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.