Indigo Samson (1)

   
   "Indigo Samson (1)"
  
   When he was born--all of his skin burned bright blue, as if lit up with neon squid ink.  Samson Landon knew about himself:  "And no razor shall come to his head."  Yet his conservative father complained to his immaculate mother:  "All of my problems in life are caused by our Samson's long hair."
   He was a return man on the high school pigskin team, dodging with determined dexterity upon the semi-glacial tundra of Michigan's flowing fields.  Like with a jawbone, slaying their ass, if ya hear me, while others did the blocking and tackling, binding themselves in the heavens.
   Samson didn't need phony friends.  As a species, human beings form into tribes, his psychiatrist told him.  Everybody has an agenda, mostly--and the braggarts go here, the asymmetrical there, the pseudo-educated are all radicalized with the hostile left-wing fascination to euthanize, and the elves of the world mix with fairies, yet beauty can demonically destroy or bring forth the wickedness of pernicious plots to venomously vanquish the reflecting flower.  But no paganism here.  What you kill; next, you own it, but it may end up owning you.  It's based on PASSOVER Mr. college professor, brainwashing the children, while you've never dug ditches and been held in contempt by the rich man.
   So, Samson did his thing, and knew the words of JUDGES 15:11--like this:
   "Then three thousand men of Judah went to the top of the rock Etam, and said to Samson, Knowest thou not that the Philistines are rulers over us?  what is this that thou hast done unto us?  And he said unto them, As they did unto me, so have I done unto them."
   Samson Landon's hands turned blue.  He was in his room drinking a Sprite.  Felt no guilt, remembering those forged in stone words, them forever eternal concerning the mighty shining one:  "AS THEY DID UNTO ME, SO HAVE I DONE UNTO THEM."
   

'13 BOSS 302 vs '13 Mustang GT

Caretakers Feel Underappreciated

   
   "Caretakers Feel Underappreciated"
   
   Great article about this; moreover, was showcased on one of the wack-job networks, like MSLSD or the Cranky News Network; regardless, when the chatter you pick up from other people is:  "She'll be dead soon."  It's like these people are against the patient.  A doctor's say-so isn't axiomatic.  Ever hear of protracted content, or radical remission.  You fight as long as you can--to your own death, like a Saint.  If you choose.  But my Grandma taught me many things both German and Catholic, I'm totally talk'n.  Too, I saw my Aunt and Mom squabble over her, nastily, nobody was doing enough, and Grandma was put in a facility; however, my Aunt was a frequent visitor and kept the staff in line.
   Like your shit doesn't stink?  Yeah--I've given plenty of lip, but you started all of this with negativity and a false diagnosis.  I was just the weird guy that made fun of myself; also, was the phobic and bizarre clown.  But nobody pulled together.  It was all too disgusting to see, or pessimism caused by phony doctors, and they took her physical therapy away two years ago.  You guys are the officers, the successful ones, but I'm a grunt in the trenches, getting my ass kicked by Jackie Chan in the rice patty.  
   I'm not mad.  I'm just disappointed, but will block any attempt to make someone go to a shithole before their time.  You tempt him, yet say I'm the villain.  He took an oath, through sickness and health, and he's healthier than me--wanna see my shitty blood-work and large intestine.  So, I'm an asshole, but not a prick.  I can't live without hope.  Don't threaten me with silence or seduce the old man.  I do well for both of them.  Yes, I screw up.  Can't even find my own car in the parking lot I'm so frazzled.  Haven't slept in six years, but I own my insomnia and my sleep paralysis.  I shake.  On medication for over ten years that causes Parkinson's-like features.  If you don't want to hear me; next, turn off this channel.  Go to another website.  This is my therapy.  I've never physical assaulted anybody in the family--you know that's false testimony.  Just lip, here and there.  Yet my face has been punched in by members of the family, and bones broken, but I wasn't a wussy about it.  
   I forgive everybody, for what I see as sin, because all of you have lives.  I don't.  I've never had friends, my wife was the biggest, well, that wouldn't be nice, but you know what I'm saying.  I'm just a gimp with a few gifts here and there, but I'd rather live in Montana, in a little shanty.  No more from me.  I'll write about hot blondes and muscle cars.  I'll be a silenced redneck.  

Queen of Heaven

   
   "Queen of Heaven"
  
   The Queen of ALL Virgins, as the Litany wends, is highly toxic to contagion, as is menthol to bacteria; furthermore, in Chapter 12 of Revelation, or better yet:  The Apocalypse of Saint John the Apostle, She resides.  Even Saint Pope John Paul the 2nd put a bullet shell into Her Crown, that golden chakra, forgive me, but as Christ told the prince of this world:  "Man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God."
   Yup, the good-old-days, when Ronny Raygun and the Pontiff knocked it out of the park with the unearthly crack of the American Bat.  And they tried to kill Tebow with a 90 MPH fastball to the head; moreover, it was his mother that saved him, and she would name him Timothy.  
   So, Virgin most powerful, and Virgin most merciful--Mirror of Justice and Queen of Peace--the Chosen know you know how to Super-Position Yourself.  It has to do with physics, for those that have a Bush League college education. 

  

Virgin Ninja (19)

   
   "Virgin Ninja (19)"
   
   Covertly skulking, though for sublime purpose, Joanna Blanc secretly, though also in Socratic fashion had been observing an elderly woman being neglected and abused by her husband and caretaker, the son on his deathbed so many times--it was impossible to count anymore, always, slowly bleeding to death, transfusions, medicine listed as chemo, waking to find his mother on the floor, bloody and with contusions on her head, his father not alarming anybody, but going back to sleep after 3 or 4 drinks of Jack Daniels.  The boy weeping, wanting to tell, but phobic, though his physician did want to call Social Services, for the entire situation drove him to put his father's angry gun inside his mouth, his father instructing:  "Get me this, do this, do that, or I'll knock your 110 pound body out, especially your teeth, you retard--you're nobody, always wanted to be somebody else, you don't like yourself."
   The boy watched as his mother wasn't spoken to, put in the dark, like where a baby calf goes to die, a dark room, void of sound, light, vibration--there is no frequency of life in such a macabre and desolate place.  And always the pseudo-caretaker's lazy physicality yet spirited arrogance, her either dropping his mother in the shower, throwing wet rags at his face and calling him a scrawny fool, yet the boy endured, unable to say a word about God or hope to his mother, as his father further fabricated false mantras:  "Don't talk to your mother; you can't get through to her."
   The slick sale's pitch of slow poison, undetected on the radar, unless someone has eyes to see and ears to hear, or digs deep enough, taking a journey into mystery.
   Joanna Blanc would correct the situation, calming the boy's tics by bringing him into her circle, which consisted of Sister Nelson, Bobby McQuade, and herself.  He needed to stand up for himself, for nobody deserves to be a scapegoat save the cunning serpent that has no innocence.
   She rescued the boy.  He wailed for his mother.  Joanna said:  "They want her old and sick soul dead, and because you have excellent empathy--you're in their way; as a result, your death or exile would have been next.  My name is Joanna Blanc.  And I will be your pedagogue against a wicked hand's sinister shuffle before death is totally dealt."  
   The boy, like always, even as he had faced death, hoped against hopelessness, yet would perpetually continue his fervent prayers for Mom.  Joanna's uncanny empathy recognized his internal life's passion, and she knew that she had picked another benevolent student.  

Paying off: see it your way

   
   "Paying off:  see it your way"
   
   By nobody's grace does he reside within, yet due to singularity, armed with faith--that keeps her content and within the feel of HOME.  
   He is the boy.  The slave.  So what if he mouths off here and there--what is his completeness?  And he cannot charm with tens of thousands of dollars given, and illegal orders, not his fault, but yours for pointing the elderly in the direction of fraud.  He is a nice man, but old people can be mean and unstable.  A disabled weirdo who shits his own pants and sanitizes his packs of cigarettes, barely able to function in public, doesn't need shit either, especially fed to someone else by your own AGENDA.
   You have an agenda.  A history of bullying one halfway decent bro.  He doesn't want to get laid.  He wants to be a monk, at least metaphorically, adoring literature, prayer, baseball, birds, dogs, and the elderly.  It is not a bother to him.  The bother is threats and sale's pitches about putting her away in a CHEAP facility, where the death rate is higher than a Platoon Lieutenant in NAM.
   You sell the elderly instruction with money and promises.  You allegorically charm the snake, making it a snake, like yourself.  And for what?  To keep him from being himself?  To put an old woman out of her misery, when you've never extended a protracted visit in our direction, for nearly six years, not having empirical evidence of misery, and as he is disabled too, cannot he experience neglect too--years of solitude, locked away as a caregiver 24 hours a day, while you sleep in monstrous millions and the slimy silk of corrupt connections?  Who truly, and in twisted sister fashion, manipulates the old and sick?  Your family.   

The Anti-Freudian

   
   "The Anti-Freudian"
   
   King Solomon:  "Hearken unto the father that begat you, and despise not your mother when she grows old."  Jesus Christ, always running away from the Mother, as meditated upon in the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary, saying to Her:  "Woman, My time has not yet come."  Disobeying Her and revealing Himself; on the contrary, while hanging on Our Life @ Calvary, He yells to His Mother:  "Woman, behold Your Son!"  Then, to Saint John the Eagle, and ALL of us, He screams:  "Behold your mother!"  Acknowledging Her.  However, back to His Father:  "Papa, into Your Hands, I command My Spirit!"
   It doesn't get any better . . .