Business Man--B'dn-man

   
   "Business Man--B'dn-man"
  
   Of course Rh negatives are mutants, but the mighty Wolverine lives--and with Canadian government implants.  I'm a fruitcake, but Saint Joan of Arc and Saint Francis--this is not thousands of years ago, but a few centuries before our time, and they have witnessed score cards; thus, get in line with the Virgin, even if She caused a Great, Cleansing Flood.
   He's a fox.  Or like General Grant--a coyote, second only unto the Great Spirit.  Protestantism was founded on gastrointestinal issues and a singular verse, though the Spirit takes Christ up onto the mountain--Matthew 4:4, and the adder quotes scripture, malignantly--yes, the scripture can be used for iniquitous purposes, but the Living Word says:  "Man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God."  It's ambiguous, but DUDE--know the fundamentals, and all is cool.
   He tells my doctors that they're not physicians.  That the Cowboys never won a Super Bowl.  That you're the problem, cause a man saves his son on the Sabbath as the boy has fallen into a well of water that you need to drink, but we all drink the Kool-Aid, cause people that like artificial sweeteners have the worst relationships with food.  And it doesn't even matter--if you make yourself like Peter Pan, boasting against a Captain who died of jock itch, and you count your money, laughing all the way to the bank, and internal ingestion, like Jabba knew, as did Dante, and Saint Peter sincerely complains:  "We've given up everything--what's in it for us?"  While the Eagle, Saint John laughs, knowing only exile, as he took care of the Mother, and law school teaches you how to lie, not justice like Saint Uriel, but false testimony to win, because America has forgotten the seed it sowed, and Franklin was a hippie, having no Adams-like law school and a crazy cousin; hence, an autodidact-directive towards making Independent Films; plus, Toilet of the Dead, a Japanese flick, really frightens me, but as old Jack Burton says:  "What the hell."
   There's enough money in America, though approximately 19 trillion in supposed debt, that EVERYONE should be covered.  Health Care for the Minute Men, and trust me--I know, you don't want to be sick.  Pray you're never sick.  Cause if you are; next, we'll see how tough your ass thinks it is after you shit blood for near 20 years straight.  

Ali vs Foreman--my Yankee opinion

   
   "Ali vs Foreman--my Yankee opinion"
   
   All Saints' Eve--a day before, in the rhyme of the year 1974.  Make it like Hemingway, Mark.  No college--a 4 year vacation.  Not machine gun sentences, but a short, 3 shot burst.  1, 2, and 3.  I saw a fish.  It was a big fish.  I caught the fish.  I ate the fish.  The fish gave me spirit.  
   Foreman was bigger, uglier, meaner, nastier, had a German Shepherd on a chain, was stronger, saying:  "I gonna kill that pretty boy."  More or less.
   Africa, of that region, accepted the monstrous Foreman's dog, though it was unclean.  The children accepted Ali, and he looked like an adolescent in a state of glee.  Ali, a great philosopher, kinda/sorta preached:  "Repeat the mantra, and it shall happen."
   The BELL Rings!!!  Foreman--strong as an ox, slamming the svelte Ali--over, and over, and over, and over--Ali's hands up; plus, a dance here.  And a dance there.  No offense.  Hands up.  A mere dance.  Round after round.  Big, big, big, angry and mean Foreman beats the shit out of little Ali--so it appears in our Kool-Aid-drinking souls.
   Next, after many rounds.  Ali exits his corner.  Foreman, so big and strong--is simply exhausted.
   Then, Ali has his opening.  A jab here.  A jab there.  A dance.  A dodge.  A dance.  Another dodge. 
   Foreman can't hit shit.  Has made himself a sluggard due to anger and hate.  
   Ali.  Another jab.  A right.  Next, picks the bigger monster apart.  Picks him to crumbling pieces. 
   Ali has victory.  Nobody still believes.
   And Foreman becomes humbled, selling grills, and morphing into a magnanimous man of virtue and love.  A great man.  Ali prayed for his enemy with punches--in my humble opinion.
   Ali, a resting pulse of 50.  Parkinson's for over an easy decade.  Surviving.  The mantra.  Say it.  It comes true.  Believe it.  It comes true.  
   Be at rest CHAMP.  You are not arrogant.  You taught.  You gave.  You endured.  You were and totally are--beautiful.   

Thoracic Animus (23)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (23)"
   
   As Doc and a bemused Mutt exited the modified B-25 Mitchell, Mutt swiftly forgot to process the insidious snakes, for the tall, svelte blonde woman called Miramaxus approached with her laser rifle in a firm grip, and besides the symmetrical features of her chiseled face and her sunshine, cascading blonde; plus, full kissable lips and aqua-emerald eyes--he noticed her legs exposed from between a pair of white snow boots to a furry pair of what could be described as exercise shorts--her legs were tan, muscular, and extremely golden with a kiss of glisten like glitter, and as a werewheaten-terrier, he felt a bit nasty for wanting to hump, but immediately got control, having enough empathy to know that this angel deserved immaculate love--nothing less.
   The threesome made their salutations, shared a few chuckles with Doc's humor taking the lead, and then Miramaxus glared into Mutt's puppy dog eyes, saying:  "You deserve a bone after those cool heroics."    
    Mutt honestly replied:  "I didn't do anything, and was freaked."
   The angel further said:  "No, I mean for hanging out with this crazy cowboy."  Her pointing at Doc; next, they all chuckled again, and it felt like home for Mutt's depressed dog inside.  

Martina McBride - Independence Day lyrics

Jonah Hex | Trailer US (2010)

This will make no sense: TOUCH

   
   "This will make no sense:  TOUCH"
   
   When you're a Priest or Nun, cause you get none, and are celibate--it's called a discipline.  When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics and are not merely anal--it's a blessing.  Proof of the Illuminati's existence is that television physicians on the propaganda channels tell college girls not to douche; specifically, that the vaginal cavity is a self-cleaning oven--HOGWASH.  Gotta clean that sucker out sometimes, at least monthly, and use the kind without fragrance.  
   I sinned this week, thinking about carnal activity, but I cleansed and sanitized; next, went back to my angelic essence, and told it that I would listen, for I have friends, as did William Blake have breakfast with Arch-Angels every morning.  The fox condemns the trap, not himself--remember.
   My Grandmother's sloppy kisses, so clean as a whistle; plus, my Serbian Pap's beard scratch on my arm to make me laugh; moreover, my biological father's whiskey fresh scent hugging me with monstrous strength, and my skinny ass couldn't even breathe; next, my biological mother calming me as a youth by scratching my back, and my Golden Retriever giving me her belly to rub--this was TOUCH.  Like the Eucharist--Christ touching you, so softly and lovingly.  We all need touch.  We die without touch.  We may not all be social animals, but even a skunk needs touch.  Heck, even a golf ball needs kissed by wood.
   I miss my biological Dad.  If it wasn't for phobias and people's exploitation, though--through my fault, I would've been at his side every moment, happily allowing him to kick my ass.  I miss, most of all--his fatherly TOUCH.  

City of Angels & Gumshoes--back in the day, baby!

   
   "City of Angels & Gumshoes--back in the day, baby!"

   Joe Mannix got his butt whooped every week at the pier, and thrown into the water, but he always came back for more.  In the words of Guns And Roses:  "I'm on the Night Train--I never learn."
   But Joe Mannix shouldn't have learned.  He was a rare breed.  Liked taking an ass-kicking, for he had Health Insurance.  As my biological mother said of my biological father:  "When he played college football, he used to hypnotize himself and let the other players put out their cigarettes on his back--just to get him pumped up as a running back, like a little John Riggins."  
   Back before LA became a sanctuary city--there were private eyes, rock and roll, and still during today:  The Rand Corporation.  But as the crazy guy says on Fox News:  "Would you want Dirty Sanchez living in your daughter's bedroom?  How's that gonna work out for your sanctuary?"  And my freaking family were immigrants, but the Serbs learned how to speak English, took the Pledge of Allegiance, and only spoke the Slavic Languages among themselves.
   So, don't be a cop.  Go old school.  Be your own man.  Be a private eye.  Drink beer, smoke a Lucky, nail a dame you love and wanna engage in matrimony, and say the OUR FATHER after some hicks roll you like they did Jim Rockford.  Get your ass kicked for the hell of it.  
   Too, don't carry a wussy 9-millimeter and spray prey with the high capacity, but go all cowboy, having a single action revolver.  But what the hell do I know?  I still watch cartoons, and 50 is knocking on the door.