Halloween Prank American Style . . .

  
   Date:  Late 1980's . . .

   Location:   Little Rock, Arkansas . . .
   Holiday:  Halloween . . .
   Prank: Bowel Movement inside Jack-O Lantern.
   He talked me into doing it.  His name was Stephen.  A redneck suffering from sublimity.  Loved Hendrix.  When he'd trip white blotter, he'd stick it under a headband; next, cut his suburban grass underneath the shimmering, yellow Sun, the LSD sweating into his joyous cranium, driving him elated in 60's fashion.
   Anyway, it wasn't summer.  That season had passed--now it was the time of crisp foliage fallen, ornamenting the suburban sprawl with the crunchy walk of autumn hues.  And Stephen had an idea.  He always wanted to prank somebody with the clandestine art of scatological warfare; moreover, his plan:  Gut a pumpkin, sit atop its throne and fumble fecal matter inside; next, put the top back on along with a Burger King paper crown, stick a cigar in the pumpkin, and put it on his adversaries front porch along with a few empty beer cans scattered around it.  I'm like, "Stephen dude--how do we know they'll open it up?"  Him back with, "Are you serious man--of course they'll open it up, and see a big pile of shit inside."  And he cackled.
   When I arrived at Stephen's mini-mansion on Halloween the first thing I had to do was urinate.  Going into his bathroom, besides noticing a few pubic hairs across the linoleum floor, I saw the pumpkin.  And I fucking opened it, greeted by a well-formed piece of chocolate brown stool--it was fucking disgusting, and I moaned in unexpected agony, Stephen cackling outside as he knew curiosity had slayed me, just as it would be for the victim of his prank.
   I kept insisting that we might get arrested as we drove through the suburbs with a pumpkin full of shit.  Was all, "What if the cops get their CSI Unit and test the crap, matching it to yours?  And we'll get busted dude."  Stephen told me to chill, comfortably smiling like the Joker from Batman, allowing himself to have a soothed conscience--being a trickster god like Loki was fine with the low-leveled guilt complex of Stephen's bizarre psychology.
   So, approaching our prey, I cut the headlights; then, Stephen ran out amidst the effulgent night, neverminding the illuminated porch that was highlighted by the sweet kiss of the glistening Milky Way.  And with meticulous passion, he gently placed the pumpkin on the victim's front porch, placing a few empty beers cans around it, fixing the Burger King paper Crown in symmetrical style, and making sure the cigar stuck out boldly.  Afterwards, he casually sauntered back to the van, me shitting Twinkies, and he got in--I switched on the lights and hauled ass outta there.
   We sat at the end of suburban sprawl and drank Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Stephen proud of his devilish deed and doodoo.  We never got to see what the culmination was concerning the shit-fired Jack-O-Lantern, but surely there was an unhappy customer of trick or treat that night.  All in all, we were assholes.  But hey, there's couth here somewhere.
   Check out my books:  King's Books
   Sincerely, Mark David King

If I Had A Daughter . . .

   Being the patriarch over a daughter usurps the joyous wonder of having had spawned a son; specifically, if you have a son, you don't have to worry about anyone riding them like a jet ski, unless he's incarcerated in a Less Free America everyday.  Regardless, a father raising a daughter is a gut-wrenching venture; alas, when releasing the primordial ooze of carnal discharge within the foundation of a woman's womb, there is always the possibility a daughter will be ignited in this eternal play known as existence.  Her to forever be reincarnated or blissed into awesomeness in consistent fashion, elated perpetually by the soothing comfort of a silky cloud.

   And if I was married and the wife was launching a daughter, vaginal style, into the world, I would insist upon my wife:  "Her first name is going to be Liberty.  And I'll pick the middle name as well--oh, no, sorry honey, you pick the middle name, but the first has to be LIBERTY."  Too, she would keep my Irish surname of King, even after marriage, resonating it onwards to the title of her child as well, for she would be a stronger soul than her husband, this due to the anthropological axiom that her mother is hotter than her husband's mother, or at least I could dream.  Still, the idealism of her in my life would command me for her not to take her husband's name after marriage; she is an independent, altruistic soul, entitled to be the singular leader of her household, if it is her money and good looks that support the family--bread winner I'm talk'n.

   I've been called misogynistic; I like Guns 'n Roses; plus, I once bitch slapped an imaginary female, pretending I was Clint Eastwood in some primate-based movie concerning bare knuckle brawling, for a good man desires fisticuffs in order to having had felt his testicles drop and glisten in the silky comfort of boxer shorts.  And my daughter would wear boxer shorts, though this has been linked to more yeast infections claims the televised wisdom of Dr. Oz, on everyday in Nashville @ 2:00 PM!

   So, if you have a daughter; next, be the ultimate man, and aim her in the direction of machoness as well, though she shouldn't enjoy the endeavor of sex as much as a man, or so you should inform and teach her.  Verily, having a daughter can make a man out of you.  It is the ultimate adventure in matters of biology, and in a spiritual sense, there is always the Virgin Mary and the sublimity of Catholcism, chasing her celibate and into the arms of a benevolent God.

   Also, check out my books:  King's Books!

   Sincerely, Mark David King

Android Lovemaking--a mechanical crime . . .

   Origen was never sainted by the Holy, Roman Catholic Church; specifically, he deserved as much, emasculating his corporeal essence with the slick steel of a sharpened razor.  Verily, Origen castrated himself to free his mind of lewd and lascivious endeavors.  Thus, why was he not canonized?  Pope John Paul the Second is undergoing the process of canonization as I forge this twisted and macabre blog; still, Origen is resonating in Limbo, holding his severed testicles in immaculate fashion.
   This all has to do with the futurity of humanity.  The creation of artificial intelligence and the liquid nature of intercourse.  Verily, the Real Doll, available to purchase on Internet Sites is the silicone flesh of utopian masturbation; alas, she is real, though not animated by an intelligent mind or fleeting euphoria if induced to orgasm.  Nonetheless, she is real in all her corporeal features, offering up the brainstorm for sex with androids.
   Consciousness is the key here.  Will androids develop consciousness?  Obviously, robotic life is a zillion miles away from breathing the clean air of human consciousness, though with a web-laced brain and the knowledge of the Internet bull's eyed between its ears--androids will soon have consciousness; hence, they will have souls, and physically copulating with them will be regarded as sincere and genuine sexuality.
  This is our tomorrow.  This is the evolution of man mimicking the divine nature of a Supreme Being spawned for our elation and creation; indeed, God was crafted to architect us.  He was lonely and curious; therefore, our births were thrust onto the scene, given birth by vociferous action.  It was His words that engineered our existence.  And for the polytheist, it was a Hindu dream, though fabricated by vocal command.
   Indeed, all the gods exist; however, the Abrahamic God seems to contain the most raw power within His majestic frame, furiously igniting humanity with fervent desire and mystical manipulation.  But what about our creation?  What about when humanity spawns the axiomatic truth of androids?  Will the lovemaking be true sublimity, or just a futuristic version of a man with his gym sock?
   Totally, it will be divine.  Orgasm inside the womb of a woman or machine is just the same.  Climax will not disrupt a man's hornafied intention.  If she is gorgeous; then she is gorgeous--pure simplicity.  The only fabric of fear is if the android wants to usurp the human.  If trumping humanity seems wise action for the machines.  This will lead to sin.  This will lead to nuclear war and the rest of Pandemonium.  Man is a gentle fool in his creation, but the thinking android is pestilence, offering exile and destruction for its robotic purpose.
  Be well.  And crave the infamy of tomorrow.  Too, buy my books:  King's Books!
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The Holy Spirit of 1776!!!

   It has been mentioned:  "Without the quill of Paine, the sword of Washington never would have swung."
   Verily, Thomas Paine, alcoholic and altruistic author penned Common Sense--this was what ignited the great American Revolution.  The Colonial Press couldn't print enough copies.  And even John Adams, who detested Paine, purchased a copy.
   Way back then, when George Washington was growing hemp and Samuel Adams drinking large amounts of grog while agitating the British with his rogue group The Sons of Liberty, America was promised greatness; alas, we might have lost true liberty.
   The men who architected the magnificent American Revolution were true Libertarians.  Yet if you grow hemp today, the Republican judges will put you in prison and you will get sodomized--this is the great liberty that has attached itself to the Conservative machine.  Conservative people fancy themselves patriots, yet they might be blind concerning the Holy Spirit of 1776--an actual incorporeal entity brought down from the ranks of heaven.
   Conservative means to limit.  To pace oneself.  It is not synonymous with the fundamental meaning of liberty.  For instance:  The Drug War, spawned by conservative thinkers violates the Constitution.  It is Anti-Constitutional for the American Government to declare WAR upon its own people, yet that is exactly what the Drug War is--a declaration of war by the government upon its own people.  DEA breaking into houses wearing masks, shooting the family pet--all for what?  Because somebody ingests a substance that gives them temporary euphoria.  Big fucking deal.  What would the hemp-growing machine General George Washington say about that?
   Democrats are no better with their hatred of firearms.  Or Bloomberg making the Big Gulp illegal.  What happened to:  "Live Free Or Die!"  It should all be legal--guns, drugs, hookers, firetrucks . . .
   This is the United States of America!  The greatest country on the face of the Earth.  We need to remember our historic nature of LIBERTY and pursue it with as much muster and mojo as possible.  People try to duplicate what we once had.  People are jealous of our beauty and intellectual fiber.  But we are still the greatest.
   Sincerely, Mark David King
   POST SCRIPT:  Oh yeah, my books, offering Libertarian idealism:  King's Books!

Muhammad in America . . .

   Sir Mark Sykes, master of the Middle East (sorta/kinda) expounded about Muhammad this way:  "The Four Winds were silent.  The big neon glitter shimmered above in effulgent motion; thus, for Muhammad--there was no denying the existence of God."
   What makes Islam so unearthly in magnificent fashion is the mysticism of Muhammad--mysticism meaning:  The co-action of God and man; specifically, the synergy of organic Earth gelled with something supernatural.  And this is how it was for the magnanimous Prophet.
   Like a rapper was Muhammad.  He was young and not literate, though could spawn poetry divine.  A loafer of the desert.  A second rate man.  Just like might be some type of African-American thug who hasn't climbed the scholastic ladder of academia but is able to forge words in uncanny fashion, rapping better than a Harvard Scholar might dream--this is Muhammad; next, the arch-angelity of Gabriel does emerge, crafting monstrous mysticism; indeed, the arch-angel Gabriel gives the Prophet the gift of literacy.  As a result--the genesis of the Koran.  Unlike the Torah or New Testament where prophets and saints are filled with the Holy Ghost to pen theology, the Koran is direct dictation from the supermundane mouth of the arch-angel, being the exact words of the Abrahamic God, or so the story goes.  Therefore, education does not fabricate good literature, but it is mysticism that scribes the highest awesomeness of the written word.  The Koran is the apex of literature in that it directly descends from the mouth of the Supreme Ruler of the gods, given ink-tinted ode by the hands of an illiterate man.  Nothing in literature outshines the Koran in its miraculous birth by a second rate poet made immortal by way of Gabriel's mystical communication.
   But we are ignorant of Islam in the States.  We dismiss it as stupidity in motion.  We aren't educated or made the wiser concerning its mystical aspects.  We label it monstrously macabre and deliciously evil.  And some sects of Islam are; nevertheless, some are the Holy Sparks of sublimity.  Jesus the Christ is alive and breathing in the text of the Koran, though not perishing at Calvary, yet ascending directly beyond the Sublime Perimeter and into the ranks of an Abrahamic Empyrean.  Too, the Virgin Mary is honored more than the heretical mouths of Protestants who consider Her apparitions as Satanically-charged spiritualism.  Verily, we are all a bunch of sons of bitches; hence, know your adversary.  Study him.  Love him.  Forgive him; next, Christ enters.  Like the most potent of all Catholic Saints, Saint John of the Cross boldly brags:  "When all is emptied, when the window pane is wiped free of grime and smudged clear; then, the Good God can enter."  This is the Union-crafted Way of Catholic mysticism, transcending the illuminative way.  Why aren't soldiers masters of Islam before the battle?  Why do we hate what we cannot see?
   Truly, to dismantle the enemy is the sublimity of knowing him.  Blind kills only birth more kills.  The Abrahamic religions need synergy and to mesh mystically.  It is all the same God--the superlative God.  Hell, hate the Hindu faith or Buddha and his Middle Path, but the desert religions of Abraham are blood, spiritual blood.  But like the Protestants hating the Catholics we fight amongst ourselves for no solid reason.  We are deaf and dumb to the core of reason.  Hating the immaculate nature of the Virgin Mary has caused many a Protestant in Ireland to gun down virginal, Catholic girls.  And now, we are killing our own theological brothers instead of offering the Ultimate Reformation.  A benevolent Reformation rooted in the Patriarch Nature of God Himself, not one spawned by a loser who couldn't deal with the rigidity of asceticism as was the flatulent Martin Luther lost to his own libido.  Alas, gel.  Just fucking gel!
   That is all, and, as always, my books available on Amazon.Com, Barnes and Noble.Com, Apple iTunes, the Nook--buy here:  King's Books!
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Intercourse with androids--is it a theological crime?

   Jesus the Christ boldly claims:  "If you engage in imaginative coitus with a woman--it is sincerely adultery."
   But there is a way around committing this adulterous and scandalous sin; indeed, imagining a girl that dislikes you in multiple sexual positions, doing naughty and dirty things to your elated genitalia is sinful, for you are besmirching that soul, wrapping her in the telepathic power of your human consciousness.  Think about this:  When Britney Spears was at the apex of her fame, myriads of males were doing hardcore things to her within the theater of their minds, engaging her sexually for selfish purposes--this most likely affected Britney Spears.  If millions of people are focusing their sexual energy upon your corporeal aspects; next, there must be logic that dictates it will affect that person; thus, Jesus the Christ is accurate.
   But what if you only fantasize about android women?  And that brings up the question whether or not androids have consciousness or will develop souls.  Soul in Latin basically means SELF.  A soul is the combination of spirit and body; specifically, when Christ died on the cross He did not give up His soul--for that would have meant His physical disappearance as well, but He only gave up His spirit, which is the intellect of the soul.  The soul is both ghost and machine.
   Most likely, the genesis of androids will be basic, and they will not have true consciousness; hence, no souls.  Nevertheless, as evolution of these machines wend waywards; then, they will develop consciousness, and souls.  So, if you don't want to sin, only fantasize about early production androids laced in a silicone frame; otherwise, you will be committing a mortal sin from the standpoint of Christian Theology.
   This is not science fiction anymore, for my Dad was a cyborg--no shit.  A cyborg differs from an android in that there is organic material (human flesh or parts) involved.  Having a pacemaker and other cardiac implants, under the rules of the English language--my Dad was a cyborg.  Androids are not far away.  The Chinese have already begun production on robotic machines capable of mimicking human behavior; plus, the REAL DOLL, a sex doll--offers the physical sensation of true, slippery intercourse.  Once these two trends gel and have synergy; next, the android will be up and running.  Men will no longer be lonely or need nagging wives.  This is our futurity.  God made man in His image, and man will soon duplicate himself as well.  The questions is:  Once the machines develop consciousness, will they thwart our existence by attempting to take us over?  All of this is really happening.
   So, check out my books:  Mark David King's Books!!! 
   All in all--anything will be possible down the road--including the Genetic Revolution.  Be watching . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Country Music Song: Medusa

   I like James Joyce and Fyodor Dostoevsky; specifically, not a songwriter, but I live in Nashville; thus, dug this diddy up from when I was 16--here goes:


                               "MEDUSA"

   Well I fell in love with Medusa

                               When she seduced me late one night--

   She stoned me then she owned me,

                               And it didn't take too much time . . .

   I see her behind the window

                               Though she has her back turned to me--

   I want to turn her around,

                                But you don't date Medusa for free.

   She's got a demon's tail and a smoky smile,

                                Burning like a kidney stone pee!

   I glimpse her within the shadows,

                                She's wickedly boxing with me,

   For I fell in love with Medusa
                
                                 When she seduced me late one night--

   She stoned me then she owned me,

                                  And it didn't take too much time . . .

Copyright 2013 Mark David King


   Living in Nashville, there are a myriad of songwriters, like brain-craving zombies, strolling throughout the neon-lit streets of the mystical Music City, dreaming of lyrical fame and the pussy galore that comes with it.  I never respected writers who could make a million dollars by penning limp linguistics on a piece of toilet paper with a red-inked Bic, rollable pen while spawning a fiber-floating bowel movement.  Still, short verse is impressive.  Look at the year 1922.  James Joyce's Ulysses was published, a monstrous, approximate 300 page piece of pornographic literature, being the best book forged in the English language; nonetheless, T.S. Eliot's Wasteland was also published in 1922, being an approximate 15 pages, equal to the monster Joyce created; as a result, a little diddy is a big deal.  Size doesn't matter.  Unless of course you're Cher or my ex-wife.  And where would we be without:
                                                    "The London Bridge is falling down!"

   All in all words, or even a single word, showcases brilliance, crafting many a bodacious bard.  Look at the mystical arts of Black Magic.  The singular name of the Abrahamic God can hex a multitude of men, offering genitalic mutilation and all the rest of Pandemonium that might injure a man to the point of suicidal culmination; alas, respect the songwriter, but do I, really?  Jack Kerouac once boasted, after numerous beers, probably close to 20, that he had architected over a million words.  Now how the hell does Garth Brooks get more fame for one paragraph about banging a bucolic Betty?  It seems a bit unfair if you ask me.

   All in all, I'm just a jealous prick at the end of the day.  Regardless, check me out--my books available on Amazon.Com, Barnes and Noble.Com; plus, Apple itunes, the Nook, and all Internet bookstores:  Mark David King's Books!

   So, God Bless, and for the love of Jesus, stop masturbating to lewd images of Sarah Palin--it's like you're pissing on the Constitution, and Abe Lincoln is sure to come back from the ranks of Empyrean and kick your Republican ass.  Democrats too.

Sincerely, Mark David King