Saint Raphael's Sense Of Humor

   
   "Saint Raphael's Sense of Humor"
   
   One of the Divine Seven Who stands before the Throne of Him--GOD HEALS, being the physician of the Almighty, and totally armed with a sense of humor.
   Having Ulcerative Colitis is bad enough.  Generic doctors not knowing that you CAN bleed to death from this, needing a transfusion of less than ichor, as I did, seeing the life fluid evacuated on newspaper, like a dog as OCD instructs, but a gift--a true gift.
   And with healing balm does Saint Raphael cure as mentioned in certain mystical texts; moreover, having psoriasis in your anal cavity, not being able to sit due to pain; plus, A SINCERE ANAL ITCH, which drives you completely crackers, until a benevolent physician arrives, and instead of just simply probing the butt cheeks with a light, but tells you to bend over, and opens the anal cavity, saying:  "This is angry psoriasis dude!"
   Next, a balm prescribed, and what can you do but laugh?  Baby wipes, but moisture; next, fungal possibilities, and what can you do but laugh?  Remicade infusions for years, moving to Humira, not to mention low blood sugar, sleep paralysis, almost dropping over in grocery stores, and sanitizing everything compulsively, urinating in jars as toilets seem nefarious, coated in the pubic hairs of demons--but what can you do but laugh?  
   Just hang in there, protect your dogs, love your Mom, and Jesus' Mom, for even He would say:  "You can mention nasty stuff about Me, but don't you dare talk bad about My Mother."  Saint Gabriel came to Her, not Martin Luther--heck, even Nietzsche knew this in his possible apostasy, or brilliant madness.  

Saints and snakes (5)

   
   "Saints and snakes (5)"
   
   McKelvy knelt down upon his/her knees and woefully wept at the lack of wealth in the hearts of those inhabiting the Earth.  Loquaciousness did not possess him/her at the moment, silent--like a Blue Jay knowing when to hold the hawk's mimic.
   Yet the Queen of Angels sparked alive next to McKelvy, Her glowing in brilliant-azure gelled with immaculate-white.  She then said:  "The heart is a selfish portion, mostly taking for itself before spreading the glory of life to others.  But My Son had the Sacred Heart, bleeding an obedient death, dismissing His Own Right to rule, knowing that belongs to the Father, in a matter of speaking."
   Remembering the Greatest Son of Man's Words, McKelvy sang:
   
   Holy, Holy, Holy Lord--
   I came not to send peace,
   But a sword.  

Saints and snakes (4)

   
   "Saints and snakes (4)"
   
   McKelvy had slayed the autistic boy's allegorical demon; moreover, restored the boy's therapy dog to life by way of the virginal, inviolate ivory-blade and the power of Arch-Angels contained within.
   McKelvy's next journey took him/her to a melancholy place, full of neglect, false testimony, unethical behavior, something that might disbar an officer of the reptilian court.
   In the valley, eastways from the City of Angels, resided a woman with neurological difficulty, her whisky-drinking husband (always scowling), and their son, demonized by disease, yet made strong by his religious ways; plus, a rarely-visiting sister.  The cruelly cognizant family made the son the scapegoat for all their problems as he took gentle, benevolent care of his mother--just check the blood-work, and that she still remains, even though his sister wanted to put her in a cheap facility, while asking her gimp-like brother for his pain medication at times, having her own porn collection, and being infected by having sown her spiritual seed on non-fertile grounds; specifically, thorny ground, where corporeal pleasures and Satan take you away from acts of sublimity, causing you to offer up false testimony, deny the sick, calling them lazy--utter ethics gone sour, like the grapes of wrath.
   McKelvy would touch the father with healing, drive the demon out of the sister, and take the mother and son into the Otherworld.  It is a shame people fear beauty and love, appearing as if kicked in the face by a donkey or having a sunken skull, and their jealousy of flowers and good gardens cause them to stomp with sinister stupidity, not knowing the spending of wealth is relative, considering the bank account.
   McKelvy dropped to his/her knees, praised the Virgin:  "Mirror of justice, Singular Vessel of Devotion, Mystical Rose, Gate of Heaven, Queen of Angels, Queen of confessors--thank your for being as white as snow."    

Saint and snakes (3)

   
   "Saints and snakes (3)"
   
   McKelvy was collectively in tune with being an assiduous soul--all for his fabulous fidus Achates known as the Holy Trinity, One God; moreover, supported easily (upon his invocation) with an army of Arch-Angels at his side, knowing their power of potent physics, able to superposition their "essences" as the Good Doctor, Saint Thomas Aquinas mentioned they possessed; regardless, he would handle it himself, using the coyote's scent to relentlessly track the deadly demon off of Santa Monica Boulevard, oppressing a child raging internally, fueled by the autistic spectrum of a hidden rainbow beneath--a promise of power from the Otherworld, not a crutch, but an opossum's Totem energy, playing into the quicksand of death, yet resurrected, or ready to fight with fanged fury--if it came to that.
   McKelvy, neither man nor woman, was crafted by divine camouflage, hiding his/her ivory-blade within a trench coat's blue fabric, using his cane of cards, as gravity and determination of the damned thieved away a bit of his dexterity, yet once the ivory-blade's gemstone-crafted hilt was within his firm and true grip, having a pommel of eternal promises, the life of Arch-Angels promoted him to a state of higher constitution, an unearthly endurance to deal with those damning others, as the autistic boy was oblivious his therapy dog had been murdered by cyanide from a toxic peach pit:  first, dilated pupils; next, excessive salivation; furthermore, dizzy spells until fainting graveways.
  The peach pit was not a piquant treat offered by magnanimous hands, yet deadly contagion given by a greedy gamin having his pineal gland calcified by over-processed food and tapped into by the diabolical infusion of demons.
   McKelvy would pay the demon a visit, unsheathe his unsullied blade, gleaming like a tower of ivory, and into the soul of the hellbent, knowing:  reptiles strike out of jealousy, being envious and never wise, dooming themselves as God has determined.    

Saints and snakes (2)

   
   "Saints and snakes (2)"
   
   McKelvy, not doomed by the adversary, that inability to serve Adam (Man) as the Holy Trinity, One God suggested, morphing from the light into night-shade, adorned in scales, vibrating on sinister frequencies--all due to an inability to serve and protect man, causing curvaceous contagion and traumatic toxicity as pride did outshine obedience, wanting to craft further false testimony and the rest, giving the exploding Smurf-like gift of insidious surprise, warping most men into uncouth animals, and now hoping trans-humanism will save his fallen species.
   But McKelvy would have something to say, in utter silence, warped himself, though with the will of weirdness, using his ambiguous gifts as specters to haunt the fallen, and the ivory-gleaming blade forged inviolate, yet to offer sanguine certification of the Son of Man's axiomatic truth of long-suffering, loving it like a mad monk, knowing death belonged to him, igniting the sparkle of life without tentacles pulling downward into the venomous vault of vipers.  
   And he walked the streets of the City of Angels, gone to cosmetic implants, the falsehoods of brace-face, and the lack of loving ugliness, as McKelvy did, knowing:  beauty was with the downtrodden and asymmetrical, not knowing an architect of trickery save the coyote, having eyes to see and ears to hear:  "Ye shall know them by their fruits."
   And with his sniffer, so in tune with the trash, Saint Michael's communicative-blue giving him the gift of knowing, and Saint Gabriel's halo of white, offering words like a wasp's stinging Totem, though he only served the Lord, and those in tune with the fantastic frequency of luscious love.    

Saints and snakes (1)

   
   "Saints and snakes (1)"
   
   In withering withdrawal from night-shame, though finding the succor of Saints (preserve us), even then, the snakes infuse your pineal gland with submission save those infused by light, refusing to break, even unto death is their mastering mark, controlled by the psychotic love of God that King David possessed, so divine and praising, a son born of adultery, though that love, redeeming in Solomon and the myriads of Angels called for the will of weird, like burning myrrh does the will of the Holy Spirit, bringing forth the castrated pudendum of a Holy Trinity, One God.  
   McKelvy didn't care.  Brought forth from the pits of pandemonium unto the living earth, besmirched by madness and a greed spoken against by Pope Francis himself, sitting Benedict down, betrayed not was God by the Universal poverty of possession, especially including those spiritual things that haunt heavenly or hellways till death gifts or gives true disease.
   And everything is stolen by the coyote, like a sword forged by Arch-Angels to slay the fallen Arch-Angels, in a time and space that is relative, yet knowing:  there is no big freeze, for Al Gore has mentioned so; thus, McKelvy, damned by his altruistic intentions, would not give false testimony, but stand by the glowing arctic eyes of a Tower of Ivory, a House of Gold, a Morning Star, the Perimeter of Sublimity, and all for what?
   To not be swine controlled by controlled politicians and the lies of attorneys, yet into the quixotic insanity of TRUTH.  Let it be told!!!   

The Price Is Right: Spinning Wheels

   "The Price Is Right:  Spinning Wheels"
   
   Drew Carey's debut as host was:  October 12, 2007; however, Bob Barker is a game-show legend; plus, a Black Belt, as my Pap told me way back in them rock and roll 80's.
   I love when they spin the Big Wheel--like Stevie Nicks singing:  "Spinning Wheels...Crystal Perfection..."  Kinda/sorta reminds of Saint Teresa of Avila and her mystical INTERIOR CASTLE, wending your ascetic way into crystal caverns, and if you see a small reptile, don't bother with it, for it's not a massive dragon, but you never can tell.
   Anyway, the show was forged and produced by the television army of Bob Stewart, Mark Goodman, and Bill Todman.  It has brought happiness and glee to many seniors and disabled people throughout the years.