Rumblitis--Chapter Seven (The Jesse Jackson Question)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   SEVEN:
  
   Art is the most magnanimous energy of man--available to all.  Ray totally knew:  The dashingly handsome Bill Clinton explaining the Montenegrins and their intrinsic elation to Serbia--Boris Yeltsin spiked high and possibly patriotic concerning the DNA of his cousin-like relation to them Serbs--and Jesse Jackson rescuing, what a tale . . .
   Anyway, the resonation of Christmas continued, and Ray Rumble reveled in the religious aspects of it all; nonetheless, he strongly sought intoxication--for the long-lasting buzz derived from drinking the continuation of beer, a Canadian Lager, having the wild and free imagery of a prancing pronghorn tattooed on the green-tinted bottle, making his vein-filled lips bleed by way of not having a bottle opener, doing it "Man Style", cracking up the ghostly vixen known as Xelba--the perennial twosome outside of Ray's suburban stronghold, night nearing, and the most individual of precipitation falling furiously, painting Terra's Surface and the sprawl of households an elegant white, an no, this did not forecast a passionate desire to snort the frontal lobe euphoria of Obama's adolescent drug of choice--we're all going to hell.
   So, Ray held an Internet-Ordered football, practicing his punts, courageously kicking the screaming swineskin over his multiple-storied, Montana house; then, calmly driving his pulsating cardiac system to a modest level of repetition, building a stronger love organ, it always beating for stealing a glorious glimpse of Xelba's glamorous femininity--her angelically aglow in a trans-corporeal corduroy number, reminding Ray of 80's sci-fi television, when Buck Rogers boasted a bold broadcast, him ornamented in a body glove ensemble sewn awesome in futuristic fabric, Gil Gerard birthing the American astronaut into televised reality.
   Xelba correcting:
   "This is a Godly Blessing.  You and me--here now, though not a chance of ever lovemaking again."
   Ray, wise to the abstract reality of ectoplasmic possibilities, bit his lip, further producing the mild leakage of gore, yet he did not damn God, knowing soon he too would be dead like Xelba; next, alive in the perpetuity of her eternal embrace.  It was all good--as they say, if you can denounce the devil and restrain your sexual lusts, evolution from horny homonids driving us into the dream of dirty minds, but soon Homo sapien magnificently morphs into Robo sapien, proving the realistic vision of the intellectually innovative Isaac Asimov, him knowing that the good gel of man and machine will beautifully birth immortality, or at least offer a lifespan long and sophisticated enough to grant a better vibe of contentment.  And Xelba smiled always, watching her favorite guy trek towards her eager destination--one day baby, one cosmic day . . .

Rumblitis--Chapter Six

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   SIX:
  
   Ray Rumble's wasted reality was never more dangerously distorted than now--being alive in this flat-surfaced Earth, years from today the brain's intrepid growth revealing our well-crafted souls to be the agony and imagery of being within an ethereal microchip intellectually stashed within the beastly belly of a super computer--possibly.  Regardless, Ray, after his mystical cruise with the Living Christ, now horizontal on the spinning intoxication of a living room couch, like leathery butter, depressing the blue-hued body of Krishna as he adores the tortured nature of cows; still, Ray accepted his varying failures, brainstorming the worst suffering of men, like this:  5 Worst Human Catastrophes:
  
   1.)   Facial Mutilation--dubbed "Men With Broken Faces" during World War 1, dealing with having to face the severity of burns, chimpanzee ruination, or tumor growth destroying the central location of countenance known as the Nasal Cavity.
   2.)   Genital Distortion--whether testicular cancer, or worse, penile leprosy, forcing the agonizing amputation of the fleshy shaft; also, women within the African Continent enduring the thieving of their orgasmic clitoris'.
   3.)   Kidney Stones--especially if the size of a razor-edged walnut and in the urinary tract of a male, like giving birth to a bloody tragedy, having to painfully piss razor blades till anguish overwhelms, forcing the need of God-Blessed opiates to reduce the feverish pain.
   4.)  American Capitalism--incarcerates every singular soul into the random flux of schoolyards and 9 to 5 laboring for the diabolical dues of offering taxes to "The Man" without questioning such omnipotent authority; otherwise, become a street bum, get arrested for vagrancy, and cope with sodomy at the hands of the American Prison System.
   5.)   An Adulterous Wife--this, psychologically punishes the potency of man, for nothing is a larger monster than having to deal with another man's behemoth genitalia being inserted into your favorite dame, star-bursting the literal construction of Irish-Spawned ULYSSES; also, cerebrally castrating your carnal confidence, reducing men to masturbating goblins.
  
   Alas, men suffer more than women unless she is overly obese and denied the gazing attention of a twinkle located in the orbs of the other sex--thank God for Dr. Oz and his altruistic compassion towards the wide woman defamed by having Junk In The Trunk.   Though not mentioned, Ray also knew that a 20 inch tapeworm located within the anatomical residence of the large intestine always offers tragic turmoil; as a result, thank God, and he did, for living in Jehovah's Country, Montana allowing medical marijuana that soothes the suffering of anxiety-ridden cowboys dealing with mental demons and the chronic, gore-splattered diarrhea associated with the crimson circumstance known as Ulcerative Colitis.
   Indeed, marijuana grants numerous explosions of physiological reactions, being an anti-oxidant (like smoking broccoli), an anti-inflammatory, a mild amphetamine, a benign tranquilizer, a sublime pain killer, and a non-freakish hallucinogen--none of these pure, chemical reactions overwhelming the user, yet offering smooth solace for almost any medical condition, never being a gateway to the evil of Crystal Meth, yet the miraculous wonder of Mother Nature, blessing a body cursed with the cruel reality of human pain.  So legalize and tax cannabis; next, pay off the Chinese and architect a better Health Care System without the legal insistence of ObamaCare, though Democrats are not brave enough to prescribe that which offered peace to Jack Kennedy's War-Torn spinal structure as prescribed by Dr. Feelgood, and Republicans hung up on their lack of knowledge concerning the poetic psalms of King David as mentioned in the King James Bible:  "Herb for the service of man."  Hence, Ray dozed off into a dreamy slumber, his drugs of choice being alcohol and anti-psychotics, these things manipulating a personal mercury into altered states of awesome.

Rumblitis--Chapter Five

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
  
   FIVE:
  
   The Birthday Boy was ALWAYS arrived--alive in the eternal discharge of a Good God's Holy Phantom; moreover, Ray Rumble was sipping from the reckless resonation of an F. Scott Fitzgerald pewter flask, the alcoholic substance contained within yet to be determined, though possibly a vodka/cranberry mix for healthy bladder walls and the easing evacuation of urine through a non-inflamed urethra.
   So, Christ, pulling into the plush garage of Ray's suburbia, the day gloomed by an overcast of cumulus cloudage--it being a 1969 Camaro, stunning in diablo-black with inviolate-white racing stripes, not having the Mexican-American Cool of a cowl induction option, and bragging a rare and bizarre amount of cubic inches, like 301, a 4.9 Liter, Turbo-Charged flex of American Muscle, bored out to the mystical numerology of 309 cubic inches--this offering decent gas mileage; plus, a thunderous potency to damn any exotically engineered German Import.
   Christ, manually rolling down a barely-tinted window, revealing Pilate's non-canonized description:  Jet-Black Hair, a Dark Brow, though not the bushy overkill of superfluous hairs, a Perfect Hebrew Nose, and Lips moist and fluidic--verily, Christ was the mirror image of His Undefiled Mother, being a 50% Genetic Match to Her Awesome Ancestry, for:  Forty Days paint a beard on a pretty face!
   Ray was like:
   "Happy Birthday Lord."
   Christ back with:
   "Thanks man."
   Next, Ray got shotgun into the synergy of Camaro Jesus--so cool, Tebowing over the angelic asphalt of picket fence suburbia, even up here in mountainous Montana, the Living Christ cranking on the revealing radio, the over-the-border sounds of the Canadian Babe proclaiming:
  
   Saint Nicholas is laughing with Light Speed Travel,
   Making the mind of a nerdish physicist unravel,
   For the fat, jolly man is a wing-booted stampede,
   Quicksand carousing with the sublimity of need
   To share the charity of packages wrapped in gleaming color,
   Blessed by red ribbons and green bows--like happy to see your Bank Teller;
   Indeed, Christmas is the flu season yet over the top,
   And so is the resurrecting thump of Peter Cottontail's hop.

Rumblitis--Chapter Four

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
  
   FOUR:
  
   The velvet cake of Ray's Imperial-White Couch besmirched by the sanguine circumstance of an exploded hemorrhoid, matched by a Hulkish Hangover that hurt in hellacious fashion--Ray's consciousness ignited with dreary disdain for the eternity of an always-evolving existence; as a result, he brilliantly pissed himself, soaking a pair of Snoopy boxer shorts in Eskimo Snow, fumbling for a menthol-enhanced E-Cigarette--yes, he will die!  Any vaporous matter repeatedly ingested into the tissue of the lungs, however mild, could possibly cause the curse of cancer, or offer a moisturizing effect; regardless, follow the obsessive rants of Dr. Oz all you want--you're still going to experience the earthly culmination of being a dead bunch of bones, rotting away, like food for the Earth, a vampiric worm eating off your nose and lips, unless you're cremated, though those fleeting atoms might not be royally resurrected by way of cloning, an idea soon to be embraced by the futurity of the Democratic Party.
   And Staci Rumble down the spiral of a fancy staircase, hair platinum bleached, crowning a godly face promoted holy, including the transparency of weird-gray eyes, a semi-aquiline (hawkish) nose free of blackheads, and kissable, China Doll Lips; indeed, she was not only Ray's older sister, yet the Holy Ghost Itself, offering Siren-screamed inspiration, the Angelic Twin-likeness of Manichaeism squared, and the excellent aim of a determined direction into the loving arms of the Always-Living Christ.  However, she spit the rancorous crap of tough love towards Ray due to his stubborn inferiority complex--a punter's lack of gung ho.  Still, suiting up for the Canadian Football League might transcend the regularity of Franciscan Humility, unless you're the scrambling Flutie, a career cruelly castrated by Bum Phillips' moronic offspring, benching agile brilliance and determination due to lacking juggernaut size.
   Staci greeted little bro:
   "Hey dude--you hung over again?  A perpetual repeat of your stupidity?"
   Ray, offering counterpoise:
   "King David and his son Solomon were both champions of the grape; plus, not just Dionysus, but Christ was a God of Wine, wearing many mystical hats."
   Staci glaring with gruesome disgust for the brother she loved, hoping to pedagogue acceptance in modesty, even more, saying:
   "You're a good man Ray.  Too, you know that death isn't the end.  Cheer up dude.  Don't hang onto ghosts, but let them embrace the light and cosmic thrill of God's entertainment."
   Ray cried:
   "I love Xelba--always . . ."
   Staci like:
   "Merry Christmas bro.  And may God grant you life and health." 

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 . . .