Rumblitis--Chapter Ten

  
   As Always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TEN:
  
   Staci Rumble was casual with Her Almighty power to Superposition Her Holy-Constructed Self.  Like Mork to Orson, she communicated with the Hebrew God; moreover, kept a cosmic eye on Ray.
   This was the Castle Christ spoke of.  (See KJV, John 14:2)  The many-roomed mansion.  The Rumble household haunted by Xelba, a torturous churn of paradise, promising euphoric culmination.  God Himself is beyond the fabric of fantasy or mathematical equation.  Like Saint Thomas Aquinas blinded by his last mystical vision, this causing him to offer cessation to the quill, Ray was lovingly murdered by God.  He (God) is a slippery Orca in the sea foam-green of it all--it being an all-encompassing lagoon of lucidity. 
   "Damn."  Ray hesitated.
   The Ex-Canadian Punter was phobic about falling into the Caribbean-themed water and getting eaten by the Holy Killer Whale.  Worse, passed through the intestinal tract and turned into poop.  Everything cursed the mind of Ray, and he hated his own stupidity and emasculating imagination.  But he had to continue on, for Christ never gave up on him, and he would be wise to return that remarkable favor.

Rumblitis--Chapter Nine (X-Men Of Canada)

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
 
   NINE:
  
   Ray Rumble swiftly awoke from the vividness of phantasmagoria, only to enter the immediacy of an ashen daymare; as a result, he goes to his pills, popping one in the thrush (oropharyngeal candidiasis) of his mouth by way of a Fran Tarkenton Pez Dispenser; indeed, he knew Canada's Department Of National Defense had the uncanny goods on him; therefore, the golden-haired Sasquatch and mercurial midget known as Puck may come hunting for him--ALPHA FLIGHT being the Canadian equivalent to the American Legion Of Super-Sophisticated Toxically-Wasted Avengers; regardless, the castrating trauma of Real Life thwarted Ray's evolution into human normality, him voicing: 
   "Christ save me."
   Ray hated himself.  Was mistake prone and stupid.  Still--he tried baby!  Wasn't no punk.  Totally remembered the oncoming rush of "special team" players assaulting the kicking grace of his left foot.  Yep, punters matter, and it doesn't mean a rat's ass what Dan Dierdorf thinks, for while some men are like unto the Super Villain Rhino (Aleksei Mikhailovich Sytsevich), having mutated muscles galore, others are brilliant engineers, and some are rogue-wasted poets, too dumb to save their own drunken asses in a bathtub full of lukewarm water, doing the decay of Chief Mojo Rising (Jim Morrison).
   "Shit."  Ray knew.
   He had to have Xelba.  Right now.  Found the gleaming edge of Ginsu Cutlery, took it to his wrist, knowing to go vertical with the laceration.  Yup:  This is the End, beautiful friend the End, of our elaborate plans the End--I'll never look into your eyes, again . . .
   But, he would.  Even though:  Lost, in a Roman Wilderness of pain . . .

Rumblitis--Chapter Eight

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   EIGHT:
  
   Ray Rumble reclined in relaxing fashion, his pointer finger inserted into an icy, kosher pickle jar full of Clan MacGregor, smoothly stirring while casually paging through the past of print media; moreover, bewildered by America's submission to advanced, hypnotic control--us under the bestial influence of something celestially maniacal; regardless, Ray cautiously continued to absorb the printed information, comprehending the cruel truth concerning American Politicians, knowing:  There is no greater narcotic than holding political power in the United States--John Kerry's surgically enhanced face, which squints with brain-scattered eyes, having a diabolical determination to devilishly bomb the smaller-sized Syria, showcasing the insidious might of a mind-controlled America.  Verily, this country's leaders have recklessly evolved into sanctimonious bullies, pestering people less buff, yet shitting the golden aesthetics of cream-filled Twinkies when Mother Russia or the "Eat Anything On A Stick" Chinese folk flex their militaristic muscle; specifically, Navy Seals are tremendously tough and undefeated in the combative arts, for, like the Incredible Hulk harassing a kindergarten class, there is not adversarial counterpoise; as a result, if Navy Seals had to heroically engage more than mere Muslims modestly living in the perpetual poverty of mud huts and armed only with slingshots, such as the brutish strength of the Sleeping Bear known as Russia--the Navy Seals would become enlightened as to what a fair fight is, them, for the first time, having to physically punch someone their own size.  Nonetheless, Ray knew America remains haunted by the Holy Spirit of 1776, and that there is heavenly hope for redemption in such a God-Blessed country always at the aid of star-kissed Israel.  Still, the dastardly demons of the Clinton Administration gelled with the uncouth management containing "Waco" Reno and the asinine ATF, sort of, murdered the psychotically prophetic David Koresh, though not before the equality of a historical and morbid gunfight--soon, the American Political Machine will retreat further from the promise of liberty, making mental illness a Federal Crime.
   And if Ray had been blessed with the birth of a son within the benevolent womb of Xelba, he would've instructed the prodigious person, offering:  "Don't ever fight anybody weaker than yourself.  Only fight someone stronger and faster; otherwise, you're simply a bully, and that is why Nietzsche picked on the Living Christ, not out of hate, but because it was an equal match, both men inhabiting the same spiritual weight class, or so the mad philosopher brilliantly believed."
   So, into the inclusion of his theatrical mind, Ray was wise to the theological maxim that God was entertained by the smallest of men, and that he himself might be Bat Shit Crazy, now entering a sophisticated symposium--it deliciously delivered by Doctor Basil Loveflesh, or was it really the inebriating effects of Scotch poured straight from the winking bottle; regardless, here wends the dialogue:

BASIL
Pac Man inserted into the vascular system--most likely a decade from now, cleansing bad cholesterol and fatty blockage, reversing the modern normality of cardiac trauma, due mostly to lazy crazy, and the quick fix of processed foods.
RAY
Yeah Doc--I hear ya . . .
BASIL
Next, Artificial Intelligence--machines endowed with consciousness, transcending Descartes' lack of animalistic vision; still, the beautiful births of these robotic souls will hatch within the next century, them vying for the victory of Totem Pole Hierarchy.  You think the Abrahamic God is all just your pseudo-ascetic containment of Saskatchewan-punting cerebral shit?  Take your damn medication, and pray that we all aren't bio-mechanical organisms laser blasting our eternity away with Terminator-Spawned Computers Of Death.
RAY
Ya, I think I need a pill now Doc . . .

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."