"Mother of God: Mary"
And it is hidden, yet written of Jesus: "Whoever rejects My Mother--he rejects Me."
It is not the fault of Martin Luther, for he believed that pencils had erasers, yet the stone-forged Word of God is eternal, and God is not limited to the Bible. If you think of the Virgin Mother; next, become aroused, as many Protestants do--you have an Oedipus Complex, and need the bullwhip of Christ to cool your dual exhaust. For as the Virgin Mother knew: "Do not be of two minds."
There is no Son without the Mother, formed by the Holy Spirit in Her Inviolate Womb, not Martin Luther's dirty womb, for he had no womb, but great flatulence--flatus expelled through the anus; moreover, Saint Gabriel never spoke to him.
She is the Greatest Disciple, and even the Koran holds Her up. As does Genesis, Her stepping on the adder before Saint Michael had a chance to demonically detoxify.
Your candle was lit, way back yonder, as King Solomon knew in his automatic writing. And King David, his biological father, wrote and fought from the heart--pure heart--a man after God's Own Heart.
What do they sing about Christ during the celebration of Saint Joseph's silence: "The Son of David lives forever!!!"
But what are we, without our mothers pointing us to God?
"Fruitcake Times"
The late, great Johnny Carson used to say that there was only ONE fruitcake in the world, and that people kept re-sending it to other people, and that nobody ever actually ate it; furthermore, in Oliver Stone's movie Nixon, the President is heard calling G. Gordon Liddy a fruitcake, but I honor the man; however, am viewed as the fruitcake in my family.
Anyway, my Grandma taught me to love the yummy Christmas combo of fruitcake, coffee, and cigarettes. She was so much into sweets that one night, she ate two boxes of chocolate-covered cherries, imbibed two pots of coffee, and smoked three packs of cigarette--all in less than eight hours.
The next morning--she told me that she had been very nervous. And as a gunslinger smoker, sometimes having two smokes in each hand at the same time, every so often she'd develop a sore throat; next, spread Vicks VaporRub over her throat, wrap it in a towel, put a menthol (which is toxic to bacteria) cough drop in her mouth, and continue to smoke, but don't discount her, for she had talents.
One night in her condo, I was walking to the bathroom in order to make an attempt to relieve my full bladder, for having Social Phobia--it ain't easy fella; then, I heard Grandma, with super-symmetrical aim, bull's eye her pee jar, filling it up with a furious-sounding urination. Then, she lit up a Lucky.
She would raise her hands to God, as did Moses do in times of war, asking for the Almighty to assist her elderly needs, and the Man Upstairs always came through; plus, she would always tell me to live by the Ten Commandments, though she gave me possibly some false testimony, informing me when I was a blossoming adolescent, that if I ever touched my private parts for pleasure; next, I would mess up the tube inside my pee pee.
I loved her so much, and my favorite times in life were playing Gin Rummy with her during the Midnight Hour, while we burned candles, drank coffee, and lit a few smokes--laughing, laughing, laughing . . .
"Tangerine Ascendancy (1)"
Blaine was not your garden-variety vegetation god; moreover, he was an organic vegetation god, grown without pugnacious pesticides; furthermore, with ALL the beauteous best of pure fabric from HOME--God; specifically, the Source, the Light, knowing--taking a bit of home's solace and sanctuary was putting the Holy Spirit within, a piece of Home; a piece of the Light, asking: "Heart of Jesus--source of ALL consolation, may you enter?"
He worked in produce; specifically, handled the Rainbow Chard; plus, made sure to eat his canned beets, as his was a testicular problem, entering through the urethra, yet stamina by a force unseen, and a little cranberry powder here and there.
He lived in a box, though not boxed, and drove a moped with power pedals, yet was more than that of Homo-sapiens, but superior in his four-breasted mutation, though his last girlfriend had chewed off his small little nipples underneath, attempting to milk him, but he was no cat, yet had some wild and wily dog in him.
He had a buddy named Swede--a tall, Nordic fellow from an invaded country, but immigrating politely, learning the Declaration and the individuality of man, morphing into a true American, without bringing his home flag, and he didn't like tacos. But Blaine liked the taco in the Nacho Doritos shell, and produced smooth bowel evacuation after the faster of funky food, waiting for the Easter Bunny to lay some platypus eggs.
"Wackadoodle Dandy"
I came to the American South, riding on a spoon,
Turned the corner just in time to see Don Ameche be a star in the movie Cocoon.
My in-law is a robot, but I'm not mad;
However, she put me in the hospital twice, with Caesar Salad and Pesto Sauce gone bad.
My sibling ruthlessly rattles my cage constantly,
Though he eats bananas, doing so unapologetically,
And my Bio-Dad was a Nordic alligator needing plenty of Sun;
Plus, could bench near 300 and played college football, getting concussions for fun.
My Step-Dad is a Cowboy and drinks my laxative lotion,
Causing his poop to swirl down the toilet in a swirly motion;
Alas, it's all good--if you have a sense of jocular keen,
Not judging the wise/fool with a coyote's sense of lean.
PS: I married a Wookiee--
In her defense, she always shaved her mustache, and I still think she's cool.
Yup, even Jesus loves the weird ones . . .
"Prayer To Saint Michael The Arch-Angel"
Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits, who wander through the world seeking the ruin of souls.
In Christ's Name--Amen.
