Why Chastity?

   
   "Why Chastity?"
   
   Nothing is more fertile, than that which has been frigid first.  The Northern European gods attempted to mimic the One, True God.  Too, God is a man--just a man, slaving in his workshop, forging creatures and beings so much more powerful than Him, and only for the challenge; however, God has had to kill many of the living--it has been written, and even deal with demons strictly; indeed, if the Father is in the business of fighting demons--you are too, like unto Him, in His Awesome Image.  He doesn't want a fair fight.  He wants to be bloodied in a metaphorical bar brawl in order to be bruised for our offenses and loaded down with opprobrium.  
   Can't have intercourse--the physicians ask why.  Cause there is always a better man.  Until I allegorically kill the better man; next, I am nothing.  I know my place--in humble suburbia, quirky, kind, brutally honest, weird as a Wheaten, and understand that Jesus Christ Himself, in his gorgeous dirty blonde, with eyes aglow and waaaay better than mine, spitting tobacco, and could take any woman I chose; thus, until I beat my big brother, and I won't, for He is Christ, and I'm a dreamer; as a result, Freud mentioned:  "Every man is great in his dreams."  Remember that, and I will too.  We are all but fools, not just me, and you for reading this, but I applaud you--there is nothing more divine than hot blondes with green eyes and muscle cars save God the Father, and the whole damn Holy Family--yee-haw, I found my place--I'm a Protestant/Catholic; plus, I like the Old Testament doctor, as the doctor told me not to read the Old Testament, for I was too brutal on myself.  Good for me.
   One of my siblings needs to sculpt his abs.  Why be a warrior dwarf, when you qualify for light-elf with shape-shifting abilities?   Drive a muscle car, once again, and feel the Grant Yankee of a tomb in New York City.  He is a shrine, and drank the shit out of it--nobody knew why, not even Sherman, Sherman having said:  "I don't understand him; moreover, I don't even think he understands himself."
   The Civil War was cruel.  Remember history, not tear it down, or we will all repeat it.
   

The Thing (4/10) Movie CLIP - MacReady's Tape Recorder (1982) HD

An explosion of girly curl flaxen, ya you

   
   "An explosion of girly curl flaxen, ya you"
   
   I was the schmuck; I see it many times, when I travel, even in the theater of my own psychotic mind.  Thank you for dragging me off into the chamber of Jonathan Winters, for now, like him--you dillweeds gave me a get-out-of-jail free card.  And I always liked Monopoly.  I perpetually play the part of terrier; moreover, this is dedicated to a girlish woman I knew, and she was a terrier--allegorically; I don't need to see Jonathan Winters so soon again, for he resonates within.  
   The lady loved me.  But I was anchored down by a woman's greedy gravity that had metaphorically castrated me in my youth.  Tear him to shreds, and all because he doesn't attend our adolescent orgies or party with us--yup, King is a freak, sitting at the Jewish Temple with two beers and a pack of smokes--we drop him off there on the way to Pandemonium, you know, the party where all the teenage girls are subject to toxic cooters, constantly craving, as their brains are crushed beer cans--everything has a purpose, even beer, just don't be a wanker and waste the gift.  But Daddy, Game of Bones is on.  So what I say--architect your own Game of Bones.  It's all frequency and sublime intention.
   Saw the angel girl in a dream.  Is that illegal, to have a dream?  She was loving a soul with her eyes closed and heart open.  It was nice.  It's nice to be nice.  
   Wish I would've known.  Wish I would've told her.  Even still, I tell her now, and forever--that she is one hell of a lady.  And it was good to know her, even if only in a bitter kiss of time.  Amen, Amen, Amen . . .

Cagney and Lacey--even G. Gordon Liddy fears them

  
   "Cagney and Lacey--even G. Gordon Liddy fears them"
   
   Throughout the 1980's, I was terrified of two female cops, but they weren't really cops--you tell me, or I'll have my dog take a toxic load on your front porch, possibly.
   I was born with four nipples.  My ex-wife chewed off the small ones underneath.  No horseshit Wang.  My cousin has three nipples, but his package is mightier than mine, on certain scales of measurement.  He could've been a porn star, but those folks get terrible health insurance I hear, and who really wants to put their dingus in a beehive.  
   Oh well.  Getting my ass kicked everyday.  We all are; however, we can be saved by the Blood of the Lamb and the Confession of the mouth.  
   Plenty of aircraft in the sky lately.  You notice?  

Major League - Ricky Vaughn - Wild Thing song

409-the Beach Boys

My last Blog sucked a tailpipe

   
   "My last Blog sucked a tailpipe"
  
   At least, not a banana in the tailpipe, or my too numerous to count sessions of robotic sodomy, ya know--the colonoscopies, and that creepy doctor with the long fingers--don't ever shake his hands at a dinner party my friends--you rich putz.  
   I'm calm.  Sucked down a lung dart.  Drinking G2 thirst quencher.  My dog got a buzz-cut, and she looks like a damn coyote, and it scares the hell out of me--I had a dream she mated with a coyote, so I think my doctor needs to show me ink blots and write me another prescription.  Gee whiz Beaver, don't you want me on more medication too?  I'll get a Pez Dispenser for my new anti-psychotics, ya dolts.  Why not let me smoke a skinny joint with some good shit inside?  What, want the side effects of protracted pill-popping drive me mad, or into some delinquent state, developing Parkinson's-like symptoms or growing man boobs?  Trust me sweet soul sister, ya, you sleazeball and your twin brother who gives me that glare everyday--you know what I'm saying.  Gotta be on guard, and remember the 1950's, when my Dad was carrying me around in his hairy scrotum.  Oh, is that myth too?  I didn't come from my Dad's nutsac?  How dare you lecture me like a father!  Only a man who wears the Roman Collar can do such things!  I liked to get bitched out at Mass.  I like to be phobic concerning God.  Because, now, he tells me:  "Don't be such a pussy Mark."  So what if I don't like foreign pubic hair on the commode at a filthy eatery.  You know what happens in restaurants?  The Chef is a drug dealer, the dish-washer has herpes, and the server has jam under her painted nails.  I'd rather eat out of cans, and even the FDA allows one rat dropping or mouse hair in all canned goods; still, that's pretty good, since the factories are flooded with filth and folly.  Co-workers screwing in the bathroom, or what the hell ever.  I worked a job as long as I could, and was the best, but people screwed at work.  I finally woke up and saw that selfishness is da bomb bro.  And I would never dream of wearing my baseball hat backwards, because a Savage yet Saintly voice tells me:  "Don't be a poser!!!"  Live in truth--always in truth!  Even if you're wacko, unless of course you screw your sister's husband--that's for you ladies out there, and I love ya--I'm the one who can't get it up without a six-pack.  Expose them, and what the hell, expose yourself--you're a freak too Mark, but I never put a gerbil up my hairy asshole.  My poor mother.
   I wrote about the theft, but it was teenage Crusade, of the American Flag with my Nordic buddy, back in the day, under the cover of the Moon, and me piloting the getaway of a scalding XR 200--it was quicksilver till 60 mph.  The watermelon.  The pumpkin and bowel movement.  The pet monkey--no, I've never mentioned that, but I might.  Might not.
   I think this Blog sucks too, but I'm a man of truth, and sometimes you gotta suck it.  Maybe the black helicopter outside scared the shit out of me, and I chain-smoked two cigarettes before puking in the sink.  There are no sky gods--it's Southwest Airlines, you fink.  Or, maybe not.  What if the crazies turn out to be right?  Kinda be the ruination of your weekend.  Friday night would be a real bummer, like it has always been since they took off THE DUKES OF HAZZARD.  Boss Hog was like a metaphorical father to me, you sum bitches.  
   Go get 'em Dodgers.  But without the Yankees in it, it all seems kinda boring.  Would've been iconic.  East Coast versus West Coast.  Still, I think the Gulf of Mexico is involved now.  Will I ever purchase a pot pie again?  I'll get the turkey.  Cause I'm a jive-turkey too.  We're all, every goddamn one us, a bunch of sons of bitches.  What, you don't think my mother bitched me out in the day?  I called her a sea hag once, and she hit me with a horse crop.  Real nice lady.  Still, she gave me life--I guess if you birth it; next, you get to belt it.  No, that's terrible!  Yes, yes it is.  You can always mind-warp your child with psychologists.  Or better, psychiatrists, and make them drug addicts.  Wish my parents would've done that earlier--I might've went to college and been just like a crooked politician.
   So goes the Iceman.  Caught a skink in the house with my bare hands the other day.  My step-father was freaked out.  He just sat in a chair and was watching for it all day, as if he was terrified.  Kinda bothered me too, but we got it, or I did; regardless, I never liked CAGNEY AND LACEY (1981-1988) during Ronny Raygun's Administration.  Oh well, keep an eye out.  If you don't hear from me by tomorrow--call the President.