Advice for Trump; plus, Bernie

   
   "Advice for Trump; plus, Bernie"
   
   A womanizer?  Trump?  What?  Look at the Clinton clan? 
   
   What does Lucille Ball have in common with Monica Lewinsky?
   --They both enjoyed a Cuban!
   
   Regardless, Hillary is making an attempt to gel with the youth, gaining couth--probably taking a high dose of anti-psychotics to get her wild eyes morphed docile to proudly gain her wicked ambition.  
   Do we really want a do-nothing Clinton in the White House, suffering from a form of uncanny Nixonism?  Which is a phobia concerning being adored.  But the Democratic Party wants her coronation.  And doesn't the Book of Revelation say the Anti-Christ will have suffered a mortal head wound?  Yup, and Hillary suffered one, but I'm not saying she is the Anti-Christ, but maybe; anyway, the DNC doesn't want the trouble Bernie will bring to billionaire corporations and the secret elite who manipulate this once Free And True Country.  What did Christ proclaim to the unlikely Samaritan Woman:  "Salvation totally comes from the Jews."  And he was a penniless, excommunicated Rabbi, waging a peaceful war for the impoverished and ill--kinda like Bernie. 
   Regardless, we need the Freedoms of our First American Flag back, sewn on cannabis fibers from George Washington's finest crop.  Cancer patients, bowel disorder people, the mentally anguished--all need the freedoms of ending the Drug War--at least on an indigenous herb vegetating by Godly ignition from our loving soil.  But will war vets abuse that too?  And how can you abuse it?  Isn't there only a certain level of quasi-euphoria gained?  And the varying strains studied by UCLA, Berkeley, and Stanford prove most medical conditions can be consoled with the multiplicity of THC levels, not as Carly Fiorina dumbly doesn't know, thinking cannabis is purely cannabis, which it is not anymore--thanks to American Western Science.  But the American South still popping benzos, wending closer to amnesia-like spawned dementia, along with their two to three glasses of wine every night, not knowing what it is like to have a painful disease.
   And about Gastroenterology--for 7 years I just wanted to be normally treated by a physician--not knowing at the time, one of the leading causes of death in this once great America is physician and nurse error.  Anyway, like the fool I am, I let this pseudo-doctor examine me weirdly.  I know that most Gastroenterology docs are butt pirates at the core, or addicted to dandyism at the least.  And I've been to plenty of these Gremlins, mostly disgusted--though there are a few cool ones.  Anyway, this one guy in Williamson County, Tennessee would make me unbutton my pants, put his hands down my junk, ask if I was ticklish; next, try to tickle my stomach, said I needed some buddies, to hang out with him at his non-denominational church, wink at me, refuse me REMICADE I.V. Treatment during bloody flares, refuse to treat my anemia, and not give me the anti-inflammatory pills that I asked for, which reduce the risk of colon cancer.  Even my ex-wife, who is heavily prone to lie to my face and can sway anybody with her cunning wanted to kick this man's ass.  Oh well.  I say:  Vote for somebody that cares for the sick--because, you will be too, having a tumor growing out of your face or something, unless you die in a car crash; then, you'll be begging for prohibition to end, as the benzos will only make you sleep, drooling stupidly, not knowing the anti-oxidant and healing properties of General George's favorite crop.  

Existence Womb (24)

   
   "Existence Womb (24)"
    
   Miriam was sweetly settled into the Mr. T van--no gold chains though, gold--a mighty conductor, possibly fueling the Ark of the Covenant and its radioactive properties, destroying iniquitous armies, yet kindly making anti-cancerous almonds out of two brothers' Staffs of God, being not a mere statistic, maybe two of them if you're a Talmudic Scholar knowing such, and mere statistics are where TRUTH falls through the linear cracks in a varying existence.
   Miriam had a futon mattress with a Yoda sleeping bag as a cover, her Chiastolite, and quite a weird collection of literature from greedily going to the bookstore, liking to possess her own books and sniff the yummy print, when not using the free, public library where many nose-picking fingers had paged through the vented texts.  She was currently reading about Blaise Pascal, knowing it was wiser to adore the Otherworld than deny it and end up forever stupefied by an eternal realm not appreciating you, as you did not appreciate It--after exiting this life, which is just a womb, like us in the vaginal cavity at one time, eating baby crackers, thinking this is all there is; next, the real and genuine BIG BANG!!!  You're greeted by a roomful of old people wearing masks and cutting your cord.
   Mr. Pewter, uh, Buck, came over and checked on Miriam during her non-working hours, bringing her canned pineapple and bananas; plus, candy bars with dark chocolate--them always containing almonds.  He always mentioned she should read CALL OF THE WILD and get in touch with her Canis lupus arctos, and while she knew much about the American Indians and their Animal Totems--not that one; moreover, Buck would tell her how the author, Mr. London, him saying anyone can make it, even after being arrested for vagrancy, and at one time believing education the answer before exploration and the mighty quill; plus, a love of dogs made him ever so frosty and cool; also, he was beyond the corporations of today that possess everything and trickle down bullshit peanuts.  
   Too, Buck provided her with a stash of the herb-derived pills her father had given her, saying he adored the strain and took them himself, wanting one day to move Westwards, reminding her of the beautiful bard Jim Morrison singing:  "The West is the Best!  Get out here and we'll do the rest!"
   Buck also said he had adopted her in a spiritual sense as a little sister, needing family, but not a snot-squirting baby always getting sick from putting everything in their mouths, just like most sorority girls do.  And then there was his confession about the reptilians.  She gasped that he was so plugged into everything, yet pushed him for no further knowledge that day, him boldly stating:  "We will talk about it later Miriam--in great detail too."
   Again, even with the loss of her biological family and household inheritance, she remained in a state of minor glee, just knowing, knowing that someone cared, and was also a freak, armed with a wisdom superior to the mainstream masses.    

American Pubs, Politics, and Star Wars

    
   "American Pubs, Politics, and Star Wars"
    
Stand-Up Comedians rarely visit, anymore, colleges or universities,
The punk kids not wanting to genuinely laugh with sublimity at ethnic diversity;
Regardless, have a dangerous drink with a white man forged from Europe in a pub/bar--
The conversation might starburst like the Milky Way--very far;
Moreover, in the new Star Wars we see varying genders and hues;
Next, the only white man is slain by red-shimmering blues.
Is there a war on the white man?
Was he not, in majority, the one anchored on D-Day's gore-smeared land?
We are settlers, not merely immigrants.  And has diversity made America great?
Know:  I'm voting Democrat; thus, how can I be filled with hate?
Nevertheless, there is no different species of human--just one race--
The human race.
Yet Snipes in PASSENGER 57 says:  "Always bet on black!"
What if I proclaim:  "Always wish on white!"  Is that an attack?

* * * * * * * *

The 1st Amendment

Wrongful Prosecution or catastrophic irritation if:

1.)  No fighting words

2.)  No clear and present danger

3.)  If it's ambiguous  

And buster, I was arrested for penning a tart a poem.  I know my RIGHTS!!!

Existence Womb (23)

   
   "Existence Womb (23)"
    
Miriam's psychiatrist father was obviously on the lam;
Moreover, her mother in Freyja's arms cause reptilians don't give a rat's ass damn;
Plus, government spooks in Johnny Cash attire had secured and thieved her house,
Yet she willed herself to not be the quintessential, docile mouse--
Miriam flew to the junkyard, throttling the KLR 250cc,
And ran passionately into Mr. Pewter's skinny but spirited arms--a love that might be.
She confessed to him the nefarious news; plus, all the rancorous rest;
Next, Mr. Pewter's face became alive with animation; indeed, Miriam had passed the test
Of long-suffering and being, for years, swamped down into the quicksand mire--
Now it was time for Mr. Pewter to be her knight and birth her his squire.

MR. PEWTER
Miriam--call me Buck.  I loved Jack London; anyway young lady--that's what all my friends call me, and now--you're one of em.

MIRIAM
What?  What do you know?  And, uh, thank you--Buck.
  
MR. PEWTER
Anomaly-spirited people outshine the regularity of statistics.  Linear-minded people are born to test and thrive in a regimented formation and capitalistic society--they are the common man.  Attorneys, physicians, nurses--all surmising we as humanity are at the apex of knowledge; however, we are definitely not!  You can stay in that A-TEAM painted and restored van, a Mr. T fan sold it to me years ago--I keep all my books in there, but I'll move them into that old Dodge Charger with the big block--got a massive trunk.  Ya know a big block Dodge is an axiomatic MOPAR, which is an acronym for MASSIVELY OVERPOWERED AND RESPECTED.  Soon, you will be too.
   
MIRIAM
Thank you Buck.  And Miriam felt hope, smiling a woeful glee.  

Existence Womb (22)

   
   "Existence Womb (22)"
    
   Miriam blurted:  "Oh my God!!!  Oh my God; I'm sorry if that's taking Your Name in vain--for the love of the Virgin, I just don't know anymore!"
   Indeed, Miriam had exclaimed her tremendous turmoil vociferously concerning the gore-smeared scene of her beloved mother laying in a bubble bath with scarlet-like water, her wrists slit vertically (properly), and a razor blade floating among the bubbly red champagne of it all.
   Miriam teared up something awful, bawling hysterically, and immediately tried to phone her bio-Dad (Dr. Luke), but the receptionist at his psychiatric practice said he had recently and quite suddenly quit.  Miriam loudly uttered a profane vulgarity:  "Mother of shit!"  Then, back to the macabre and gory horror of Mom's corporeal mass, lost without the breath of life.  Yet as Miriam's eyes cleared of redness, tears, and the puffy clouds of unbelief, she noticed a note taped above her Mom's body on the granite tile--duct tape no less, how redneckish and appropriate for a woman beyond a Bush League education, but always with a sense of humor--even to this bloody end.  So, Miriam ripped the note off the wall and took a tearful glimpse--it offered:
   
   Miriam, my darling child--they have a hold on me, and have--for years--pestering, probing, making me as wacky as a doodle mixed with a neurotic terrier.  I love your father, but he was always too deep within the secret government, their conspiratorial Illuminati and such, and was well within their ranks as an Ivy League shrink.  But fear not; I have been brave to the maximum end of things.  And hungry bravery equals Nordic salvation ya know.  Not just the reptilians floating around, but the angelic Nordics.  The thunder god Thor, much like the Arch-Angel Saint Michael, always hunting the murderous World Serpent, and now I will eat pork chops forever--your Dad used to be an Observant Jew (giggles).  But suicide is no sin for a Norse Wiccan if life has been fought with a zeal and courage to exist; thus, the blonde Valkyries will come, take me across Bifrost, the glimmering Rainbow Bridge--or some crazy ass shit like that, and into Folkvangr, where upon Freyja's Fields I will live eternally--she is so beautiful with her shimmering mane of honey blonde, and was part of your fertility--I believe.  I had my secrets too daughter.  So, trust your instincts, and that Abrahamic God your father insists upon, and know that He has friends among the lesser gods as well--them that loathe Greek shenanigans and hunt the serpents.  Be in peace.  Your loving mother.
   
   Miriam was perplexed--to the bone of it all.  Her non-linear mind going hazy and haywire.  Her asking:  "Why God?  Why me?  Oh shit--I sound like Nancy Kerrigan."   

Existence Womb (21)

   
   "Existence Womb (21)"
   
   Miriam continued to battle her Sleep Paralysis, pinned down by reptilians that implanted, sodomized, whispered weirdness into her flowery spirit, or whatever they were doing; regardless, a garden-variety physician merely thinks these hallucinations, yet the missing patch of raven-black hair behind her right ear; plus, the admittance of Dr. Luke (her father) and Princeton psychiatrist that aliens or angels (synonymous terms) were real--she got the gist of it.  Too, Dr. Luke was once involved with a government agency, such as might be dubbed the Men in Black--she knew something malevolent was occurring upon her corporeal essence, or within her spirit.  The soul:  A gel of body and spirit.  Also, her mother's cognizance, due to an unknown neurological condition was stabilizing thanks to the turmeric-derived medicine; moreover, her (Miriam) adoring the lady whose egg had forged her, while not working at the junkyard that is, had proved imperative in helping the elderly women obsessed with Grackles, Rooks, and Saints.  Anyway, it was time for Miriam's shrink appointment with Dad, and upon her newly jury-rigged KLR 250cc, she flew there without much concern for safety, adoring the boyish thrust of the potent cycle.
   
DR. LUKE
Miriam, the government came to see me--they know I'm helping you, but be not worried, for you are strong, employed, and learning.  Mr. Pewter can help you even more if you put in a good day's work consistently.  
  
MIRIAM
What, you're cutting me loose, uh, Dad?
  
DR. LUKE
Just listen to me, and continue to pursue your autodidactic studies.  Know:  Magic can happen--even though that word might be considered blasphemous.  Look, Evolution, the Big Bang--mere theories, and resisted by many, including myself.  Did the Annunaki from the Sumerian Texts put spiritual light into hairy man?  Is that why the famed Dr. MacDougall found out we lose 21 grams upon the process of death?  Or did hairy man eat psilocybin-containing mushrooms and spark consciousness; next, spread it with beastly mating?  I prefer the first theory.  And somehow, the Abrahamic God, Master of the Multiverse, has intervened for us, freeing our gold-digging slavery, sending a potent Celestial Hierarchy to help those who help others.
   
MIRIAM
I know all those things Dad--I just want a family, and am terrified Mom will die.  I'll have nothing.
   
DR. LUKE
Get closer to Mr. Pewter--he is not just a junkyard fink, but knows, uh, certain things.  As for your mother, read up on "radical remission" which can occur for any type of illness.  Usually through eating herbs and spices; plus, communicating with God.  

MIRIAM
Lowered her head.  I was up all night after they came.  Watched THE WATER HORSE:  LEGEND OF THE DEEP.  I wish I had supernatural friends and a family.

DR. LUKE
In time my dear.  In time.   

Existence Womb (20)

   
   "Existence Womb (20)"
    
   Miriam imbibed the melt-away herb, the indigenous flowering divinity, enhancing consciousness, propelling performance, and allowing entrance into higher levels of consciousness--her particular strain not unlike that used by General George during his first two years of being President, before replacement by his binary self, reducing gum inflammation to lessen the psychosis of true anguish and corporeal suffering.  She imagined people like her living near or in the American South, arrested or worse--prosecuted, paying court fees, paying probation fees, watching Sandra Bullocks's 28 DAYS at least 28 times while undergoing this process of government incarceration, them not knowing of Biblical Kings and their herbal importations, Christ saying He was thirsty, or the first American Flag sewn on cannabis fibers; regardless, she remembered Mom used to say back when she was an awkward child:  "It's a free country honey."     
   Miriam didn't like having more secrets.  Wished she was with the divinely and Davidian-like Justin Trudeau of Canada, where the Great White North offered hope to all peoples with the garden-variety quirks and personal sufferings; plus, allowed Inflammatory Bowel Disease to wend easily into remission, gave cancer patients solace, treated everything, our Godly-inspired bodies having natural receptors fused right within--a synergy with Good, Green Terra.  Yet those people.  Those freaking demon-ignited dolts getting a piece of sublimity and becoming their own ruination and that of others by wasting enlightenment on American Sexuality, the multiplicity of partners, females made to squirt and knighting it high love, while James Joyce pens ULYSSES and only offers linguistic ecstasy through FINNEGANS WAKE, going batshit crazy and halfway blind--what would Internet porn do to that genius, like:  "A drop every minute for Stumblestone Davy, or a rise every morning for Standfast Dick."  Yet when the cops always come to your house, they first ask:  "Has anybody been doing hard drinking?"  And the foolishness of not letting wine make man's heart happy, but the pollution of the soul with utter stupidity, and America has a death-trap bar on every corner; moreover, the American South offers rare public transportation of any sorts--pseudo-cowboys, not Western save in Clint Eastwood's day, thinking their macho, monster trucks killing the globe are hot-trotting for women known as peanut butter because they spread so college-like and easy.  It's all bullshit.  
   And Miriam had been up for 22 hours pulling radiators outta STARSKY AND HUTCH Gran Torinos all day, without even a MILKY WAY bar to fuel her loving labor; regardless, she took her illegal medicine, got into bed, beat her pariah complex into the black, thought of how gorgeous Bernie Sanders was and that Clinton was a phony not needing the Virgin Mother's Queen of Heaven Coronation to be mocked here on Terra's invaded and reptilian-smeared surface; furthermore, she found 4 hours of peaceful sleep before a much a nagging need to urinate woke her from kissing Matthew McConaughey and then laughing to his perfumed face with glee, before breaking out in an awkward-sounding, non-soprano girl sound of a quasi-Christmas jingle:
  
I'd like to teach the world to sing
In perfect harmony;
I'd like to hold it in my arms
And keep it company.

   No more Coca-Cola before bed--the protracted urination kept her awake afterwards, and she blazed a sulfur and phosphorus-inspired match--the kind you can never find at restaurants anymore; next, gave fire to the organic tobacco, blowing her prayers to God and giving the Virgin Mother honor with praise and delicate invocation, mentally telling the reptilians to stay in hell, unless of course, this Earth was a piece of it.