Wednesday, November 1, 2017
Jeff & Kevin--meet the Divine 7
"Jeff & Kevin--meet the Divine 7"
Hail lazy,
Full of Injun crazy--
Hallowed be thy mashed potatoes (for Dan Quayle) and gritty gravy--
How are your wives and daughters?
Do they reflect your countenance's homo-erotic slaughters?
Don't worry--I'm as chaste as they make,
Maybe KGB, maybe a truck driver, maybe fake;
Alas, hold not contempt for liberty;
Indeed, Pee-Wee still calls her Elvira,
And Mr. Morrison lights a Hollywood bungalow fire--
So break the law,
Rack up your crimes,
The Divine 7 fuel my rhymes;
However, there is one among them
With no sense of humor,
In the Book of Enoch--
Will he give you a tumor?
I've been dead and deep in hell
With them bones that a ruthless caretaker did sell,
As she flipped my matriarch around like a slave,
Cackling cruelty, being true hate forged and made--
You know damn well these thugs don't care
About killing the elderly, even in their own domesticated lair;
Thus, why deny the truth to the masses,
When many among us know you both wear the devil's glasses?
That one with the mustache, he damn well knows,
And if he stands up; next, he overthrows.
All Saints' Day
"All Saints' Day"
This guy might have come to my house last night. Maybe not. He was dressed as a Dictator; indeed, he put a potato on the end of his naked choad.
Then you have Pizza the Hut, and he tortured me in the second grade, where I attended a regally rural school, in a trailer no less, constantly drawing pictures of a frozen Han Solo and brushing up on my Faulkner. Were they brave? Yes. Were they courageous? Yes. But they displayed no pity or mercy. Sherman's coat was never taken off or removed during his time in the Civil War, some say, and it was a drab olive-green. Confederate Generals were well-dressed--ZZ Top wrote of the sharp-dressed man. Yeah, I wanna look like the dillweed from that fancy J. Crew catalog and put feathers in my hat, not allowing the enlisted men any shoes while England is funding my plumes.
Always help out the little guy; he's the vertebra of the Corp. Now don't get me started on truck drivers again. What the hell. Best reflexes, many drafted by the CIA. What, nobody in the CIA ever drove a truck? Met this female trucker, carrying your goods and survival on the midnight highway while you hold her in contempt and call her stupid--all because she never got brainwashed in college; moreover, her handle was: Precious Cargo. Too bad a snob like you won't break bread with her.
And the Saints. Mostly peasants or fruitcakes. Good for them. The world is bigger than you know, or I know. This isn't even my house. They made sure of that. Like with my Dad's fortune. In their pockets. I've been screwed more times than your wife back when she was a sorority girl, getting educated, honestly instructed on how to be a crook, and possibly, a murderer. Or possibly not. Yeah, she's Mary Poppins.
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Feltner and Grenier--Yummalicious
"Feltner and Grenier--Yummalicious"
Letter from Mom--RUN IT:
Remember burgundy. Good wine. Not before its time. Deep in their pockets. Gotta stop it, nah; moreover, I know your father. Did J. Edgar Hoover have you investigated for two weeks? Do you know who the mother is? You try to murder me--do you? Just asking?
Oh well, meet my husband. He is a whore-monger and heavy drinker. Hoover knew it well. Also, he's brilliant. A rocket man. Pray you don't see him. The abuse upon his son. You bled the boy; however, like me: The boy is spirit and blood. Do you know that energy can manifest matter?
Snoop Dog likes you. Loves a good sell out. A weasel. A crook. How deep are you in? How many lies will you tell? In Belle Meade? But in front of the country? You hate America, or do you totally hate an honorable America? Make Her a crook, like you? Bought, sold, and paid for? My son will break? I am Rand's Daughter. You will be as I say. What do I say? A troll? A vaginal cavity, dripping in yeast? A fat head from Belle Meade that makes her chimpanzee husband cut the grass, while she plots to nurture him into the grave, gently? Come on--it's All Hallows' Eve. Just metaphor. This is ambiguous and allegory, you dastardly douche.
Rand sees. Hell if I know. Is Belle Meade larger than Her.? Feltner, Grenier, and all the rest--I'll tell them not to look. Don't look son--it's too cruel. And only, because you wanted to be human.
How to be a politician
"How to be a politician"
First--start out with a small crime, like extortion; next, place your mother in a nursing home where the flunkies administer bloody enemas on a regular basis and wash your matriarch in her own urine; then, screw your brother's wife and give his children poison--you're on your way to being governor.
They observe and fall in wicked love with you when you get away with small crimes, hoping you'll have victory in even more scandals. And if you do, and don't get caught, they let you in.
However, there's Trump. Nobody owns him, for he has his own money; nevertheless, they can threaten him or his loved ones. But, in the end, the white hat always wins--it is written.
We don't need the Democratic Dungeon Masters calling us racists. Did not the Lone Ranger break bread with Tonto? Indeed, he did. And then they kicked ass, no matter what the color.
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