Liberty's Sparkle (12)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (12)"
   
   The disturbed pizza boy was gently carried by two females, both a great lass, having that everfunk of butt-lifting ability, uncanny in their wicked comfort, placing Tom on a beetle adored futon, lopsided, where Faye poured beer down his throat and lit him up some organic tobacco.
   
FAYE
Loosen up dude--we've all been there.

TOM
Inhaling the smoke and chugging the lager.  Have we?  I know plenty of healthy people who read VANITY FAIR magazine and their parents are alive; plus, their big sisters don't put them down for delivering pizza.

LIBERTY
He's got ya there Faye--it sucks super bad for some people.  In the cookie cutter shapes of suburban sprawl, where no art is allowed, and people think everything is normal, there's about one house every thirty where really bad shit is happening.  I read that in a book taking place in Colorado.

FAYE
This guy needs to inhale some Colorado or eat it in a brownie.  Glares hard at Tom.  You're a good-looking guy, a little crusty with the protocols of being normal, but you could get laid.  You are having sex, right?

TOM
No.  Who'd screw a pizza boy?

FAYE
Wanna go into my apartment and have filthy sex?  I mean, like all night long?

LIBERTY
Faye!?!  WTF?

TOM
I need to call work and tell them I've had an accident.  Can I borrow one of your phones?

FAYE
You don't have a cell phone?  You really are a freak, but I'll still have sex with you.

TOM
Shit, I knew anchovies and banana peppers was an ominous omen.  I can always tell what kinda people I'll deliver to by their topping selections.

LIBERTY
Makes some kinda normal sense to me.  

Liberty's Sparkle (11)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (11)"
   
   Tom, otherwise known as the melancholy pizza boy, was out running the anchovy miles in his rusted out, old Honda--an engine crafting uncouth steam from the terribly tiny tailpipe, and the vehicle's four cylinders only running on three, with spurts and farts sounding off of every aspect concerning the car held together by the eternal and merciful Godhead.  Anyway, the melancholy pizza boy got an order for a large pie with anchovies and banana peppers, knowing:  freaking stoners.  However, it was Liberty's address, both her and Faye hungry for crunchy sauce and spice atop a crusty styled kinda bread.  Tom took the pie, making his way underneath the darkening and cloudy sky, life seeming so miserable, finding Liberty's residence and knocking meekly on the solid door.  Nobody answered.  He knocked with a bit more muster of his own spirit and was greeted by Faye.
  
FAYE
Hey, you're cute for a pizza boy.

TOM
I got a large with anchovies and banana peppers.

FAYE
Wanna come in.  My friend is taking a piss, but she'll be out after a swift wipe of the privates.  No drippings in panties for girls, unless they're the color black.  My Mom always told me, get a pair of black underwear if you're gonna have a romantic rendezvous, for it camouflages the skid marks.

TOM
His eyes started to water, and his spirit became unsure.  I just got a large pizza--that's all I know.

FAYE
Grabs him gently with her beer buzzed arm.  Is everything okay dude?

TOM
No--my Mom just killed herself two weeks ago, and I hate my miserable life.

Enter Liberty with a cheerful smile, Spanky at her heels.

LIBERTY
Pizza is here huh?  Awesome!  Noticing the pizza boy's tearful eyes.  You okay pizza boy?

FAYE
We got a live one here Liberty.  His mother shot herself a few weeks back.

TOM
She hung herself madame!  Now take the damn pizza--you can have it for free!  Thrusts it in Faye's hand and tries to make a run for it, but stumbles, tripping and falling on the floor.  Spanky runs to him and immediately begins to lovingly lick the tears away.   

My Toughest Uncle

   
   "My Toughest Uncle"
   
   I don't get back to the Great White North often--what, am I Canadian?  I drink Canadian beer--if I can anyway; regardless, Pittsburgh Steel and all the rest.  Freaking Iron City Beer, having reverent reverie of Robin Hood Cream Ale, where I first found the word:  BUZZ!  Good for me.
   A heart transplant, two of a different kidney, and still kicking modest ass.  Awesome.  That's what I'm talking about!!!
   Survival.  The coyote.  Bad things.  Whatever.  The sublimity of survival.  The everlast and macho, Doc Holliday endurance to drink a pint of whiskey and get out of bed every morning.  Nobody knows save the ill and miserably sick.
   Look at you--you're in your fifties and still haven't had a colonoscopy.  Who are you?  You my friend, are special.  You got this.  But some don't.  Not their karmic faults.  Circumstance?  Chance? 
   The Kings die young, I heard a relative say.  Whatever.  I'm Irish:  "I drink; I smoke; I fight; I die."
   Just keep the icy cool, let the aqua blue flow over you--if that's your thing; otherwise, a green-hued Wicca version of willpower.  Still, you survive.  And of the fittest?  Come on man.
   Indeed, there are plenty of wiry gimps with a Colt .45 or blade unsheathed that can survive the most backwoods of card games and still come out with both kidneys, before a Mexican Gang steals your organs and sells them to the highest bidder.  No, not Trump--not yet; still, he seems to be honest, not wearing the mask of devilry, yet so falsely accused.   

Liberty's Sparkle (10)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (10)"
   
   This bizarre and sophomoric author doesn't wanna get into the female of it all, but represented, Liberty and Faye's girl (young woman) synergy was sublimity soaring.  Hell, a Midwestern song of the freakish and strong.  
   Spanky had a litter box, and took a symmetrical whiz within, aiming along the straight lines of Green Arrow's perfect pullback of the longbow, like a goatee and dandy mustache not making the CONNECT, but swirling upwards, in the direction of antiquated baseball players.
   And no, Liberty will not have a half-sister or half-brother display themselves in this non-lascivious literature, though speaking to things anthropological; specifically, Liberty needs nothing but glorious glee decided totally by God; thus, she looked to the Crucifix Mr. McQuade had gifted in her friendly direction; next, she knew everything was smooth and cool.
   Faye glimpsed the glimmer of that golden moment on Calvary, and some Catholics hate not taking it upon themselves with mortification of the senses, but Christ proclaims:  "No little brother, I want this burden--it is My Father's Will."
   And you give it to Him buster, after beating up on yourself for years, knowing the toughness of the Father, the bleeding heart of Christ, and the forever energy of possibly feminine love granted by the Holy Spirit, understanding the fundamentals of the Trinity, and being in a symmetrical sanctuary--a harbor of pulsating peace.
   Faye farted, and all things magnanimous were lost unto Spanky sniffing the toxic air, further creating a giggle-mode for the girls.  

Liberty's Sparkle (9)

   "Liberty's Sparkle (9)"
   
   Liberty and Faye were in Liberty's apartment, throwing back some light-girl lager and sneaking in a few puffs from organic coffin nails--the sizzle of tobacco and blitz of alcohol so American.
   Faye was recanting some storytelling bullshit; specifically, two young women just playing pool without the sticks and balls, talking the volleyball locker room sorority of secret sisterhood, and still, females want guys to trust them, when for the guy--it's all hanging out right in front of you, mostly.
   "Balance!?!"  Yup, Faye was shouting:  "What hogwash!  I was like, what are you, a freaking Buddhist?  You're just my damn dentist.  I'll floss once a week.  Not to sound like a werewolf movie, but I like a little gristle in my teeth, sucking down the day's old Colonel Sanders and feeling the angry chickens giving me an extra zap of protein."
   Next, Spanky made his presence known. sniffing Faye's t-shirt, a raven black solid with quasi-graffiti tattooed across the breast area, highlighting her little cupcakes, yet so young and perky, as most girls of that age had some buxom spirit, even if not layered like an implanted tramp from the spiritually wrong side of the toxic tracks.
   The girls continued to laugh and beautifully bond, Liberty not remembering when she had laughed such gut-busting giggles, and it healed the solitude of personal sanctuary that the girl with freedom's name had defensively structured around herself.  Laughing--it gives you life.  And remembering, Liberty added to the cool conversation:  "As King Solomon said--a merry heart doeth like good medicine."   

Ectoplasm and Ulcerative Colitis

   

   "Ectoplasm and Ulcerative Colitis"

   

Is that glowing mucus in my macabre misery, which is scatological but clean?

Regardless, I wear the mustache of Doc Holliday's mien;

Indeed, the blood of life, and it flows, sometimes, with anguish divine--

Making me a quixotic gimp that can fantastically forge mere rhyme.

Yet, am I cursed and offering amusement to spirits unseen?

The evidence:  Their ectoplasmic matter in my stool's unclean, reoccurring dream.

Ya never know how things really are,

And Jonathan Winters was totally bizarre,

Saying:  "If your ship doesn't come in; next, swim out to it."

Grab the goofball galore, and don't have a freaky piece within you of nasty grit;

Specifically, rid negativity by popping the zit

On the mirror,

So cray; still, so clear--

But no infection;

Thus, make a man that adores his own reflection.   

McMahon and Staubach

   
   "McMahon and Staubach"
   
   Beer makes you smarter, for:  "It made Bud wiser."
   Anyway, Coach Mike Ditka wanted Jim McMahon to be like "Roger the Dodger" Staubach, memorizing the playbook meticulously, as if Peyton Manning, not reading porn magazines with Donald Duck sunglasses on; indeed, McMahon could throw back the brew and still Tame the Defensive Shrew; alas, and in a positive way, the 1985 Bears were pure excellence.
   McMahon has proclaimed that when Ditka started running William "The Refrigerator" Perry near the goal line; specifically, when he handed the ball off to the juggernaut dude, it felt like a tank ripping off his arm.  These dudes could play, as would admit Grogan and the Patriots of that time period.
   And weren't those Patriot outfits awesome?  I dunno--a Minute Man in a 3 Point Stance or something tattooed on their ivory-white helmets?
  Still, Staubach could've been the only Quarterback to rush for 1,000 yards in a season if "The Old Man" would've let him call his own plays; alas, and still in a good way, the Titans got a runner at the helm.  
   You never know what's gonna happen in football.  Neurological damage?  That's why they get the millions baby.  You, as a white collar dude have no pernicious anxiety about getting tackled by a Defensive End--so enjoy your health care plan and shut up.  
   NFL players are pure gladiators.  Give the people what they want.