Monday, December 4, 2017
Arkansas Gyro
"Arkansas Gyro"
Me, Leaf Flint, and I'm a girl, well, really a lady, lost in my middle-ages, driving a funked-out family wagon; however, hubby put in a small block Ford motor, dual-exhaust, high intake on an old-fashioned carb, and double-pump of sumth'n.
Always the Greek Food Festival, with our bunny child Patrick, we called him Pat, like the Rams' QB back before the Italian guy played in the 1980 Super Bowl.
It was easy to eat there. For the Yee-Ro. That's how he pronounced Gyro--"Jie-Ro," I solidly say.
Schwarzenegger talks a good talk. Comprehensible and articulated fella. Down here, where the Hogs run screaming scarlet, bleeding a bodacious bastard's "poor man" team, yet so magnificently honest in their diligent devotion to the Natural State of thangs.
I just wish that I had inherited more expensive time to regally raise our wondrous child, while he (hubby) gathered up an awesome adventure, like a spy novel, in order to complete the magical marriage with live-action challenges involving esoteric espionage or covert ninja stuff.
A girl can be a lady. Too, a girl can dream that her husband is James Bond. A pleasure to serve the British, and what it boldly means to be animated as them. An elegant history, and futurity.
Sunday, December 3, 2017
McRib is back!!!
"McRib is back!!!"
Glorious Mysteries today. Go with Pittsburgh gold. Samson, kinda Nazareth, so much so, untying the bind, like flax fleeing disintegrationways. Jango Fett's son's gun--an exact duplicate, not altered.
And the McRib is back. What is more American? Swine. But a Hog is good for something--like a football team, charging fiercely. And the potent aroma of BRUT. So healing, Saint Raphael Green, like emerald armor, and the Irish know about this, as do they beer, poetry, and spirit.
So, my ex in-laws who sang "LOVE SHACK" and performed 60's dance moves, though they only partied during the 70's--I would tell my ex: "Get them the hell out of here. I'll give them beer--now make them go." Beer for a pleasant exodus, and for my horses. Fond stirrings of my past; specifically, a gallant and ghostly Mustang housing the 4.2 Liter eight-cylinder. Nice. Weird. Cool.
McRib is back.
Saturday, December 2, 2017
King David--get me . . .
"King David--get me . . ."
Not a cold heart. Not Mr. Freeze, or whatever the hell ever. Just WON'T let people take what is not theirs. First. Base. Maybe. Still: To pleasantly push in God's Face. To shine His Lord's Light. Never himself, in all his fighter/bard strengths. A gray-haired nimbus, before a proper invention of the nimbus. Moses is smoking awesome. King David has the Heart of Gold, and Neil Young can't find it in Alabama. It's kinda/sorta true.
But really--King David needs not my or nobody's defense; he made it!
Go to: Bar or Church?
"Go to: Bar or Church?"
Don't be such a sanctimonious squat, or you will be selling the world Earth's fever, like Al Gore; moreover, don't be Mister Smarty Pants and think your shit doesn't smell, unless it doesn't.
You have the Divine Spark, the Heart, the Spirit, what more but a remembrance of Cinderella do you need? She is gorgeous. Yet, like the phony Aaronite's may falsely think, you lust. But you do; specifically, after the Sacred Heart, first owned by King David--in my opinion. He was brutal. Cold. Froze people out. Ordered deaths on his death bed, of ice. His Son, Solomon--was all mind. Life is a battle of the mind, unless polluted by a weakened sub-conscious full of phony bologna. Go fry yourself a sandwich, you Bush League mystic. Even me, at times, when I'm only talking to Brownies--they like too much beer.
Just know: Always judge yourself, for everybody else does, even if they don't give a rat's ass about you, they want to affect you; hence, affect yourself. God is Good--nothing else; therefore, align yourself with God. Always ask for more challenges, and you can do battle with giants. Hell, you may be one yourself.
Friday, December 1, 2017
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