Jazzmin Flush (100)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (100)" 
   
   Plain Jane-like Fredrica resisted the seemingly-ubiquitous evil of it ALL; nevertheless, like Skeletor told Evil-Lyn with a jiggly jawbone flapping bullyways:  "Evil-Lyn--you boob!"
   And Fredrica remembered how many freaky folk in the heretical past and still today resist the Masters of the Universe, informing their children:  "There is only one Master of the Universe; hence, it is merely occult-like to observe that wicked animation."  Moreover, Fredrica remembered how some taught all suicides are slack-jawed cowards and axiomatically have their weak and pathetic souls transported to the horrific heat of hell, becoming the Adversary's flax-seed gravy, him devilishly dipping the digestion of fallen Saints into them, cruelly forging two souls into a synergy of eternal suffering and all that Multiversal Jazzmafunk.
  It kept getting more delinquent and dire for meek Fredrica.  Working.  Always working.  Shit jobs and humiliation--handsome rich boys laughing behind her curved vertebra--a straight spine is everything claims the Hindu SuperFlux.  But she was morphed ascetic.  Low Income.  Sleeping in Jazzmin's place like an unwanted vagrant.  Talking to Swiss.  Keeping Jazzmin's lovely mouse alive with bits and pieces of her deformed love.  Is love ever deformed?  Suffering so much.  Doing, always, the right thing.  No karmic burst of happiness for all her humility.  Girthy Gilda dead while brother Thomas and Jazzmin were having their spiritual rodeo of awesomeness, like that Buffy Show, but them armed with werewolf and Sleeping Beauty superpowers--and she had bupkis, like a goat, doing all the heavy lifting and getting metaphorically blamed for not trying to be SUPERNATURAL enuff!  What sincere and reeking crap.  Thus, she pondered, and myriads of times:  SUICIDE.  "Ah hell--who will take care of Swiss?  I can't do this.  Get some butt implants and be beautiful.  But only rich people can afford silicone curves.  Yup, gotta kill myself.  Nope.  One more day.  One more day of sweeping up spilled shit and rolling burritos.  Great God in Heaven--I do like burritos and especially the guac-scooped tacos.  Please, I hate to ask--but:  Help Me!"    

Jazzmin Flush (99)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (99)"
    
   Miss Jazzmin Flush awoke from a sweet dream of indigo-hued Smurfs tickling her fantastic fancy, making her awesomely alive and with a lion's yawn oozing dream slobber down her voluptuous yet pouty lips.  She brilliantly blew her gold mane out of her glimmering eyes, licked her teeth smooth, finding a bit of rabbit thigh and loosening it from her sharp incisor; next, swallowing the tasty meat, giggling girlishly and almost tripping over Thomas' arctic wolf self that was snoozing on the fuchsia-colored carpeting.  "Crap!"
   And Thomas growled himself to consciousness, sensing the immediate danger, leaping to all fours, and paw padding his furry way to the door; then, he turned to Jazzmin and let out a number of high-pitched barks till the stupefied California Girl blurted:  "Thomas, I don't speak dog."
   Thomas revealed White Fang, backed up, and the door mysteriously opened, it showcasing Jerry Dingle in cosmetic drag, standing in hot pink heels with a Carolina-blue suit painted over his stiff corporeal essence; moreover, his gigantic junk proudly contained within the mathematics of the artificial clothing, and upon viewing Thomas' spirited, glowing eyes the creepy dude voiced:  "Don't eat my pride off."
   Jazzmin, not telepathic yet used to uncool guys craving her unearthly body yelled:  "Reverse it lady buster; my dog can snag that wacky weiner off in a sec!"
   Yup, stuff like this is already happening in the future book of our lives . . . 

What bullcrap

   
   "What bullcrap"
    
If you hunger for a man to be kicked outta da club;
Next--tell him!  Not digest probes that the ill way rub--
Look, it's obvious people frown sour grapes upon your success,
Jealous of sheer pretty; plus, megatons of money and problems much less;
Thus, they wickedly attack, armed with bloodthirsty contempt,
Surmising they have privilege in asking for your soul's fated rent--
What bullcrap!  For when on the socially deviant streets
The American Dictionary has a voluminous variety of non-linear beats;
Alas, selfishly getting loved for what you are not
Does wrongly Trump the hate for your platinum pot. 

Jazzmin Flush (98)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (98)"
   
   Rascal didn't give a graveyard shit concerning the uncouth nature of the wolf--yet getting the telepathic overtones from Thomas, the spirited arctic wolf, him always mouthing about that darn, silly Wolf Totem and the remembrance of:  Loyalty.  Ultra-Fidelity and carnal castration of the blood-flowing human spirit; next, teaching Thomas reminded of sheer hubris, and the grander brilliance of the mega-loving Holy Spirit--if merged and having synergy and sophisticated linguistic bullshit like that; then, All Is Well, right?
   Regardless, coydog Rascal had intimate itch.  She knew that she was off--never belonging with Miss Jazzmin Flush and her freaky pack of pseudo-Saints and werewolves.  Whatever.  And Donald was a freaking old man--had she just noticed?  Like hindsight is 20/20.  Thomas reminding of Christ reminding:  "Be REMINDED of the Holy Spirit."  Put rocks together in the old days and they build radios and scanners, magic crystals, but Rascal knew there was a science to the magic.  Thomas and his Pre-Industrial Revolution Dogma of Doom concerning the denial of a Spirit God.  As a result, she pondered:  "Perhaps Thomas visited an android whorehouse in his adolescence?"  She knew he was dirty somewhere, and Jazzmin too.  As for Donald--a middle-aged gimp in the sack.  But what of her coypups?   And to give another bad example, being another stereotype of the trickster coyote--it was just pure bullshit.  Maybe go wolf?  The wolf and the coyote are in one another.  Get bigger?  More samurai as opposed to shadow-scattering shinobi?  

Jazzmin Flush (97)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (97)"
   
   Jerry Dingle was more voyeuristic than violently vile; indeed, he was canned pussy--Miss Jazzmin Flush continuing to be like Teflon to torture.  Anyway, Jazzmin and Thomas in the hotel room--Jazzmin snoring a pack of "z's" that had zigged and zagged her symmetrical bosom, that cupcake cleavage, flopping outta her binding bra, Thomas eagerly noticing the fleshy and fun pink of a shiny nipple and all that juicy stuff; moreover, Jazzmin, like unto Sleeping Beauty gone semi-topless, and he wondered if it would be couth-filled and merit any class to just playfully fling her bare nipple with his bowfinger; alas, whimpering wussylike, phobic concerning political correctness in action, it incarcerating both action and speech; thus, Thomas wilted away from Jazzmin's sleeping seduction, staying the spirited arctic wolf, laying at her feet that dangled off the bed--good dog.
   So, the wolfboy licked his mouse debris chops, burping telepathy to Jazzmin's darling dreamstate, like:  "I'm sorry, but I'd like to play with your boobies--them milky mammary glands glistening goldenways."

Does Trump like dogs?

   
   "Does Trump like dogs?"
   
Extravagantly more independently interesting; plus, less politically correct--
The Donald--give em sincerely honest grief and tongue-lashing heck;
Moreover, Megyn Kelly, the glistening glam of pink lipstick vociferously announcing
While horndog men on their lime-green couch--imagining and mentally pouncing--
Call the Republican, brethren-like nepotism what it is--a bimbo is a bimbo;
Indeed, only the mercurially wise are agile concerning Trinidad's Limbo.  
Does Trump like dogs?
Regardless, President Clinton did call em Hogs.  

At Baptist School

   
   "At Baptist School"
   
   As passionate and curious children, iniquitous entities were conservatively removed from us by Southern Preachers calling upon their personal fabrication of the Holy Spirit Itself, using their deep drawl-like invocation of Jesus' Name and all that country-cooking jazzmustard; next, Rock and Roll labelled as Devilistic--me:  6th Grade mind you, Reagan thriving and brilliantly alive in a commonly corporeal sense; moreover, the Evangelical Erudite Folk of the Southern Church would sing and say:  "Country Western (as it was known back then) has some dirty messages as well.  Men having wicked affairs and scandalous women sipping whiskey till beyond the couth of tipsy, and her socks may come off too; alas, boy--get you some Gospel Sound."
   And then, while not canonized, told me Judas was most-definitely in the Poor Pits of Pandemonium.  Yet I witnessed no Transfigured Souls in my teachings; at the same time--me either.