Rumblitis--Chapter Three

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books
  
   THREE:
  
   Yuletide dreaming daringly--them chivalrous days concerning the monastic art of a gallant Green Knight armed with Wolverine's Healing Factor, decapitating poetry for the pulse of EverLast; alas, Ray's doorbell chimed, pulling his lazy slobber off the creature comfort of a cushioned getaway, directing him throughout a well-groomed household till upon the cherry wood floor of a brilliant foyer shimmering in the fiber optic Saintliness of Santa Himself; then, greeting the guest by way of revealing his inebriated essence, opening the front door, letting in the illumination of the celestial ocean that sparkled behind an eyeful of Doctor Basil Loveflesh, him as erect as an out of work meerkat, smiling like the sensually wicked demon he was.  And thus, he spit out a joyous jingle:
   
   Christ is born yesterday and forever,
   Making me wish I had worn a reindeer-patterned sweater,
   For the miraculous mirth of Yuletide and all its elves
   That are the charity known as classics upon my bookshelves,
   Being Proust and Joyce,
   Making me blessed with the best literal choice
   To enwrap my mind 'round a damned dime novel,
   Reading the past like Obi-Wan is an old fossil.
   
   Doctor Loveflesh wrangled Ray's intoxicated saunter to the epicenter of a dandy den--yes, Green Bay versus Seattle bright upon the animated shine of Reality Television, sort of.  So, Basil with:  
   "Ray--what's up with that ugly ass Seahawk uniform?  Total non-linear, asymmetric art like Warhol's shit.  Give one of them birds an antacid tablet and they'll flat out explode in mid-air."
   Ray rattled:
   "And we can drown puppies later."
   Basil pushing:
   "Where's Lieutenant Commander Spinoza?  Probably taking a toxic dump in one of your shoes."
   Ray snorted:
   "What's up with everybody and my hedgehog's bowel function?"
   The twosome into the symposium of a spirited night, talking of Xelba's uncanny phantom, more prescriptions written, and an imperative urgency to deny all traces of mystical hallucinations in order to conservatively promote a healthy American Society, whether that is bullshit or not.  Ray reminding his visiting physician:
   "It's Christ's Birthday for Christ's Sake.  I want some mysticism here--get me . . ."

Rumblitis--Chapter Two

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TWO:
  
   Back within the comfortable confines of a stereotypical residence near the Canadian Border, Ray recklessly reclined upon the fun squish of a Lime-Green Beanbag, observing the artificial bleach of a White Christmas Tree billowing bright by way of Rudolph's nose-like neon hung within the fake branches.  Xelba coming and going as benevolent ghosts usually do, haunting with the sophistication of saving energy for the most epiphanic information, and Lieutenant Commander Spinoza, the family pet, a hedgehog no less, gleefully dashing over the confederate gray of carpeting, putting a parental smile on Ray's drunken countenance, him feverishly pouring eggnog spiked with Captain Morgan's mind-altering bite into his awaiting gastrointestinal tract, it rolling down his elongated esophagus from the pristine likes of a kosher pickle jar--Ray a frugal patron of the cunning capitalism.
   Xelba sliced into corporeal reality, smirking in flirtatious fashion, running an intangible finger over Ray's receding hairline, his 50ish physicality and facial features reminding her of Luke Perry's thin yet handsome magnificence. And she blurted:
   "Does Spinoza crap on the carpet?"
   Ray like:
   "Has a litter box--you know that."
   Xelba cackling coolly:
   "Just testing your intoxicated status--you always did have a soft spot for excommunicated Rabbinical Scholars."
   Ray knowing that Christ Himself was tossed from the Temple, spiraling eternally down a large hill in theological defeat, embarrassing His Immaculate Mother, though the apex of awesome, granting the glorious gift of soothing salvation for all the freaks and geeks of planet Earth.  Xelba then reminding: 
   "The Packers play the Seahawks tonight--gonna watch?"
   And Ray, exiting into the theater of his mind, having the remembrance of reverie, him taking the long snap from an upside down center; next, putting the top of his foot into the desiring pigskin, lifting the odd-shaped ball near 60 yards skyways and like rolling thunder into the astonished arms of an adversarial return man.  Yet Ray did not dare hate himself for having modestly played in the mysterious CFL, for only the enchanted talent of anthropological androids get to mix it up within the monstrous might of the NFL.  Regardless, Ray, back into reality, focused upon the angelic face of Xelba, grinning a chipped tooth amidst the dental decay of yellowing stains due to menthol merged with nicotine, it making him all the more human, wishing he could run a loving hand through the dark energy of her spectral hair, having had loved her like a champion before suicide enlisted her into the ranks of Empyrean--truly, Xelba loathed dealing with Clinical Depression due to the Federal Government inserting its monopolizing self into the States' Rights of marijuana-free Montana, thieving away the much-needed medicine that could tame the demons of despair.

Rumblitis--Chapter One

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Dramatis Personae:
   Ray Rumble:  An inquisitive quasi-stallion, having heroically played within the romantic isolation of the Canadian Football League located beyond Green Bay's frozen tundra, punting with Herculean performance--now:  A mystical inhabitant of an undisclosed Montana suburbia.
   Xelba:  A spectral apparition armed with the corporeal reflection of a ghostly glow, offering Ray the sublimity of solace, though unable to physically pour him a life-easing cocktail of the vodka combination.
   Basil Loveflesh:  Ray's Freudian physician; specifically, a well-lathered shrink ornamented in the finest of intellectual gifts bestowed by a Loving God.
   Staci Rumble:  The Holy Ghost, and how having adulterous imagery of carnal copulation concerning Her Awesome Self is the only unforgivable sin as mentioned in the methodology of the New Testament.
   Lieutenant Commander Spinoza:  Ray's pet hedgehog--allowed the freedom of roam throughout its captivity being a suburban habitat.
   All The Rest:  I haven't created you yet . . .
  
   ONE:
  
   If the Almighty, Abrahamic God knows the fateful future; next, everything has already happened, and we are upon the pulsating perpetuity of a Super String Wheel, it craftily churning our architected and always intentions, this repeating in rapid rhapsody, allowing:  There is no Free Will; as a result--God is the Author of Life, and so also says the War-Battered Bible.  We have been constructed by the awesome art of intelligence, proving evolution exists in the fabric of man's physiology, yet human consciousness is a gracious gift granted by God, allowing a devil's creation to get out of hand.
   Ray Rumble regretted retreating from the official roster of the now known "Rider Nation" hidden within the frigid brag of Saskatchewan; nevertheless, bumming his soul Southwards, searching into the Native America that forged his essence and made him an Injun--his casual Caucasian mix of over the pond and beyond making him a compassionate creature created for the American Spangle--this being a luscious country grown towards opulent cravings, and he was like:
   "Damn."
   Glaring at the glowing gleam of effulgent Neon-Green Cheese hanging in the star-kissed sky--yes, Ray was taking a piss, dousing a ground-dwelling fern flinching from the passing incarceration of inhabitants once residing within the urinary tract and a bladder upwards . . .  Again with profane utterances:
   "Mother of pearl."
   It was all like a dream, Xelba aglow in the cascading elegance of a blue-black mane gleefully peeking over her angelic shoulders, framing a vampire-like face made pouty by an anemic complexion pedigreed in the regal plush of flamboyant-red lipstick, eyes too gleaming great, smoky made, offering consolation for the humility of the color brown--so fine . . . 

Proust And Joyce: Sublime Synergy

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   James Joyce, desiring to be a vociferous vocalist, offered:  "Genius makes no mistakes."  And I'm a dipshit, determined by dyslexia or something synonymous, forging the drunken fabric of Made in China sewing, though their love of the authentic American Automobile beckons beatitudes amazing.  Regardless, my humility is not ushered in by way of unearthly piousness, yet portrayed sincerely, me knowing that I am the best of mistakes and folly concerning the faulty nature of man; alas, armed with a double digit IO, damned to be daringly different, I can only discipline myself in the apex of authorship, whether I might mimic the linguistic greats or not.
   Was it:  William Carlos Williams--the poet/physician, like a spy upon the intellectual copulation of Village People being gay like Proust, him mostly adorned in a fur coat no less, Joyce, a negro erection forecast from his pursed plum suckers, blowing ghostly billows of American tobacco into the European winds--or so I believe.
   All basketball players steadily thirst to be the genetic duplicate of Michael Jordan.  Football--totally Joe Montana.  But most of us are mediocrity at the end of the day, though we try, eclipsing the wisdom of green-hued Yoda because we're not perfect; thus, pencils have erasers--this, a Southern Baptist Deacon keen on the book of Revelation taught me.
   Nevertheless, our primary function is to perform at an ultimate velocity; hence, the 9mm usurps the .45; specifically, spraying prey with the German-Dreamed mercury of high capacity outshines the steel fist of bear-killing ammunition, though this is an African-American preference, as well as mine. As a result, I'd rather have 17 rounds than less if inhabiting a creepy cabin within the bucolic bush of it all, having to crazily cope with multiple invaders who might intrude upon the inviolate virtue of my adolescent daughter yet to be lovingly tamed by the hands of desired coitus from a similar soul caged within her complete category of self.
   So--Proust and Joyce are the best.  I'm a douche of yet unknown flavor, and yes, yeast infections are prone with the irrigation of overused cleansers, though better than the piston-like entropy that promises hazardous reincarnation making you migrate, always, in the hellish direction of Pandemonium's promising mire, bleeding scabs like Wolverine, healing into the forever of mistakes made by the repeat of bad karma; hence, create your own brain, being determined and damned to make no mistakes. But we all do--and I'm a prick for mentioning this . . . 
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Tebow: Definite Defensive End, perhaps . . .

  
   As always-my books:  King's Books
   Known as completely "the Freak", Jevon Kearse was robust quicksilver upon the glimmering spangle of a grassy green arena; nonetheless, Tebow wears the mystic might of Perseus' winged scatterboots, if Zeus was his god of worship anyway, moving like mercurial dynamite as he strongly stampedes into the attacking upper body, corporeally wounding suffering defenders.  As a result--Tebow could play Defensive End in the NFL--imagine the glorious glee of intentionally annihilating the rocket arm of Peyton Manning, tossing his less athletic self to the floor of the field, though not with the unlawful uncouth of bullshit bounty, yet sheer athleticism let loose on Game Day.
   Kearse "40" and height/weight:  4.43, 6'4" 265 lbs.--the apex of approximation.
   Tebow "40" and height/weight:  4.71, 6'3" 240 sumth'n.
   And remember, Tebow runs like the ravaged Rocky Bleier, damning tacklers, proving my point that he wears brass bones underneath a determined dermis; also, resonates from High School action, remembering this:  High School Coaches ask their possible Special Team Players:  "Can ya hit!?!"  The athletically amorphous, charging crazily down the field as if Sir William Wallace berserkering into the beauty of an animalistic zone, hunting tailbacks like a beloved SEC coach feeling important since playing in the most competitive college football conference.  Too, Tebow could "take" Big Ben Roethlisberger, not minding that the Steeler is like Gene Kelley in the ever-collapsing pocket, dirtily dancing with the "push off" strength of being a human sasquatch, and soon he will do Beef Jerky commercials.  But what do I know, only having played Gremlin Football till thunderously stunned by the anthropological transformation known as puberty, where adrenaline drops, revealing the necessity of a cruel fit concerning the perpetual torture of jock straps that continually offer cramping by way of a notorious motive terribly uncomfortable and able to entertain with "scratch and sniff" possibilities.  It can be hell to play with balls in your teens, testicles churning you stupid . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The Art Of Death--Part 2

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Like the mighty menthol to bacteria--religion kills the psychological trauma of death.  Krishna, adorned in the effulgent azure hue of Smurfberry Blue, shimmering colossal against the giant, this mimicking David's Goliath takedown, whether in futurity or before the mass exodus of a Torah scripted, me thinking:  Time like a curvature of SuperString Theory Forever, a perpetuity of rebirth and suffering Hellenization, agonizing at the hands of comedic gods.  And what did the Hebrews ask of Christ:  "Is he Elijah?"  As if the transmigration of souls might haunt the Abrahamic Religions, birthing a super flux of forever, or scattered atoms and gathered into the Borg Collective, though that bio-mechanical monster would not be clumsily cumbersome concerning its own self, yet athletically agile, like the liquid metal of T2 offering insight into the pulsating pectorals of Arnold Schwarzenegger. 
   Religion offers the smooth soothe of solace, especially Christianity, where bad karma can be constructed, yet a hint of Evangelical Pulpit-Pounding offers a terrific eternity through the unselfish sacrifice of Christ, that mysterious demi-god, fanatically forged for the sublimity of humility, meeting the damned devil, ignoring the tempting taunt of:  "Want all the women?  Whatta 'bout d' money?  Freak'n fame?"  The Christ Man denouncing all opulence, bowing down to the dictatorship of an awesome God--the Hebrew God, the most powerful of all the gods.
   Indeed, many a Roman Emperor, including that dude dubbed Marcus Aurelius, his auto-biography read every year by the now Vegan Bill Clinton, it offering:  "Yes, the gods do exist."  It wasn't mythology to Marcus.  His wife, hatching infancy without the aid of his spermy synergy, yet him low and modest enough to raise with intellectual copulation, mind-melding his brainiacish beatitudes upon a non-genetic lineage of love. And thus, the Vulcan prayer for the corporeally defeated:
"May you find a peace in death that you could not find in life."  Christ, Science Fiction is like reading the religious rants of Thomas Aquinas, blazing with spiritual insight into the gleaming ghost of beyond, if not then, architected into another, choosing your own adventure for a spare glimpse at the ever-turning wheel of life, Ezekiel spotting that circular craft, landing, Biblically, though obscured by modern theologians, them complaining:  The Priest of the age 30, stoned and stupid on the river Chebar, what idiocy, or concealing that Godly merge, them wanting to make it covert mysticism.  But it happened, or a crazy ass Jew was more of a modern genius than Tom Cruise himself, plugged into the symmetrical perfection of an alien religion, usurping the challenged minds of Hollywood Folk believing it to be an insidious cult that heals to thrill or some bullshit like that.
   All in all, our existence is intelligent design.  The atheist being the universal dolt in lack of imagination, at least, fabricating fiction where there is God.  Carl Sagan, in all his visionary coolness could not ensnare or wrangle the idea of an alien species traveling over such-many-a-light-year, yet modern physicists of today know that space can be folded; hence, wormhole availability for the Grays who are prone to anally probe the human rectum; plus, slaughter cows, like celestial cow tipping for those blessed with over-sized craniums full of space brains.  Look, it's all real.  Get sick--go to the doctor.  Get in trouble--go to the lawyer.  Get interrogative--go to a Priest, Rabbi, or Caliph.  And this is for a reason.  At least the Muslims conceal some of their women's curvaceous cunning, showcasing a sensitivity towards the beauty of creation--nothing is all bad, Islam meaning SUBMISSION, and Christ getting deadly for salvation--what is more unearthly, and real, than that?  So forget the art of modern proof, as through the Spanish Mystic Saint John of the Cross, scribbling a theological equation for ascetic entry beyond the Pearly Plush Of Always--it like:  Purgation +Illumination=Union.  The 3 Ways.  So don't just adjust yourself to the lengthy lectures of college professors, but find the counter-culture, going deep into mystical texts like THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL or THE EGYPTIAN BOOK OF THE DEAD, being brave enough to hopefully not be cursed for observing such radioactive material, your face maybe glowing, like Moses from down the mountain, having clearly communicated with the atomic elements of a technological God.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Human Sexuality: The Apex Of Folly

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Never would a righteous man be incredibly intrepid enough to tame a toxic womb; furthermore, the odoriferous chemistry of pussalicious contagion enchants them not; still, myriads of mild-mannered men are caught observing PLANET OF THE APES, peeling their peckerish bananas, eager to violently thrust within a reeking vaginal cavity, not minding that yeasty cream is always an infectious possibility--the modern girl gallant enough to dangerously deny the immaculate benevolence of peppermint douche, which also promotes healthy bowel function, beyond the lip-like labia, where resides a self-cleaning oven--what hogwash.
   I imperatively urge all foolish females to meticulously douche, imbibing the bacterial inertia of Live Cultures from Greek yogurt while dreaming of John Stamos; plus, take the dietary supplement known as acidophilus pills, keeping them refrigerated for an even fresher cleanse of gregarious genitalia--women enjoy sex since the 60's, the eager exposure of the clitoris deeming them anthropologically-constructed for multiple partners.
   Why do men thunderously thirst to hungrily spread the lesser sex, hoping for wicked entrance until the demon of discharge contorts their countenance like a country singer vocally animated by facial expressions of anguish and sadistic suffering?  Where is Free Will?  Sex commands man--makes him a slave to seduction.  Hence, ask a Freudian physician to remove a testicle, crafting you more docile, or plead for chemical castration--all in altruistic hopes of dismissing ape-like lusts to lasciviously lay the pipe.  Men are morbid monsters, deconstructed spiritually by a million nagging sperm spawned daily within their sacs of eternity.   Thus, to transcend the terrible trauma of humanity outshines the admiration of your own ejaculation, denying the magnificence of a low rent Moll ornamented in talocrural region tattoos and shiny-pink pumps, wanting to be ogled by masses of men; next, ravished till stupidly squirting, as if this type of fluidic climax makes her lover the best of men.  Verily, Big Deal if men grossly glare at your buxom blessedness or hearty thighs, for men will boldly bang anything--this does not make you special ladies.  Nor does back door entry, which is similar to getting a recreational colonoscopy for kicks without the tranquil effects of conscious sedation.
   Truly, there is no Free Will save in the awesomeness of asceticism, and we are all chimpanzee-like coolies without proletarian humility unless disciplined by a cosmic conscience constructed towards a targeted lunacy of Earthly denial.  I'm guilty of being Curious George as well.
   Sincerely, Mark David King