Truck-Driving & King David

   
   "Truck-Driving & King David"
   
   Being a voyager, or even worse--a freaking pilot of an automobile making the attempt to transcend an eighteen-wheeler is strictly intense; thus, get a muscle car, or pass with as much macho muster available; next, hug the outer, surrounding line, and be on your merry way.
   Or you can hug a truck.  Get behind the eighteen-wheeler and do the turtle dance of a mere seventy miles-per-hour; specifically, you'll make innocent and decent time.  But with navigation systems speaking robotically to us, doing all the thinking, shit--this is trans-humanism.  But what the freaking hell.  Plug it into the brain--in the next score of years; then:  downloading Ivy League Education, approximately twelve minute.  Moreover:  downloading Bush League Education, an estimated thirty seconds; plus, you get to drink and carnally engage sorority sisters in the virtual sludge match.  It's cool though.  
   We disintegrate our heroes--slay them actually; then, we build new models, yet your iPhone 5 still dreams lest you demolish its technological wizardry.
   But of King David--and a bard on the CB Radio would he be, back in the SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT days, outpacing a singular, monstrous gravity-sucking eighteen-wheeler with vociferous verse and the pure energy of a Holy Spirit, dictating:  (PSALMS 31:24)  "Be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart, all ye that hope in the Lord."
   And I still wish Jack Burton was driving . . .   

Mystic McDonald's

   
   "Mystic McDonald's"
   
   Splintered by rapid disease encompassing around, I find no total solace, yet peculiar frequencies occasionally vibrate with sublime sound.  And at Mickey D's do I always find things that sincerely amaze me.  Yes, like a contestant on WHEEL OF FORTUNE--I am fascinated by simple, shiny things.  And we all have "Bankrupt" and "Lose a Turn" on our spinning wheels of perpetuity.  
   So alone, as always, or possibly not, because nobody can see my friends--I notice the old and withered; plus, the Mexican workers covered in green grass and labor-like dirt, but what caught my eye today, during my omnivorous involvement with a Big Mac, was:  an older, completely bald man, with wire-rimmed glasses, walking with an unstable gait, simply ordering a coffee; next, taking a seat in front of me, shaking as he drank his hot beverage; furthermore, hands clicking on the table; specifically, he was not neuro-typical.  Are you neuro-typical?  Just a go-getter with no demonic villains attempting to slay you since birth?  
   Regardless, I prayed for him.  To have the Energy of God, Multi-Hued, Surrounding--and that he may be reminded upon his next entrance of these magical marvels.  Maybe he too will not be alone, making friends with the Angels and Saints--them always pointing to the Trinity.  
   God Bless McDonald's.  Quiet, quick, and for some reason--easy on my bowels, what the hell--I like it.     

Tex-Mex Guy (7)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (7)"
   
   With Curtis riding shotgun, buckled in by way of the Holy Spirit--the Tex-Mex Guy floored it to the sublime, yet fiction-like utopia of the suburban habitats, making sure the nacho cheese didn't get cold and sticky, him wanting it to be hot and lathery, able to be fully dipped into with a corn-crafted chip; therefore, he further ignited the power of  the five liter, the fuel injection system sending him in a tire-burning scurry past a recently ignited green light, and he was mercurially on his way.
   The giggly, rich girl, after receiving her hot and steamy dish, tipped him a crispy Abe Lincoln, and the Tex-Mex Guy was all smiles; next, Celina offered a text upon the screen of his cheap Smart Phone, it read:
  
Hey Tex-Mex Guy.  I think; moreover, I KNOW that I'm falling for you.  We should seriously consider getting serious.  Call me when you're off work.

   Saint Joan appeared in the back of the Mustang, though not sitting upon the steamy fajitas, and said:  "See Adami, your burning celibacy has allowed you to rise with corporeal resurrection.  God Bless the folks like you."  And she gave him a fling upon his cheesy sombrero--him then totally knowing:  friends can be anywhere and anything, as long as they're friendly and love you--and if you love them back.

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.