, his purging, penance, and devotion.  Sure he sinned, but not like the others.  Buried and hidden, the truth was from him.  And he channeled all their hatred of a Good God.  The bull-like man in the chair, that he witnessed seeing.  His nightmares.  Doctors said it was psychosomatic, the chronic pain.  And how many times was he poisoned, yet they chalked it up to an immune disorder; however, Sheila knew that made the murder look clean.  
   David's place was what he described as the Rainbow Lights.  That infusion of hues beyond the gravity of contempt.  An array of colors that led to Heaven.  He went first.  Next, Dad.  Driven mad himself.  Nobody would help.  As if her entire family was bad news.  Well, save those outside the circle; specifically, the ones not marked, and they were wise to stay away, or lacked courage.
   Sheila would not accept these things.  Would fight to the end.  Would break her own back and keep going.  To hell with being a martyr.  If the world wanted her dead too; next, it needed to come and get some.  Meet her in an alley.  Face her.  The world only hated her, because it feared her.  She knew her place.  And the cowards would not corner her, as she desired.  They wore masks, spoke with forked-tongues, and there was no bravery to be seen, on either side.  No prophet to illuminate.
   She knew they would kill Adam.  But they wouldn't get her without being tortured themselves.
   She got in the Boss 302.  Went looking for trouble.  Always kinda did.  She made the Sign of the Cross and kissed the Crucifix around her neck.  Knew that the greatest of ALL men was murdered Himself.  You know why nobody liked Jesus Christ in His day?  Because He exposed everybody.  Pulled the mask right off the world.  People weren't fond of that. 

Wolverine Bar Scene | X-Men (2000) Movie Clip

Voltaic Junkyard--slovenly simians

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--slovenly simians"
   
   Adam was restless, worrying how he would afford his next Bic Mac.  Mr. Ronald McDonald, not particularly a salacious clown; however, he had raised the price of America's favorite synergy--cow merged with funky though fabulous filler, for there isn't enough cattle in the world to account for the infinite numbers of hamburgers produced.  So, you can always go salmon farming, or duplicate food, not like the American Indian having a pure hunt; specifically, a clean America, no lung cancer on the record, a life of pure water, herbs, spices, non-antibiotic fed mammals and fowl; indeed, Mexico isn't the only country that is infamous for its crusty crab water, just go to Michigan, or mostly any place in America, where antibiotics and high levels of fluoride and such really do a number on the pseudo-free folk, especially those allergic to fluoride, and many are.  Whatever happened to the silver bullet of colloidal silver?  I guess the modern world prefers the heavy metal of aluminum, liking us to get as much of that shit in us as possible, and preachers still blame rock and roll.  Oh well, the United Nations admits wanting population control.  So, in his sleep, Adam could see his flickering candle spark, and a long-haired angel of strength emerged, glowing electric--he introduced himself as an aspect of the Nazarene, Samson.  

ADAM
Holy crap!  Am I dreaming Mr. Samson?

SAMSON
A lucid dream.  Now listen son--don't be such a wussy like all the American attorneys.  G. Gordon Liddy was the only ass-kicking officer of crooked courts.  And I was a true Judge, not these black-robed pricks today driven by politics, paid off, getting wet panties or pup-tents in their shorts after they sentence a man, and in a supposedly Free Country, where you can't even speak anymore, and touching somebody with a finger is assault--just look at the fragile fruitcakes who forged those unlawful laws.  Back in the 1950's, all cool guys had a heavy right hand.  Sinatra, Dean Martin--they'd just level a dude for speaking mean to a good dame; however, most American women today are trolls and tramps, but that's not my point son.  There will always be chimps.  And remember, of all the mammals on this planet, nothing masturbates with more ferocity than a chimp.  They smile those big monkey teeth and yank with monstrous zeal to further damn themselves.  Boy, was Darwin ever a dumbshit, for the mighty Samson didn't come from those things.  I hate bananas too.

ADAM
What does all this mean?

SAMSON
Go punch out a guy; next, kiss a delicious dame; moreover, always talk to God, take your vitamins, and if you're going to stuff yourself with Big Macs, make sure to put turmeric root on it, and drink plenty of distilled water infused with minerals.  The Body is a Temple--let nothing bad inside, neither the mind nor corporeal aspects.  Get me?  But a hot piece of apple pie is okay every now and then.  

ADAM
Yes sir.

SAMSON
Cool.  And don't conform.  Be your own singular soul, connected only to the Good Ghost of God Almighty.  God Bless you son.  And I'll see you on the flip side.  

R2D2's Message To Obi Wan and Luke

Voltaic Junkyard--federal informant

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--federal informant"
   
   Roger was not actually Adam's friend.  He was a federal informant, allowed to break American Law in order to get to Sheila.  Unfortunately for the rat, before Sheila's father was transfigured by many an essence in the sky, he told her, having a mental breakdown:  "They're going to kill my children."
   So, Roger played the loser, attracting Adam; as a result, he had vampiric entrance into the junkyard; however, little did he know--there's always a bigger fish, and they may not be totally human; indeed, Sheila had friends that were watching him, and if they hurt her; next, it would be devastating to the sinister snitch.

* * * * * * * * *

   Sheila knew something was off.  Adam had never had a friend a single day in his life.  The poor kid had lost both parents and was replacing hubcaps for beer and Big Mac money.  Yet Sheila didn't wanna go all mighty She-Hulk on Roger just yet, for he was working for people as well.
   Sheila hoped for days of old--though they were corrupt as well.  Still, the metaphor of Abe Lincoln Vampire Slayer seemed sublime to her.  But Abe was tall, had a good reach, and only engineer-styled dwarves carried battle-axes.  Nothing makes complete sense; however, as King Solomon mentioned:  "It is God's glory to conceal things, and the glory of Kings to unearth them."  More or less.  

Escape from New York - Duke dies

Voltaic Junkyard--roadkill hypocrite

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--roadkill hypocrite"
   
   Sheila was kinda pissed that some charlatan wearing the white collar was actually married to a twelve year old boy in the Caribbean, not having the prestigious privilege to have the words Jesus Christ or Virgin Mary in his adder's mouth; thus, she ventured beyond the border of the beautiful junkyard, found the rancorous rat; next, punched him in the Pineal portion and stepped on his body like Our Lady of Victory always does to the pugnacious pretenders.  Some Churches get economic kickbacks if they import asymmetrical slime.  On the flip side, there is always a Warrior Pope, Heaven-Sent on cleaning holy house; plus, doesn't mind a lady in a short dress, for there is nothing wrong with the appreciation of beauty, unless you're a sleaze and want to try and wreck it.
   Sheila was vindicated by the use of her furious fists, as every lady has the right to punch a bully in their face; moreover, even a little boy, stalked, has the right to punch a predator in the face, or get his Jewish mother to do it, and SHE already has.
   Sheila loved America, the freedom of fisticuffs, better than the men who use guns cause they got no spirit; however, we all need warriors, and every man has a right to carry a piece of steel.  You never know when the One, True God will call you to kick some phony's wicked ass.  

Doctors prescribed me poison yesterday

   
   "Doctors prescribed me poison yesterday"
   
   While most physicians aren't honest--some are fair.  Got a prescription yesterday that would've basically tortured me.  What, are these guys Bush League or phonies?  People--always read everything about the medications you are taking--never take blindly; moreover, food is medicine.
   Another shooting, very ambiguous--was it staged, in an allegorical sense?  Now, loser shrinks that drive many children to suicide by prescribing SSRIs get to evaluate people; next, put them in institutions where more poison is prescribed because nobody wants a Free Country, but a police state run by Barney Fife and phony lawyers that aren't or never will be Ivy League material. 
   Remember when a man carried his own steel?  And if he was sick; then, he got honest help--it never being corrupted, remember?  Nope.
  Remember eggs were bad in the 1980's?  So was coffee.  Now they're good.  WTF?
       

Voltaic Junkyard--Wang and Egg

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Wang and Egg"
   
   Sheila was out walking Wagon-Tail (more or less) through the metallic junkyard; plus, other pieces of scrap like rubber and rough dirt haunted the facility, for there was not really grass within--only outside of the fencing, on the protected perimeter.
   She was caught in a lucid state of reflection, remembering:
   Uncle Jack in his torrid teens, 13 years of age, the 1980's, having a 50-Special with dual-exhaust and high RPM levels--sucker could hit 53 MPH with sparks flying out of the exhaust; moreover, Jack took that motorcycle out of the suburbs and into the city on multiple adventures, viewing BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA damn near 14 times, eating cheese dip, quietly, among the entertained audience.  He always wanted to be a truck driver, liking the characters of Wang and Egg, especially since they had a sacred mission to go on with Old Jack Burton.
   Sheila snapped back with a cool sizzle into the mystery of March approaching, the return of feathery birds in brilliant hues, and the wildlife as if resurrected, people and animals living in a gregarious gel of goodness, and the junkyard even got raccoons.  

Voltaic Junkyard--Aquila, the Eagle Constellation

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Aquila, the Eagle Constellation"
   
   Adam and Roger at the Waffle House, wisely not ordering scrambled eggs, for anybody can drop them on the floor; next, pick them up, put them on your plate, and you'll never know.  Too, when you drink coffee out, always drink over the handle, for less people have put their mouths there.  Anyway, the twosome were cautiously drinking their java, discussing, more or less, nothing anybody would give a rat's ass about, mostly.  

ADAM
Put a gun in a young man's hand and he feels like a super-human.  When will these people realize it's not the case?  Live by the sword, die by the sword--Jesus put that one out there.

ROGER
It's more satisfying to put a blade into a man anyway.  I mean, I wouldn't know, just heard it from a gang member when I was up in Buffalo years ago.

ADAM
Trying to save up money to get a good telescope.  Been thinking about American Freedom--the Eagle and all; thus, was pondering the Aquila Constellation.  Altair is its brightest star, and the Constellation has a myriad of deep space sky objects; plus, the Glowing Eye Nebula.

ROGER
Do you think we need girlfriends?  Look at us--we're losers.

ADAM
At least we're not crooks.  Look at Congress, or every attorney in the land--it's like 90% thievery.  

ROGER
Yeah, they don't want no near death experience.  Or maybe they'll just come back as a dung beetle and eat shit for the rest of their lives.

ADAM
Isn't that what the phonies are doing already?  Damn, I wish Han Solo and Chewbacca were here.

ROGER
Yeah, we need girlfriends.  Sad part is--we'll get dumped sooner or later.  Oh well, that's why there's beer.  

Kenobi Meets Jango [1080p]

an arctic wolf is acting friendly in canada

Voltaic Junkyard--animal fat

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--animal fat"
   
   Sheila was in a moody mode of relax, which was quite difficult for her, the young lady liking to be heavy on the gas minus the beans; regardless, listening to her Ham Radio, and broadcasting her own vociferous music sometimes, and without a license--but what the hell was anybody gonna do?
  Weird noise by way of antiquated radio waves in the night, like:  Eat animal fat if you have neurological problems, and put plenty of spice on it; plus, read DUNE, and prayer is meditation, just a jumble on the mix and merge of doing something beneficial for yourself or others.
   Sheila could also channel--anybody, and at any time.  She felt guilt here and there, but dark forces always attempt to infuse guilt because they're covering their own stinky shit.
   She was talking to Saint Mary Magdalene, her having similar blood, and a sisterhood of celibacy was inspired, knowing true love is in giving the rainbow kiss to the luminously illuminated, and not in incestuous manner, but as a child, spending and sending everything holy, which sizzles away the bad cell growth, being yourself, and knowing that you too can tune into things, even wolves, like did James Taylor, getting them reintroduced after much mutiny and murder, when they have always been friends of good men and women.
   One time, a coyote was caught in a wolf trap.  For three weeks it survived, the other coyotes bringing it food and sustenance, like a true, loving family might; indeed, New York City maybe should live side-by-side with these survivalists, for the true vermin would be gulped and gobbled, and nothing can kill a coyote save a horny toad, so some say.  And nothing ever dies unless deemed by God, for energy generates matter, always and forever.  

Voltaic Junkyard--small block

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--small block"
   
   Sheila giggled as she felt the flow of a facing wind get sucked into the ram-air intake of the somewhat, from certain perspectives, small block Ford; indeed, the 1969 Boss 302 was not to be forsaken, especially--out of the hole, like a high-velocity bullet.
   Sheila was also enlightened as to not be all personal sizzle and craze, though loving herself, yet never containing the light completely, allowing it to penetrate others, pink hearts and all that Kerouac jazz scripture--an asymmetrical beat, though forged by the Holy Ghost, haunting in spectacular shimmer, distancing her from the whirlwind, which of course she did not sow, only using her weaponized potential for defense, like with an art of the hand and foot--nothing else.
   Why prove the large breasts like a she-male, when the man prefers cupcake cleavage, not needing loud noise, though sometimes a GOODYEAR BLIMP is needed to spy Staubach and Bradshaw at the Super Bowel, when Rocky Bleier played with as much pain, if not more, than any man--I ask?
   Sheila steered the Boss into the junkyard, a soft growl of gristle grumbling, and the rubber on the heated wheels finding home-base, as if youth-inspired matrimonial innocence, from everlasting to everlasting.  

Prequels--Fleur-De-Lis

   
   "Prequels--Fleur-De-Lis"
   
   It transcends Joseph Campbell, by a zillion.  Nothing new under the Sun.  STAR WARS got sloppy with Lucas' remakes?  Bullshit.  Fleur-de-lis.  Unicorns.  Virgins.  
   Yeah, Anakin should've never hit on Padme, for only a virgin can tempt a unicorn, and the virgin can be persuaded if not wise; thus, test all spirits.  Regardless, without their copulation, there would be no Luke or Leia.  Oh well--the horsepucky (Colonel Potter here) always splatters on the rotating fan, especially when you're not like Jango Fett, cloning a single child, and not getting live-action with sloppy women.  Or just be Han Solo and hang out with a 7 foot tall canine-like creation, and know that true loyalty outshines romantic bliss, for women talk to women--about you dude!  And sometimes, how to allegorically kill you.  The world is full of bad advice.
   Just be a smuggler or gambler, knowing your best friend is yourself, unless you have a friend in Jesus--He never lets you down; specifically, Isaiah Chapter 53 seems to fit a bit; however, Christ had a bit of Samson in Him--both Nazarenes; plus, both of their Mothers were supposedly unable to have children in their condition, curious.  And Mary had to be part Levite--inviolate, pure, and clean, for as Her Litany wends:  "Ark of the Covenant!"  
   And when you open Her up--there is the Living Word, the Law Itself--so some would argue.  Maybe even me.  

Holy Fire--a Samson movie!

   
   "Holy Fire--a Samson movie!"
   
   Was sinking sadly into sorrows; plus, that of my over decade old terrier and her gimp-like strut; next, I just caught a swift glimpse of a SAMSON movie preview--HOLY FIRE, as my pal Jeremy used to say at old First Baptist in Little Rock. 
   Dude was a Judge, and not crooked, never eating tuna salad after a fake trial with the jury-picking attorneys in the business of purchasing phony justice. 
   Anyway, I heard a voice say:  "I hear your power comes from the One, True God."  
   People, even bogus physicians have told me not to read the Old Testament.  Get over it.  God has warriors on His team, not just wimpy buzz-cut monks that don't know karate.
   Why doesn't the Church get some allegorical Jedi Knights?  Let the Priests carry swords as did the First Bishop of Rome, Saint Peter.  Don't need no back-up high school football players that became wimpy deputies guarding the Church.  An old lady could take them out with a cane housing a .22 shell within the tricky chamber.  Never can tell.
  So, good to see SAMSON is coming to theaters, and that some women really will kill you, as it kinda went with him; however, he got the last word--or better yet, his God did.    

We all got it coming

   
   "We all got it coming"
   
   From Clint Eastwood--ya know.  I run a tight ship--nobody else really gives a rat's ass.  Dishes, garbage (always wanted to be a garbage man, for real), people shit, dog shit, cooking, dishes, lifting, lifting, more lifting, even things beyond, worked and slaved to the core with no portion on paper, beaten down, no social joys save the wildlife, and can you blame me?--have you met your best friend that wants to lay your wife?  Shit has always been going down, and affects all people; however, some are chosen to be metaphorically targeted before others.  Look at politics--who'd want to be in that racket?  Let us wend way back, going retro to a Free American West.  No pollution, no heavy Federal Complex, honest law enforcement dictated by true survivalists, Native American lore and the Earth, and being non-locals, we must enter not with papers, yet with determination and steel, though, laughter alongside Trump, and a better appreciation for his Free Speech that mercurially makes for a tickle in the pinkie.
   I expect a surgical environment.  Can you blame me?  I'm taking care of two sick people, my battered self, and a dog with a limp.  If you come to help, in any form; next, help--do not fool around in front of the downtrodden, for even they can get pissed.
   When they diagnose you with disease--that's cool.  Just don't give up.  You'll get yours, but fight for now.  What the hell else can you do?  Life is not meant for the wicked or wimps, and the wicked only bring grief, false testimony, and accusation, without telling the guy at the bar--how it is.
   Have a beer--shit, you're going to die anyway.  A while back, my Mom seeing visions, and she blurts out:  "Not today."  Moreover, 600,000 people fade into nowhere every year.  Maybe they get out, somehow.  But not all to a good place--me thinks.  

[ESB] Meeting Lando (HD)

Voltaic Junkyard--Watching the Oldies

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Watching the Oldies"
   
   Just with the black and white, Carter Era rabbit listeners, and you can still tune into the tube; plus, hook up a VCR and watch Captain Solo blast Greedo before he fired first; next, cowboy saunter out of the Galactic Cantina with a toss of some heavy metal, well--enough to pay off leaving a dead bounty hunter behind.
   Sheila whimpered at the thought of society, enforced without the Western aspects of cowboys, thinking STAR WARS a type of Space Western before the Space Samurai theme set in.  She'd been arrested for tagging a local park ranger after getting tongue-lashed by a lewd enforcement chick with a "I hug trees" badge; still, she didn't have to throw dead dogs into a furnace like they made some do in Arkansas after getting snookered into a state of probation; indeed, a shoot-out for survival in the Outer Rim seems not ridiculous, and that outer-space justice system seemed appropriate when people are pitching tents in America, and the water has morphed toxic in so many places.
   Sheila owned no firearm, going old school with the wandering monk weaponry tucked underneath her feminine frame, as if she was dainty, but Earth's energy, spawned on her own set of ideals, having her character alignment matched with a set of principles for all of her purposes, never magically shape-shifting though, but remaining cloaked in her own wardrobe of wondrous armor.
   She took a random muscle car out and bought some RANCH PRINGLES at a local gas station that had a Pac-Man video game in the corner; plus, a washroom that housed a crusty sofa.  Go figure.  

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

Voltaic Junkyard--Roger's Visit

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Roger's Visit"
  
   ROGER ON THE STREET LEGAL KX 200, THINKING MAYBE IT WAS A TWO-CYCLE, AND WHILE THAT MADE YOU BUZZ AND SPIN ON THE DISMOUNT, THE NEON-GREEN GAVE HIM FORTUNATE FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY--YET MAXIMUM POWER MUST BE USED TO PRODUCE A GOOD CROP.  SO, ROGER AND ADAM IN THE TIN BOX.

ROGER
Your sister is very talented.  Is she single?  Don't be a bodyguard brother, nor let me have her easy.

ADAM
Holy crap, that's my sister man!  We got an alliance here, two weird guys down on the dumb, and you can't go making time with Sheila--she'll take no garbage or bullshit; she sees through it all.  Says I'm too passive and unsure.  That young lady is a war horse.

ROGER
How did she get those chiseled arms and legs, yet not fatty, just tone and like a model?

ADAM
Prayer, vitamins, and no stress from society.  All she has is the junkyard and that wacky dog.  It's her mission to make the junkyard a temple, of sorts.  She knows everything is real--inter-dimensional things, phantoms, saints, angels, truck drivers, hookers, firetrucks, alien craft, and that comical guy back in the 1970's that bit potato chips and made a crunch or something.  Are you lifting up what I'm laying down?

ROGER
You may be more like her than you think.  

Voltaic Junkyard--Boss 302

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Boss 302"
   
   Sheila didn't have time to poorly ponder her brother's trepidation concerning the stalking--screw his accusers, for look at all the horseshit they dropped on the range.  So, after curing the manor, for the junkyard had a circular perimeter, meaning a grassy barrier, before the red-painted fencing; next, all the automobile industry that had been broken and forgotten, and Sheila was the physician, healing her mechanical patients with TLC, now:  working on a 1969 Boss 302, jury-rigging the intake over the carb, making sure the upgraded four-barrel sucked in more of the race in front of her.
   She didn't go for the bling-like jazz of white letter tires though.  A bit of humility makes muscle even more chiseled.  Sheila wiped the grease off her forehead, put the wrench down, and there was a bowl of Kava Kava next to her, and as they do in Rarotonga sometimes, she imbibed the smooth relax, and felt the purest part of the Pacific offer a kiss-like breeze of polished peace.  

My Baby loves me - Lyrics

We are here to please God

   
   "We are here to please God"
   
   A family member told me to blame God--never.  Sickly most of my life, and in a lost place, I saw two things--the first image was wicked and iniquitous; next, I laid down, felt like I was falling, and there was not just white light, but an assortment of brilliant colors all gelled together, yet I was not ready to go there.
   People with certain physiological traits say that we always get in trouble for things we did not do--I totally understand.  Or they push us, and we react, fiercely.  
   When I was a kid in Catholic school, there was this priest who called my mother everyday, saying horrible things about me.  I surmise what his intentions were; however, I would never insult the Church that has preserved the Lord in His most ancient sense.  Yet sometimes, you have to speak.
   It's like the Virgin Mary telling Her Son:  "Don't do it Jesus; they'll kill You."  It seems to have went that way, for how can the BEST Mother not care so sweetly, yet even She knew--His purpose would be horrifying, and Her heart would be pierced by a sword.
   And Jesus did it.  He shot His mouth off--if you know scripture, and had not one ounce of wimp within.  And like Samson--He could not be bound.
  We all are here to please God; however, there are dark forces attempting to thieve away our instinctive love for the Creator, God.  
   So, don't ever neglect your prayers, even if not able to make it to Church, and pray the Rosary as much as you can--even numerous times daily.  And if you want to take a page out of King David's works, remember:  "Wine to make man heart's happy, and herb for the service of man."
   Sometimes, liquid courage is not all bad--if followed by green tea brewed in distilled water.

Stephen Hawking is worth it

   
   "Stephen Hawking is worth it"
   
   Where did all the white people go in America?  Just kidding.  And I always wanted to be a member of the Mohawk Tribe mixed with some Icelandic ethnicity, to better endure the winters.  What?  Ah, I like being a mutt.
   I'm not a fan of Stephen Hawking's unearthly opinions on the topic of God; still, he is a brave and potent warrior, charged with intrinsic determination.  Anyway, what if they had just thrown him in a home, jacked him up on garden-variety bullshit, never talked to him, washed him, fed him, loved him, and threw him away like most people do with the lame?  Isn't it a beautiful thing that he lives, and is preserved by people who actually give a shit?  And plenty of us are worth it, and while his mind is uncanny--he still isn't Jesus Christ, but oh yeah--they murdered that guy, in front of His Mother and a friend He loved--Saint John the Eagle.
   When my mother developed neurological problems, almost a decade ago, little hints were here and there, like her tripping, acting like a goofy adolescent girl, and always worrying--I just thought she was wondrously wacky.  She was being pushed so many downers and anti-psychotics, and I have them all listed, yet they won't be mentioned here, and remember--she's been falsely diagnosed, numerous times minds you; indeed, from Alzheimer's to Lewy Body Dementia, even Parkinson's--but they don't know.  She talks everyday, loves to eat, goes for rides, watches Westerns, or any movie with Cary Grant. 
   So, I took her off most meds, maybe, and spend everything I can on vitamins, spices, and herbs, which of course the family and doctors say don't work.  Knowing disease and death myself--it works for me.
   But that's the gist of it.  If Stephen Hawking was your father, would you not give him something alternative to what the corrupt pharmaceutical companies offer?  Would you write him off and toss him into a home where nobody gives a shit?  Would you sell him out to the government, so you don't have to do any heavy lifting?  Seems like that's what the garden-variety soul does.  And hell, when I was in the hospital with only 1/3 of my blood in my body--the simian nurse told me to just go ahead and die.  These medical experts are so wise and all-knowing aren't they?  They don't even understand Rh negative blood.  Should I not mention that?  Will they come to get me today?
   It's a Free Country, or used to be.  And while some of us have been so sick our whole lives, unable to function in society as we know the protocols of pernicious people, well--it's just beauty to watch the birds, see the squirrels, and know that we are not alone in our sickness and loneliness.