"Morphing Emo; plus, Canis lupus familiaris"
In Stoker's Dracula, terriers are written as rat killers;
As a result, find no live-action in bouncing balls without vermin fillers;
Thus, owners fed up with vampiric mutt
Mutate themselves with blue-black dye and cut.
"Union Blue--underground song"
SONG: About having a girl who is a friend--a real friend; moreover, if you have a girl that is just that, a friend--don't accidentally glare at her beloved boobies. If you do, she will vociferously launch an obnoxious diatribe while pointing at her well-respected buxom, like: "Why, these are my puppies buster! And, you are what I thought was different about every other guy."
She needs not to be accidentally ogled by friendship; nonetheless, she needs to set you up with one of her friends, even though she might fancy you a fruitcake. Here's the ditty:
Hey friendly lady, I'm a bit fruity,
Don't ya worry; I ain't scoping your booty--
Come on now: "Send me your girlfriend cutie!"
Yankees are born--Southern everyday,
Let Country Western spread every which way,
Don't stand there, acting all proud and snooty.
Hey friendly lady, I'm a bit fruity,
Don't ya worry; I ain't scoping your booty--
Come on now: "Send me your girlfriend cutie!"
"Jazzmin Flush (53)"
Thomas morphed back humanways, changing politely, in private; however, Swiss observed his nudity, yet the house mouse did not seem a bit phased; still, Thomas was not cool and comfortable with it, snarling a fanged incisor in Swiss' direction, sending the now phobic rodent scatter-feeting to his hole.
Next, an obnoxious knock at the bathroom door (where Thomas was of course--in Jazzmin's basement), and Thomas knew by telepathy; plus, Occam's razor mentioned it as well--it was rascally Rascal! So, after getting on his khaki pants, moccasins, and a L.A. Dodger shirt he picked up at Mr. Thrift, he opened the door, Rascal grinning. "Get comfortable with being in the buff fella. You're a wolf."
Thomas explained, "I am a young man too. The wolf does not own me, nor I him. It is a fabulous synergy of fellowship leading to reverence of God and protection of the weak."
"You and Jazzmin are soooooo goody-goody; plus, just weird." Rascal snorted. "Anyway, you'd better get out here; Jazzmin and her Dad are getting mushy. I think I'm gonna have to puke in the sink."
"Jazzmin Flush (52)"
Donald implied, admitted more: "Jazzmin--I'm Yankee born, yet Southern torn. Your stepdame was a Southern Belle, more in love with chic things than a Southern General's adoration of peacockish pageantry. And what a piece of ass."
"Daddy! You can't cuss in my holy basement." Jazzmin's foot down, blowing gold out of her eyes.
Donald puffed on a fake cigarette to pee her off. "Darling daughter, you got dog people as your comrades and friends. Who are you?"
Jazzmin retorted, "I don't deliver pizzas for a living though. Sorry."
Donald like, "I love you girl. You are my sweet angel of dirty-blonde gold."
Rascal zipped her naked self up in a mechanic's jumpsuit. Thomas kept arctic wolfways, resisting his red-hued desire to lift a passionate leg, urinating on any nearby furniture.
"Jazzmin Flush (51)"
Jazzmin Flush got the juicy gist from Daddy, Mr. Donald Flush, further enlightening her on his ravaged and raped past, getting stolen away from his wife, Jazzmin's mother, because he didn't fully appreciate Conan the Barbarian, where the young thief/fighter Conan is told precisely and imperatively: "Domination of women!" Or how he should have pushed the ominous witch into the cleansing fire as did young Conan when that horrid harridan attempted to thieve his godly steel, a soul forged by a father's instruction.
Then, in the bare scud, Rascal came violently bursting through the entrance door, awakening Jazzmin and Donald to the reality that when you have dogs as friends, sooner or later you'll have to clean up after they make a mangy mess.
And Thomas entered next, fully arctic-wolfed, growling lowly at Rascal, her defensive. "Sorry big fella--my rump-like posterior is inflamed and itchy. Just wanted to see if your rear end had any health secrets is all."
Donald rolled his mature eyes at Jazzmin. "I'm gone for a little over twenty years and you still haven't trained your dog."
"Jazzmin Flush (50)"
Donald and Jazzmin Flush--daughter and derailed Dad embraced, tons of tears raining forth from their watery orbs, and Jazzmin noticed how nice Daddy smelled--like Brut aftershave save the "Brute" of it all. And the cleansed scent was wisely welcomed.
Separating from the synergy of love's hug, Jazzmin blurted, "I really want to know everything about you and Mommy. Especially why I never got to know you guys save the myth of it all."
"In time." Donald promised with a stoic glare. "Anyway, it seems you have some special friends."
And Swiss, whiskers rapidly twitching, poked his mouse head out of his hole, noticing Donald as did Donald notice him. "Come over here little guy. I don't want to hurt you."
And Swiss scattered in Donald's fatherly direction, sniffing his shoes that smelled like stinky cheese and anchovies.
"He likes you Daddy." Jazzmin Flush smiling.
"Does he like that boyfriend of yours?" Donald asked.
Jazzmin Flush, of course, blushed. "Daddy, Thomas is the nicest guy around. He reveres and respects me. I've never even french-kissed him."
Donald did his best Clint Eastwood squint, as if fueled by hemorrhoid pain. "I hope so, or I'll have to tell him that I'm not afraid to go back to prison."
Jazzmin Flush got wide-eyed. "You were in prison?"
Donald like, "I swear--the politician had it coming."
Francis: "Come on man!" - Dad -
Rarely weirder than myself tales of tortured souls featured; however, at a time of immediate crises concerning a pubescent child gelling with the wrong crowd; plus, his own lack of confident steel, what can I do but ask you guys to pray for: "FRANCIS"
What happened to the scent of paperback books and letters mailed with crisply-ironed 5 dollar bills included within? When growing constantly allergic to the Internet, reliance upon the specters of the past seem wisest for a quirky, couth-filled gentleman, him wending within illness and seemingly perpetual turmoil, yet risking further poverty, throwing himself in the rodeo, and I've done it before.
For all children of step-families--yes, it sucks, and you don't know if folk are friends or foe; regardless, trust in this life to resonate you sweetly eternal, and you'll definitely BEHAVE. What's better than staying out of trouble!!! Who wants to look over their shoulder!?! Stay straight, get religious instead of independently spiritual, and glam yourself for God. Too, read a book every once in a while. A real one. Made of paper.
