DMV @ Tennessee

 
 
   "DMV @ Tennessee"
 
   I was dreading it for months--driver's license renewal.  Thank the shimmering stars, step-daddy took me.  I was quacking like a fifty-cent milkshake, fueled by anticipation concerning facing the angry masses--a public scenario, way more disorderly than me.  People rushing, texting, glued to computers, thinking about nothing save sex and money, me too sometimes, but I get over it; regardless, Bubba Cheese was my bodyguard, and having a motley synergy of anti-sophistication seemed good-old-boy enuff.
   Where the hell did all the Americans go?  One dude with kids from wherever, and the DMV folk were garbed in the bling of bounty hunters, looking more like rogue law enforcement than ordinary people--what a great movie; I love Alan Alda.  
   There was a blonde lady in front of me.  Nice.  But she wasn't even from here, coming in by way of Switzerland, and the dude that waited on her lived in Germany.  What the hell?  It's okay Mark, breathe, and wash your hands when you get the hell out of here.  Do I have to pee?  Is there a booger dangling from my myriad of nose hairs?  An elderly man got his CARRY permit, and my gun-slinging step-dad grinned.  It only takes one shot.  Don't spray prey.  He frowns on the 9-millimeter.  Says the Germans don't know what kinda bullet puts a man down.  The 9 is too high velocity--no stopping power.  Goes right through you, like my mother's old lamb roasts.  Holy Fire, Bubba Cheese is a rhinestone cowboy.
   We got the hell out of there.  I took a Duck Dynasty photo.  I don't need guns though.  Got a bullwhip from a hot bartender years back in exchange for giving her the favor of a nipple fling--women are weird, always hoping men are looking, save the nice ones.  So, that's it.  Boring.  Her breasts are waiting, fella . . .

Mary, the Blessed Virgin Mother HD

Talking to old friends

 

     "Talking to old friends"

   Shazam Goober!  Always liked Captain Marvel--before Marvel adopted it, kinda gender-bending, but I've been there, as have most, and I didn't realize how imperative the Unicorn Nation was, just prep-school ladies, too young for my eyes, and be a priest man--health insurance, a free place to live, same clothes everyday; plus, you don't have to have a nagging wife.  She'll kill ya man, metaphorically.  I love metaphor--I'm all allegory, symbolic, comparisons, and not, but straight in the arrow, and my dog is long in the tooth, and she still runs like a puppy--the terrier spirit.  Noticed another terrier nearby.
   I can tell he's an old friend.  Just that.  But it's nice to talk to an old friend, even if that is only who he awesomely is.  I'm used to the electric suck.  And can you be a weregolden-retriever?  People author books on Lycanthropy, even me, and Great Britain actually showed up.  Roger Moore was my favorite.  He looked like my Dad, a little taller; also, more slender; however, he had an elegant suavity about his essence, boy.
  So, old friends--you were always in.  But she was not my heart.  Did you think so?  Some girls have power over your mind; on the contrary, some girls have power over your heart.  Which is worse?
   So, just be a truck driver.  Metaphorically I'm talk'n.  God forbid I give advice.  Cut that hair you hippie.  How many times did Jesus hear that?  But he washed it, you schmuck.  He was a nice, tough guy with a heart.  That's how simple God is.  Simple.  True.      

Christ and Ice

 
   "Christ and Ice"
   
   When a male child is born, even a female, the mother usually charms with grins and smiles, a cruel wink or all the worst, to further forge her offspring; nevertheless, the father is as he is, an older man, gray around the tips; indeed, his tips are frosted.  He stands in your face, without magic, though has plenty.  Uses muscle and machine.  A craftsman.
   Christ was not trained by a rabbi or a charmer.  Was trained by a virgin--the Queen of ALL virgins, though even a virgin can lose her life on the battlefield, but not before taking an army of men with her, reminding:  "You will be judged!"
   A virgin has no charms minus magnanimous mysticism, a constellation, an army, a pack of purity, as white as snow, and when pushed, as cold as ice.
   Christ had the best of parents.  

Sublime Tribes

 
   "Sublime Tribes"
   
   Not my place, nor yours Sucker, yet to have adoration for people--if somebody wants to hang out with a Mutt Irish girl, many modest Saints (metaphor) are available to sing you the sublimity of Shamrock sound--you know, like the CRANBERRIES.
   I support no one, in comics and film, save the PEANUTS Gang, and even then I ponder; still, it's in you too.  The history of the world.  Make your innards be filled with magnanimous mystery, haunting characters crafted for smooth and cool.
   Not all were eating hearts.  Some.  Yet many differed, from the West of Apache, the Northwest of Crow, the Northeast Iroquois Nation and such--I think I'm getting this right, fundamentally.
   Pilgrims were divided, in a sense, too.  Some didn't always wash their hands after naughty things.
   And yes, I like the Levites.
   But Jesus Christ never really had to wash His hands.  They were always clean.  He just did it to tranquilize our anxiety with Spirit smile, for beauty can kill or heal, and best--if it has a sense of humor.  Movies from the 1980's come to mind.  When Reagan was strongly, Commander in Chief.
   I suck with the art of business, yet the "just say no" of Nancy, and the peace through strength, and the lack of commentary about the division of people, because it hadn't been invented at that time, for that time.  I guess he was a movie star is all, and I liked to watch the man on television as a little kid.  

Big Trouble in Little China Pork chop express

Fruitcakes and Wheaten Terriers

 
   "Fruitcakes and Wheaten Terriers"
   
   Holy Fire!  I'm invoking Tone Loc.  He was in a Western.  Played a cowboy.  That's pretty cool.
   When God was passing out brains, Johnny Carson got a nice one, and I got a fruitcake.  Johnny Carson never liked fruitcakes.  The cake, I mean.  
   Again, the Northern Europeans and the trickster god, the supreme ruler of the gods, not the other one.  The old man on the battlefield.  I guess, kinda, if the One, True God didn't like me, he wouldn't play pranks on me all the time.  It's only to chisel me further, I surmise.
   And my Wheaten shifts, anchors herself on the Earth; next, takes a big, raunchy poop when I see a pretty girl at the park--all the damn time.  She loves to humiliate me.  Good for her.