"Cats and Mexican Lasagna"
When I first read that "real" cats don't eat lasagna, I was a bit perplexed;
Next, a devil-worshiping, teenage girl, concerning me--hexed;
As a result, I got bubbly and baffled; plus, sincerely bizarre,
Morphing into a quasi-gourmet, suburban kitchen-cooking star;
Moreover, I artistically crafted a Mexican Lasagna,
Using mild salsa, so as to not scald mama.
"Jazzmin Flush (45)"
Jazzmin Flush royally regretted not being a more fantastic friend for the great Girthy Gilda, remembering how ruff ruff Rascal had recently reminded her of the mystical coyote's reason for altruistic, canine-existence: a tortured teacher of death, perhaps--giving old age to the human folk in order for them to make super-symmetrical their affairs, affording them with sublimity before being birthed into the unearthly Otherworld.
Jazzmin Flush did not shed Freya's tears over Girthy Gilda's tiny tombstone, but should have, crying golden--though it lovingly lurked within her corporeal stronghold, that California wonderland know as her total, pulsating physiology--yet one day she will be rewarded and reminded of her regal wealth--inherited by the fabulous fable of a father. For now, she knelt down, placing an electric-white tin of mint-flavored snus over Girthy Gilda's grave.
"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 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"
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 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 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.
