Free Will for Jesus the Christ

   Free Will does not exist!

   A young and thriving female dog in heat will do anything to creamaliciously mate with a probing male hellbent on fornicating for the sake of his non-neutered testicles, dangling for the purpose of sheer elation.
   Alas, we do not have Free Will.  Whether animals have consciousness or not (according to Descartes).
   I am fine now.  Still, hours from now my cerebral capacity may forge an instinct to engage in coitus with a shimmering blonde female of the human variety; thus--I will do it, enjoying the Earth-Like, mortal image of a modern Freyja and the champagne yellow kiss of the Nordic gods.  Nonetheless, I must be realistic and embrace the university of EVERYTHING.
   But, c'mon.  Free Will can't exist.  Guys kill other guys for the love of hot girls.  Guys will do anything for a hot girl; next, wake up, realizing hindsight is 20/20.
   We are all incarcerated in the sum of nefarious hatred towards the Abrahamic God by way of our innate biology.  Indeed, life gets worse.  You get sick, maybe bowel cancer, pooping blood till sanguine death, carrying not the altruistic nature of the chopped-wood cross yet a toilet seat ornamented in the mire of a former bowel movement made at a local, bucolic cuisine establishment frequented by hillbilly zombies, or so I think.
   Regardless, we all make mistakes.  Zimmerman accused of murder when some young, mercurial adolescent with pulsating adolescence in his blood system, beating down the dude, proclaiming, "Hitt'n you in the skull cause I mean it!"  Still, should we imprison this man for decades, castrating his effect on American Nature?  And what about castration for the Moon Pull of diabolical rape?  Once, a wicked government castrated a flesh-driven man for rape as his punishment; next, he strangled a young girl and violated her with a broomstick.  Can't we brainstorm better; plus, treat our incarcerated brethren in a sublime fashion that will forge them into decent human beings not under the physiological spell of their desiring loins?
   So, check out all my books for theological, anthropological, and current event shit: King's Books!!!
   Be well, Mark David King.

Tebow versus NFL

   Verily,
   orgasm has no gravitational pull over Tim Tebow.
   It is all scrutiny and the rest of nasty crap; alas, Peyton Manning wends his weird to Denver, becoming a Bronco; however, resonating to the cyborg arm--the CYBORG ARM.  Truly, Peyton never gets his shirt dirty.  An All Pro and AFC Champion, Peyton has the right to feel the awesomeness of privilege; still, Tebow took his team beyond the AFC Wild Card, without the mercurial assistance of mini camp, nor the first starting dates defeated by the quarterback Kyle Orton.  Peyton started and culminated with an AFC Wild Card Victory though didn't eclipse Tebow in the progression of play-off wins.
   What if Tebow was African-American?  Totally, Newton and RG3 have eaten up the highlight films with their agile acrobatics carrying the beloved pigskin; nonetheless, Tebow's Invulnerable Doug Flutie protects him, giving sanctuary for offensive touchdown rushes--the best option man in football.
   All in all--does his Flamboyant Christianity eclipse his talented function on the grassy field?  Regardless, Tebow, and I am too drunk now to further expand, outshines the competition with the grace and humility of Saint Francis; plus, he is wicked, besmirching, becoming an Earl Campbell with an accurate left arm graced by the speed of Hermes--and Tebow will never get the Hermes Virus.
   Sincerely, Mark David King
   Totally, buy my books:   King's Books!!!

Gillian Flynn versus Thomas Pynchon

   It was 1922-the dualism of literary epics spawned.  James Joyce, drunk as an Irish-Cowboy Skunk, strolling down the dirtway with a MonteCristo aflame in smackalicious lips, knowing:  This is the superlative book in the English language, and its name is--Ulysses.  Still, though transcending the purity of poetry concerning T.S. Eliot's Waste Land, also forged publicly in 1922, the difference between 30 pages and 300 protracted  pages all determines on how you view the Django Unchained of Ulysses.

   Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl proves to punch out the sublime hysteria of Thomas Pynchon poised with counterpoise, offering Buddha's Best Fantastic; alas, we need to get serious.

   During normal days, contemplating the ambiguous words of Pynchon, though Gillian Flynn like a surgiucal knife, sincerely cutting away the fat of the lamb.  I like it.  Never had symmetrical foundation before, a run-on sentence, running-on and on, crafting cause for criticism, knowing Internet Eyes are  spying on you.

   Pynchon will always remain unclear and effulgent by the blinding radiance of poetry gods; still, Flynn offers the supermundane aspects of modernisn, meaning:  The casual killer remains un-outshined!  Story trumps the English Language.  Lord Bertrand Russell, beyond the control of linguistic axioms offering:  Common Sense does eclipse the Queen's Brit--her English Chords formed like F. Scott Fitzgerald being the perfect pussy, penning to the control of script, offering the most sane of manuscripts, though enchanting with the bliss of utopian suburbia.

   Gillian Flynn writes like a genius.  James Joyce proclaimed:  "Genius makes no mistakes!"

   And to hope for the sancutary of mercy--the evil undead and magnanimous living, hoping for fuel to the next life, a transmigration of dreams and desires, us them, illumintaed by way of our faith and hope.  Pynchon is the serious read, head crooked and intent upon unearthing the heated desire of personal passions.  I just really, really like Gillian Flynn's Books.  Better than anything written today, sculpted by a lady's hand . . .

   How was the THIRD Hangover  movie?  I was thinking about buying a Sugar Glider for my Wheaton Terrier to play with--nicely.  And I thought nobody could stun Pynchon, but Flynn with a Better-Than-Scooby-Mystery, NICE. 

   Mark David King

"My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY!" a nymphonic novella

   My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY!  @  Barnes and Noble.Com or look inside @ Amazon:  Buy "My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY!"

   Not a sincerely perverted piece of my own nostalgic matriarch, but an elegant telling of a cultural starbursting know as Cougarism.  What guys internally brainstorm about their pimped up, older ladies, lusting internally for the well-built behemoth of lazy youth, and for him, "May she be buxom, my blonde god."  I just don't want to eagerly admit that this nymphonic novella is a genuine piece of nasty shit.  But maybe . . .

   And when does it end?  When does the young guy generate cerebral mass and notice the creepy crow's feet?  But young guys can handle a little wrinkle in the tinkle--especially if she puts out like a Hong Kong Whore ornamented in the smooth of cool, spiked high on tramp heels, and having a seductive skirt offering many-an-enlightening glimpse all the way to Miami.  But I prefer for this "modernism" to be anthropology at its finest.  And with "Cougarism" the anthropological axiom dictates:  "When she gets them varicose veins, he's gone."

   Nonetheless, romance furiously flows best when something scandalous is to be gallantly usurped.  Or better yet--trumped in copulative (sexual) fashion.  There is definite chemistry between the antiquated older woman loosely armed with a tired twat and the crafted action of a young bull; moreover, she engulfs herself in the singular idea of sex as a sport, and love as the frosting on top.  Not bad.  Love can be unearthed.  Love can be fathomed and found.  Betty White likes to eat beef jerky.
  
   Romance is Bliss, and never should blame itself when two weird people are gregariously gelling for whatever purpose.   But about the book, My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY!  Brief intro:

   She's not a cat, but a middle-aged woman in heat; indeed, the wicked womb webbed with decay is the fart-feeding character in quicksilverish pursuit of her sonic youth and lost libido.  A pre-pubescent poet dubbed Jelly Roll and the inviolate Virgin Mary attempt to thwart the insidious pixes forging her internal COUGARISM, yet resistance is a cruel bitch clothed in the purpose of a better culture.

Here's an excerpt:  Nevada loved him--hell, she ached for him, all caught up in the pelvic enchantment of sport sex and long, sloppy French kisses till southwards upon her orgasmic attention and internal desire for the euphoria of timeless youth.  Verily, Randy was not her cake, but the icing on top.  Nevada could take care of herself financially, could entertain her intellectual wit with a circle of well-polished girlfriends, but getting laid really, really good and the glimmering effects of having eye candy as a boyfriend made her all the rage, and she delicately devoured the jealousy aimed in her seductive direction when she would go out to dinner arm and arm with her young stud--all the middle-aged Betties ogling the awesomeness of what she had underneath the physical pleasantries of silky sheets, it making her young forever, giddy constantly, and of course, she now wore only thongs underneath the thin layers of her outer garments, like a lucky slut, yet so divine.

Alas wends the weird way of culture, like a trickster god fornicating with us from the ruthless ranks of wicked Empyrean--just like them Hellenistic Deities to denounce an angelic aspect of humanity with gloom and doom; therefore, take your VIAGRA old man; next, initiate masturbating or dreaming of creamy copulation with Betty White and the cobwebs of a broken womb.

   It's a bizarre but cool read.  Yes, we all make mistakes and suck bricks.  But you'll like this.

Sincerely, Mark David King

Virgin Mary--the superlative Queen of Angels

   Even Jesus Himself would bluntly offer:  "You can say bad stuff about Me, but don't you dare talk bad about My Mother."  Regardless, Protestantism lasciviously lacks the sublimity of classic couth in knowing the Virgin Mary's inviolate awesomeness.
   Verily, Jesus was a demi-god; specifically, He was half God--thus, we call Him God; next, He was half human, or his Mother.  Jesus, as Occam's Razor does boldly suggest, has 50% of the exact same genetic material as His immaculate Mother.  As a result--that was Her gore and sanguine circumstance marching to Calvary and made defunct on the Cross.  And what is worse?  To die with magnanimous humility on the Cross yourself, or watch your only Son lose His precious lifebreath, succumbing to a state of physical entropy--for the moment at least?
   And all His Disciples abandoned Him that fateful day save the one He loved--John.  Yet the Virgin Queen remained intact and involved in Her Son's bizarre yet sacred life.  She was the original ascetic for Christ, alive in Him, just as He was biologically alive in Her--it was a symbiotic relationship--a soul sacredly forged for sublime purpose of redemption.  Jesus would not exist if not for the Virgin Mother.  She spawned Him into existence by way of virginal ovaries touched tenderly at the age of 14 by the Abrahamic God.  And once this proud God did so, adoring and loving the Queen of Angels, why would He allow that inviolate womb to experience the decay of Joseph's seed?  Alas, He did not, for Mary was His.  She is the symbol in the Torah stepping on the demonic head of the adversarial adder.  She is the Virgin mentioned by the Old Testament prophets, them knowing:  "And He shall have no foul in His mouth."  For it is all innate here.  The Genetic factor of Christ being a 50% duplicate of His adoring Mother.  They are the same as you are your mother and father.
   Nonetheless, only the Catholics and Orthodox respect and admire the perpetual cool of Mary.  Hell, even certain sects of Muslims praise Her more than Protestants, which goes to show you how uncool the Reformation really was, thieving away the virginal gleam of Mary, slapping Her Son, your Lord and Savior in  His beloved countenance that was the shimmering gleam of His Mother's mien; indeed, Jesus would absolutely proclaim, boldaciously so brethren:  "You can say bad stuff about me, but don't you dare talk trash about my mother."
   Most of the books I write have mystical communication with the Blessed Queen of Angels.  She is a character in Sean Hannity's Theocracy; Plus, The Virgin Mary LIVES! / My Mom Is A Cougar--NASTY! / I'm Gay, And I Hate Myself:  American Loser / Transcending Twilight:  Angels Eclipse Vampires.  Verily, she is a staple of my poetry and prose--you can check out these books here on my Amazon.Com author's page or buy some of them on Apple iTunes:  Mark David King's Books!!!
   Thus, check me out.  And in time of sorrow, attempt invoking the miraculous might of the Queen of Angels--it's the apex of mystic mojo, poetic and divine, having a mother's love, eternal . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King

"About Britney Spears And Male Genitalia--An Anthropological Treatise" on Apple iTunes

   About Britney Spears And Male Genitalia--An Anthropological Treatise is now available on Apple iTunes, or can be ordered at Barnes and Noble.Com or Amazon.Com--here's a link:  Mark David King's Books
   This brief tale of teenage torture follows the lascivious likes of Merlin Asterchat and his younger brother simply dubbed Jelly Roll.  Merlin has just been sexually denounced by a high school tart turned insidious by way of his pathetic size underneath timid trousers; specifically, she laughed at his small, curved manpiece, blurting out descriptive details to her and Merlin's entire high school class.  Moreover, sexual news in high school travels with more mercury than even Einstein might have theorized; hence, Merlin becomes a laughing stock and scholastic exile, avoiding with due conscience the likes of anybody who might know him.
   On the flip side, Merlin's younger, pre-pubescent brother offers optimism, all in hopes of recharging his older brother's sexual batteries.  "Be who you are!  Don't be ashamed!"  Wends the advice of wise young Jelly Roll Asterchat; nonetheless, Merlin crumbles, unable to humble himself to the fact that he has a small penis.  Thus, he explodes into an adolescent runaway, unable to shake his compulsive visions of large johnsons pleasing teenage tail--something he will never be able to do.
   All in all--this is not a scandalous poetic novella, but a piece of science; alas, it is even contained within the libraries of a few schools and has been studied by a number of nutty urologists.  Jelly Roll becomes the author, penning precise pros and cons about penis size, ranking them from 3 to 9 inches, knowing anything below or above that proves to be sexual hysteria.  He uses fast cars and super hero metaphors to forge linguistic axioms about the truth of the penis--what the certain sizes can do to a woman's vagina, whether stretch a clitoris fantastic, or imp on in, culminating with the humility of premature discharge, offering the dame distress and self hate, her crying on the toilet for hours that her boyfriend is not hung like her sister's.
   Young girls who suffer from morbid obesity get all the attention--no longer!!!  Now, guys with small or curved penis' too can complain and vex about their suffering, and how they are maligned and mistreated by all the pretty girls, knowing pretty girls only pick the big johnsons.  Oh it's true, it's true; alas, Jelly Roll usurps all the madness, trumping truth with trial and error, concluding that all men, regardless of length and girth, have a chance to enslave a saucy babe with bedroom eyes.  Love always gives us a chance.  Love can complete any woman, proving the best orgasm happens in the heart--or so does young Jelly hope.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Ulcerative Colitis: Bleeding From The Inside

   This may be in the category of too much information; nonetheless, I will tell.
   Summer has arrived; moreover, I am thunderously outta remission, suffering the sanguine circumstances of Inflammatory Bowel Disease (Ulcerative Colitis).  Futurity offers me the possibility of having my complete large intestine removed, relying on the singular function of a stretched out small intestine crafted vertical and glued to a reconstructed anus--fun.
   However, due to mental illness, social phobia merged with psychotic disorder--the fun is short lived yet still sought after.  Rolling naked on the floor, putting newspaper beneath me, attempting to have normal bowel movements as the toilet frightens me with linoleum floor possibly hexed by a passing pubic hair.
   Specifically, I can't pass stool.  Urgency, pushing; next, the gore of toilet war--blood smeared fecal matter, bursting forth with the muster of a myriad of Sherman Tanks pounding my large intestine gone bad.  Even Jesus could pass stool.  Everybody on the highways, encopassing my suburban stronghold--freaking EVERYBODY can pass stool but me.  Still, facial or genital mutilation usurps my suffering.  Verily, a large intestine that doesn't function is only trumped by a severed penis or shotgun blast to the face.  How to live when you can't shit?  Relying on the stool softening of laxatives in industrial containers prescribed by magnanimous psychiatrists because your G.I. Physican won't offer you the merciful gift of sublimity--it's all here baby.
   At least the steroids make me feel good.  An injection of rolling thunder and elatation for a number of hours before crashing, gulping down some anti-psychotics and wishing medical marijuana was legal, yet Conservatives wanting you sodomized and incarcerated if caught with marijuana in the Dirty South--these bucolic states rarely as progressive as the West--Jim Morrison giving ode:  "The West is the Best!"
   Regardless, everybody suffers, and till the Genetic Revolution when humanity will grasp godship, well until then, we are all a bunch of sons of bitches, bleeding, fucking, dieing,  I'll be naked on the garage floor, newspaper underneath my rectum, pushing, hoping more than blood leaps outta my bowels.  I love you all--and prayers galore to the worst of you.
   Oh yeah, new book:  ATOMIC GOD.  My books, like Pynchon stripped of cerebral capactiy, still, forging words outta COMPULSION, HOPING TO MERIT HEAVENWARDS.
   Buy Mark David King's Books!!!
  POST SCRIPT:  When you get a blood transfusion, feeling the B Negative souls and consciousness of spirits entering you--it's a pretty cool thing.  God Bless those who suffer from Inflammatory Bowel Disease.  And does anybody know how long you can live without a large intestine, relying completely on the small intestine crafted downwards?  And Ulcerative Colitis and Crohns are sister diseases; thus, what if my 4 colonoscopies are wrong?  How long would a small intestine last me?  2 to 4 years at best, before becoming inflamed and ulcerated.  
   But whatta 'bout you Mac?  It'll be okay.  Say your best Act of Contrition, Read The Brothers Karamazov and blast off to the Abrahamic God--YUP . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King  Too, read Gillian Flynn's Sharp Objects