Jazzmin Flush (44)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (44)"
   
   Thomas was a bit twisted at the moment, yet beyond billowing blood flow concerning Rascal's hearty scent--it was all terribly tragic--the raunchy roller-coasters of peaks and valleys in life's perpetual ping-pong game.  And as Jazzmin, Fredrica, and Rascal entered into Girthy Gilda's modest shanty, Thomas was protectively shielding the elderly Saint with his transfigured body, glaring at the female threesome, having washed his hands in obsessive scourge before closing the dead lady's eyes and placing coins above for the ferryman.
   Rascal blurted, "She knew, I surmise, that everybody's poop stinks.  Never shamed by others."
   "More than that."  Thomas spoke solemnly.  "She simply cared about the little guy.  The hobbits and hoboes spinning the wheels of life by little yet respected labor.  Hers was the pigskin scramble by fast-footed Flutie over the Canadian tundra, adoring the great games played by the underdog so much that she gave good will to the non-deserving.  Folk like us."
   "Why put us down?"  Fredrica pondered loudly.
   Thomas looked his sister in the eye, saying, "If you never fall down; then, you'll never know how to pull yourself up.  Every battery needs recharged by the tragedies of life.   The Cubs will win--one golden day."  

Jazzmin Flush (43)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (43)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush deliberately devoured another soft taco, hungrily inhaling the continuous, primal cravings of legal food, though never got horizontally-challenged; moreover, threw down the yummy, hard-shelled delish of Mexican cuisine, but slicing a cruel cut atop her oral cavity, knowing that the soothe of green tea would assist in inflicting tranquility upon the rising bacteria, not minding that the word "quack" was insidiously inflicted upon pristine physicians throughout American History, for their loving loyalty of Mother Earth's herbology rightfully stole away from designer drug companies having pseudo-politicians and demonic doctors boot-licking the crooked cash--all is such and is after the slave-making Industrial Revolution--God Bless it though, right?
   And Fredrica came upon Jazzmin's crunchy meal and blossoming companionship with rascally Rascal--Thomas' sister eagerly noticing the coydog girl's dog-like beauty, saying:  "Funeral arrangements for Girthy Gilda are in the works.  Thomas insists a simplistic burial in a modest, vampire-proof, wooden box, with a rose-petal forged Rosary wrapped around her eternal grip."
   "That sounds awesome."  Jazzmin Flush noted.  "Girthy Gilda will now feed the Earth, getting boldly burped beautifully into the forever folklore of an always risen Phoenix."   

Union Blue--underground, country music

   
   "Union Blue--underground, country music"
   
   Taken from the Earthy North after barely a year old, being anchored in the Confederate Capital; next, wending deeper South.  Here's a ditty:
   
I love my Jap-made truck;
My shamrock luck--
I'm a Yankee Doodle
Ain't being feudal--
Do you like to fish much!?!
  
   Like the American Coyote, every Transplanted Yankee absorbing Southern Beauty and simultaneously remembering his Sublime Heritage is an American Original.  

Jazzmin Flush (42)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (42)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was cautiously crushed; specifically, got the nasty news that Girthy Gilda had passionately passed--Thomas explained:  "She totally uttered an Act of Contrition; next, boldly blasted off to God."
   And indeed she had, transmigrating until unto the DIVINE JUSTICE SYSTEM, getting great recommendations for a fabulous form of astral-like reincarnation, knowing her lazy family neglected her to the gruesome grave; still, to starburst ghostways, glittering eternal, haunting the horrid hell out of every soul wickedly infatuated with making Miss Jazzmin Flush and her pretty posse perish.
   As a result, infused with a specter's kiss--Jazzmin Flush knew this wasn't a nefarious death, yet a mighty challenge, a gallant gauntlet laid bear-trapways, smacked down, facing, always, the pestering poison of iniquity.   
   Thus, Jazzmin Flush graciously gobbled up another soft taco, sprinkling a delicious dash of the mystical mustard seed atop its open sombrero.  

Jazzmin Flush (41)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (41)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush sweetly swooshed around some loose cilantro within her yummafied oral cavity--a fresh, minty tongue getting the Mexican parsley to smoothly slide down further into her intestinal tract, where, as most herb-like things do, it illustriously illuminated the process of digestion.  Rascal was across from her willfully working on a chewy chimichanga, dripping the drool of hot cheese from a fanged bite.
   "What kind of dog are you?  I mean coydogs are half coyote and half domestic dog, mostly--so what's your genetic breed?"  Jazzmin Flush probed with question.
   "My great, great grandma was a Pomsky back when the Federal Government began recognizing anomalous humans--or freaks, whatever.  At least the brilliance of Uncle Sam gave us the protection we secretly craved and needed.  Yeah, there are a few monsters in the mix.  But most of us were, and still are--just scared is all, ya know."  Rascal replied.
   Jazzmin Flush, noticing severely, admitted:  "You're really pretty.  Like foxy."
   "Are you fishing for a compliment back at ya--California girl?"  Rascal getting instinctive, then:  "I'm sorry.  I know your pack is pretty weird, and I too want a family.  But I'm lousy at making friends."
  "We need all the help we can get."  Jazzmin Flush solidly said, washing down the remnants of a soft shell taco with the bubbly fizz of Dr. Pepper, knowing it was healthier than Coke, for Dr. Pepper kind of has the word Doctor in it.   

Jazzmin Flush (40)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (40)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush monstrously manifested no pulsating panegyric about Rascal within her own cerebral lines--no sir; nonetheless, there was something wickedly delightful concerning the female, coydog chick, to say the limited least.  And, within her (Jazzmin's) telepathic empathy, she heard Rascal boldly barking at her "in tune" whereabouts, offering:  "I am not a piece of, you know profanely what.  No--I'm a piece of CLASS."  And Jazzmin Flush knew not to be a kingfisher, labeling Rascal a pesky insect to be divinely devoured alive.  She must trust the imperfect symphony of that cool babe's well-aligned weirdness.  Remembering how the weirdo poet woefully wailed about President Clinton after backwarding his empathetic excellence in bard-like Blogs.  For President Clinton, as he evenly admitted, truly felt YOUR pain, loving, loving, loving, and doing so to awesomely assist the elderly, broken, poor, or yet-to-be recognized as great; indeed, President Clinton, simply:  CARED.
   Snapshot, Jazzmin Flush out of Rascal's rascally and mini Mindcrime, not purposely invading, but soaking her soul's terrific truth into Jazzmin's mercurial spark of jealousy, to simply let her honestly know:  "I'm not after your quasi-boyfriend.  Too, we should hang out and get a taco."  

Nashville Sounds, and the Richmond Braves

   
   "Nashville Sounds, and the Richmond Braves"
   
Fanatical fencing and jocular jousting is taboo when observing the Nashville Sounds,
For the mysterious umbrella is a villainous, Penguin-practicing feature that astounds;
However, a Bud Heavy might be liberty-loved and allowed--have only a couple,
Remembering the Richmond Braves in the 1970's when President Carter got no double;
Alas, babysit the delicious dog @ home and in your joyous, muster-stained gut,
For the baseball and the bat crack the bark of a home run mutt.
  

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