Telepathy concerning werewolves and vampires

   
   "Telepathy concerning werewolves and vampires"
   
   In my dumb shit opinion, it would seem that the werewolf has a definite bestial balance, like with the physics of certain Eastern symbols, which means that a werewolf uses telepathy for communication, not manipulation, loving his wolfish aspects enough to hunt only with them--though, this could be argued against.
   The gelled pack, hunting, playing, rolling in the delicious mud, eating rabbits on a slow day--it speaks to the family-raised, more divine nature of the wolf.  Seems to be friendship driven, a social synergy to everlast as a best friend, in your particular place, speaking in telepathic silence, as all dog owners are well aware, and using that telepathic gift only for communication within the pack.  On the flip side, the animism of their physicality is monstrously menacing, and the violent acts of hunting are best done by the corporeal aspects, armed with fangs, fur, and fright--the primal juice of using your carnivorous physique to rip apart a meaty lifeforce, tasting the blood only out of survival and digestion till the next stage of hunger, not narcotic-like, as it is with the garden-variety vampire.
   The blood is the life--says the Living Christ.  And vampires are blood junkies for survival, but more and also:  ELATION.  You rarely see an obese werewolves in folklore; there is no hypnotic euphoria in simply feeding oneself and then shitting it out.  But the vampire "gets off" from drinking blood, and would therefore be prone to use telepathic persuasion to immediately ingest euphoric elation, whereas the werewolf hunts on paw pads and in primal form, loving this physical nature that gifts him with the intimidation of being a mad dog, so to speak.  Next, the vampire flosses and polishes himself pristine, wears a nice suit, and speaks eloquently.  The werewolf smirks with a meat-filled grill, it glistening with bits of kill--happy to slay prey with the huff and puff of a hairy heartbeat.    

Gremlin Football and Glacial Cities

   
   "Gremlin Football and Glacial Cities"
    
   I hear six man football is big in Montana, the last great place.  Especially for kids.  Good odds for a scrambling quarterback.  Think:  Roger the Dodger, Flutie, and Steve Young gorgeously driving the 49ers and their gladiatorial gold quest, emasculating Montana to become a ghostly memory, and a Chief for a bit.  You cannot pour new wine into old wine-skins; the old wine-skins will burst open, unable to contain it--might say a Living Christ.  
   Anyway, living in this American Police State where the government monitors everything, furthering personal paranoia, and with a gore-guilty, yearly slaughter of the coyote that ranks in the myriad range--I dream of Canada for the occasional escape.  Alaska is a Free State with its grass stations and a former politician armed with nice ta-tas.  But with the disappearance of all the people and the FBI called frequently to interview interstellar travelers--too much for me.  Unless I could muster a brass scrotum and shoot a moose; plus, spell my name in the snow with a protracted piss that glistened golden.
   So, a glacial city in Canada.  They have football.  Next, maybe beyond the tree line, facing the divinity of the Northern Lights, and a mad hermit's cabin containing nothing that needs Bluebeard's wife to cruelly unearth, for friends will share.  I can't make friends.
   Maybe then, the Pacific Northwest, where Free States bless America.  A more frigid soil to grow the grape.  
   Watch the news.  Find true melancholy.  A pharmacist can't make a pimento-cheese sandwich anymore--what good are they.  A wise sage kinda/sorta mentioned that and PLAYBOY has finally approved.  How nice to see lace over the fishy labia.  They have edible panties; plus, they have those with odor shields.  How nice to live in America.  

Cosplay and uncouth groping

   
   "Cosplay and uncouth groping"
   
   Usually not traveling in the curvaceous circles of lascivious ladies with symmetrical breasts, the American Intellectual Man, him changing the corporeal world by dreaming of crafting android tail has a problem.  It is:  While witnessing the act of Cosplay, he is tempted to grope.  Female humanoids adorned in vibrant hues and tightly wrapped in the carnal imagination--this produces an increases in the testicular production of semen but is not totally a wicked thingamajig, unless of course the observer insidiously morphs into a Vaseline-fingered groper.  
  Women don't know how much they're loved; specifically, that men only want to honestly gel and have sexual synergy with what they physically adore.  All men are not pigs--Playboy magazine is putting the bra and panties back on; plus, Captain Kirk mated with triple-headed women, not giving a rat's ass about dating outside of his own species.  Few of us have the monk-like control of Spock, and without the blue pill we are not fully functional if over the age of forty.  And Lord Byron knows, kinda/sorta:  "The middle ages are the worst of all the ages; moreover, man being reasonable must therefore get drunk, for what is the best of life but intoxication."  Thanks Jeb for wanting us to be even bigger slaves while the French enjoy two hour lunch breaks.  As Trump might elegantly boast:  "You have no chance."  

Sleep Paralysis; plus, the Mad Puppet Man

   
   "Sleep Paralysis; plus, the Mad Puppet Man"
    
   In the mid 1990's, when America cosmetically elected a leader from the Razorback Nation and movies moved away from machine gun metaphor, sweetly exposing the hypocrisy of violence and sex by way of American Beauty--I purchased a "Kermit the Frog" muppet, muppets being less insidious than possessed puppets, all in hopes of facing and consoling my terrifying fear of the Mad Puppet Man.  I'd strap the somewhat lime-green, artificial amphibian under a seat belt's safeguard in my V-8 Chevy and cruise around like a pseudo-Mercury delivering newspapers to the more pastoral parts of Nashville.
   Whether it was the Mad Puppet Man or extraterrestrials, when Sleep Paralysis finds and haunts you--it is like a dynamite stick burn of fear.  Laying helpless in bed or on the couch, unable to move anything, eyes open but weak; plus, lost to limbs that won't respond, and there is something behind you or hovering above.  Use your prayers and willpower; next, possibly you will become unchained from this weirdness.
   Are we pawns in the battle between the Supreme God and the lesser gods?  Is there a Web of Wyrd imposed on us, like a well-spun predestination thieving away any attempt at manifesting existentialism?  And, as a lab rat for the supernatural I know:  "Who am I to engage in hubris or scold the brilliant beyond with selfish pride?"  All we can do is correctly connect to the core of sublimity, steering ourselves into the Loving Heart of an Almighty God.  I hope.   

Wild woman on a sofa

   
   "Wild woman on a sofa"
   
   Having been electrically ill and unwanted as I ooze the doom of weirdness, igniting always that of toxic flatulence on misery's command; specifically, I feel solace on the fresh linens that ornament my bed.  Not a place for carnal contagion, but a pre-coffin, a place to lay and pray, and maybe not die in a state of suffering for Southerners, for the American South rejects comfort by way of an opinionated government that controls medication.  Regardless, how holy is your bed?  Not to be smeared with juicy discharge from the oral and vaginal areas of a loose dame, her damning the intent of Saintly synergy as you levitate on the mattress of death.  Better to watch iZOMBIE and craft a grilled-cheese sandwich on oatmeal bread with an orange hint of turmeric to calm the chainsaws that might be perpetually cutting through your large intestine.
   Thus, a love sofa.  It having the intent of spiritual lovemake, not just allowing you to spray slippery jism over your adoration, but passing her the Spirit of love's romantic command, enslaving her to a freedom with you, mating like a wild dog's life, not gone malcontent and misfitways; plus, burning wise incense over the sofa for reasons of purification, always keeping your bed clean from nefarious spills and devilish dust bunnies, in order to engage in the super-symmetrical art of pristine prayer.

  

Spock and Eggs

    
   
   Enuff 'bout big boobies.  The exotic and intellectual ecstasy provided by the perpetual pulse of 60 Minutes, which cosmetically covered Putin and Trump, being a sublime, press-graced bomb--was da bomb.  Scott Pelley getting feedback--letters sent to the show agree that he was more of a demonic-styled prosecuting attorney than that of an empathy-driven journalist.  But who wants to be a garden-variety journalist when one can be an organic journalist, like the Lizard King of Rock 'n Roll.  Mix it up Quixotic Blues  
    And is America driven to worship the dollar?  Thieve away the religion of immigrants and transplant it with obedience to money.  It makes you happy.  It erases problems.  And yes--it does, but there is James Tiberius Kirk, him kinda/sorta say'n:  "I can't believe it--they're still using money."    Yup, back when Spock talked to humpback mammals, and time-travel was sparked by Klingon transport--all is good.
   But now, Bones does cry:  "Damn't Jim--I'm a doctor, not a transexual."   So, don't ask Mr. Physician to give a colonoscopy, and I feel guilt for linguistically forging sophomore steak and cheese biscuits.  Yet, if people don't write; next, life falls through the cracks. 

The news and Skylab

   
   "The news and Skylab"

  She didn't like Scotch.  And could never purchase an Irishman a birthday present. How to gift wrap an entire bar?  You'd need an advanced degree in architecture; plus, help from Santa's little slippery elves.  Regardless, she was sexxa.  A pulsating piece of Tang--better than the astronauts drank in the 1970's.  Whatever happened to Skylab?  She had a stamp collection.  Skylab was a major part of it; indeed, the Skylab stamp was mystical.  Eating weird astronaut ice cream and noticing the effects of gravity gone on its ass backwards.  
   He was the weather man.  It was always coming from Canada.  The cold shit.  Canadians, sitting up there, throned above our scepter of contagion, where we shoot people with guns and the roaming journalist cleans up the Sherlock pieces.  Agatha had a better detective.  Still, the chaos of a sideline flunky covering the high school football game.  Again:  Concussions.  Don't let your boys play American football soccer moms--that's what it implied.
   And just like us--the news people enjoyed the carnal act of sex.  Whatever.