Tex-Mex Guy (6)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (6)"

   The Tex-Mex Guy enjoyed the vibrations of yesterday, when sophisticated Celina kissed his lips before he powered the five liter away; next, Curtis howled a Hound Dog's goodbye, and the Tex-Mex Guy would bet that suave Celina was not cherry tart pie, but so alive in body and vehement spirit--her own synergy, a classic--in novellas untold.
   Back at home, simply surrounded by modesty and the antiquated devices of yesteryear's technology, the Tex-Mex Guy and Curtis slept till a busy Tuesday morn, when more fajitas would be made; plus, nacho cheese and the hunger for a blended cuisine, as goes the flow of our corporeal energy's mien; nevertheless, we all have the right, to keep them Northern Europeans in blonde and angelic flight--not that a brunette can't be an angel, but totally not a Bush League college girl who is getting vodka shots drank out of her nasty navel.
   

Tex-Mex Guy (5)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (5)"
   
   In the five liter Mustang, armed with 302 cubic inches that actually had some serious top-end potential--Celina sang Spanglish to the Tex-Mex Guy and Curtis, knowing Hispanic Bloggers use ALL CAPS--not to be rude, but to offer a higher-vibrating frequency, like this:
   
Tex-Mex Guy--why don't ya ARRIBA LA RAZA?
And kick the silly smooch out of that dude's turbo-powered Honda?
I would HASTA LA VISTA BAMBINO--yet making it never--
Not being AGOBIO by the eternal clock-tick that sometimes brings a hectic forever.
She, about me, has a BOCAZAS; indeed,
All concerns God's time and speed.

Tex-Mex Guy (4)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (4)"
  
   Andy Samberg's Storks flick got the attention of a boring-day Celina.  Yes, it was Labor Day, and her hot Hispanic ass worked itself to the core at the local gas station/grocery market, where she seemed to perpetually labor.  But regardless of her lethargic feelings, she dialed up the Tex-Mex Guy's number, hoping he would engage her in a smooth dialogue, which would then lead to the journey of a harmless but hopeful date--no drama, just two souls igniting each other with positive energy; thus, upon him answering his telephone--she got positively giddy inside; next, the Guy explained how Curtis and him had been sweetly snoozing; hence, a twinge of guilt hit her guilty gut, knowing this guy was the best Tex-Mex delivery dude in the city and that he might need some silent slumber, but--she went for it, proclaiming:  "Come on Tex-Mex Guy.  It's a family and seemingly adorable movie--I hear.  Take me for a date!?!"
   The Tex-Mex Guy and Curtis figured:  "Why not."  Too, they told her so.  And after some BRUTE aftershave and quick scrub of his teeth; plus, a dab of mustache wax--the Tex-Mex Guy and Curtis exited the apartment, onto the asphalt ballet of Phoenix heat, but with total cool they entered the five liter Mustang and cranked on the air.  It was gonna be a restful day, for there was a noble babe involved, displaying a sublime sense of lovely spirit.  

Tex-Mex Guy (3)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (3)"

   The Tex-Mex Guy was alone on his futon, petting the synergy-like slobber of Curtis upon his khaki pants; moreover, Saint Joan wasn't there--she was not always around to heavenly haunt him into pure energy, unless he called, or she knocked politely.  
   Too, Tex-Mex Guy had his transistor radio playing, fueled by them ancient batteries that Robert Conrad dared you to knock off, along with that obviously divine chip on his chiseled shoulder.  It was Labor Day, and the Phoenix papers basically said about local events:  "Just go to the movies."
   Tex-Mex Guy and the Basset Hound Curtis knew that entertainment crap was high-dollar, for just a tub of buttered popcorn could give you the rectal squirts; plus, set you back a half-tank of gas; thus, he just chilled and pondered himself.
   His last name was Adami--an Italian surname basically meaning:  the son of Adam.  Kinda like Christ referred to Himself as:  the Son of Man.  Furthermore, The Tex-Mex Guy knew he blended in with his highly Hispanic community, for even the Italian man named Columbus, well--his mighty journey was financed by the Spanish--and did they then not produce offspring with the South American Tribes, giving us modernization below the border?  Of course.
   Moreover, as a Catholic, The Tex-Mex Guy's favorite ship used by Columbus was the La Santa Maria--the most magnificent ship of them all.  So, even though he was American--in a quiet, meek way--he celebrated his Italian heritage; next, blessed himself, put a piece of Swedish Snus under his lip, spooned with Curtis, and took a nap while the AM Frequencies enchanted with a political dream.

Tex-Mex Guy (2)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (2)"  
   
   It was Friday night in Phoenix, Saint Joan had risen from the ashes, more than a mere relic, but an ultra-spirit--a forever flux of fabulous energy; moreover, with a ten dollar tip from a seasoned citizen who most likely enjoyed Roy Roger reruns, the Tex-Mex Guy, Curtis, and Saint Joan went to a local, hole-in-the-wall bar.  He would only drink two Coronas, without the usually unwashed lime that can contain nasty bacteria, it further being contaminated by a non-hand-washing waitress; anyway, leaving Curtis in the muscular Mustang outside, windows halfway rolled down for ventilation, Saint Joan and the sombrero-wearing mystic entered the bar.  Like Shane and Han Solo, the Tex-Mex Guy sat in the back, able to view his encompassing environment.  Saint Joan muttered voices to him, and all the loose ladies glanced in his Doctor Strange position, wondering if he was cool or a mere crank; regardless, one brave senorita approached--long, vibrant hair, black-hued, and almond-shaped chocolate-brown eyes, with a buxom build to match her facial beauty.  She asked him if she could sit, he said, "Yes."  She then introduced herself as Celina; next, sat down elegantly, with the agile, nine-lives mobility of a wild cat.
  
CELINA
Who are you talking to handsome?

TEX-MEX GUY
Nothing imperative.  You are very stunning.  Are you Catholic?

CELINA
A Jesus freak at a bar--I like you already.  Yeah, I'm a cafeteria Catholic--I attend Mass on Christmas and Easter, pray here and there--why do you ask?

TEX-MEX GUY
The New Testament tells me to test every spirit, that energy within the body.

CELINA
Do you like my body?

TEX-MEX GUY
I like both your body and spirit.  You are a Virgo.

CELINA
How did you know that?

TEX-MEX GUY
My friend told me.

CELINA
I'd like to meet this friend.

TEX-MEX GUY
All you have to do to reach a Saint--is call them.

CELINA
Wow--you're a bring home to Daddy type.

   It was a lovely night, with moderate, responsible alcohol consumption and phone numbers exchanged.  The Tex-Mex Guy then exited the drinking establishment, blushing, and blessing himself underneath his cheesy sombrero.  Curtis greeted him with glee when he boarded the muscle car.   

Tex-Mex Guy (1)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (1)"
   
   He resided out in the scalding yet dry heat of Arizona, clearing up his armpit psoriasis, not down in Old Orleans, where the resonating vibrations of Saint Joan of Arc are highly gyrating on the mystical frequencies, arriving swifter, many times so, than the speed of light, like unto immediate Internet service; specifically, the Tex-Mex guy called, through cerebral focus, that particular Saint unto him, not selfishly, yet to assist him with the negatives and positives of life, knowing they (the Saints) have the ability to superposition themselves through time, space, and other dimensions, all due to them being supernaturally alive in Christ, being a magnanimous frequency of total reality; thus, Saint Joan was with his seemingly-perpetual delivery of:  chili con carne, fajitas, and cheesy nachos.
   So, piloting his 1987 five liter, 302 cubic inch Ford Mustang, no hatchback; furthermore, one of the LX models, it only taking six flat seconds to triumph towards sixty, him redesigning the intake with ram air induction, and having two supertrapps sticking out of the rear end for increased vehicular outtake--the Tex-Mex guy was a metaphorical Mercury concerning delivery.
   Too, the Tex-Mex guy wore an inauthentic sombrero, part of the blue-collar job's innate humility, moving swiftly past hot women in their Lexus turbo-models, and flashing a curved grin underneath a wiry mustache that displayed his sense of pseudo-dandyism, and a Basset Hound named Curtis alongside him in the passenger seat, buckled in by the influencing protection of Saints.  
   It was a modest yet content lifestyle, him affording cheap rent at a crappy apartment, using Swedish Snus to control his anxiety, and never thinking of Saint Joan in any creepy way, yet only to help save his impoverished sufferings--her, a gift from God, as Saints mostly are, the Saintly soldier being a Divine shield against the capitalistic roller-coaster ride that can wither away a healthy corporeal existence--so it goes for the Tex-Mex Guy, anyway.     

Razorback Games & Catholic Mass

   
   "Razorback Games & Catholic Mass"
  
   If you goeth to see the sublime swine--them royally cool Hogs in Arkansas, you might be a bit confused while attending the always epic display of the Arkansas Razorbacks.
   Arkansas:  A poor as crap State--I believe, the 2nd poorest in the Union.
   You gotta doeth Hog Calls, specifically:  "Woo Pig Sooie!!!"  Raising them hands to Hog Heaven, bringing the spirit of the mighty, tusked beast down upon the tough turf of shimmering green, though soon clothed in the passion of red; plus, the purity and peace of white.
   Like at Catholic Mass with the Nicene Creed manifesting into a "Peace be with you" that freaks out parishioners with Social Phobia; nevertheless, you must face that funky fear, making it afraid of you, for the Transubstantiation doth happen, and the Blood and Body of Christ become corporeally, not symbolically real--in my opinion:  only if the Priest is decent, or having an innocent, dove-like day.
   Yes, you can pray to the Holy Spirit.  It is part of the Trinity--singular yet more, but so true, even in theoretical physics--there are thinkers beyond you and me.  God Bless them.
   So, Catholic Mass and Hog Games both have ritual and repetition; moreover, TRADITION--gotta love it!