Zimmerman: 100%, absolutely, not guilty!

   It has been said that there is no different species of human; as a result, there is one race--the human race.  However, the African-American community sees things differently, as if intrinsically thirsting for divine exclusion; still, we all as autonomous spirits do that sometimes. 
   But concerning Zimmerman:  He had every right as an armed, American citizen to use deadly force; indeed, if someone was punching my mother in the face; next, bashing her head onto the deadly nature of solid ground--I would have no problem shooting that person.  And this is how it was with Zimmerman.  In MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) the fights are put into a state of cessation when one warrior is getting beaten in the face--this because he becomes defenseless, for the resulting beating could leave him paralyzed or forever hexed with a nightmarish neurological condition, forging a true gimp out of his once healthy soul.  If Zimmerman would have allowed himself to be beaten, like might a magnanimous Jesus Christ; then, Zimmerman could have ended up a disabled citizen of these here shimmering States in America.  But he didn't.  He pulled his piece, ending the fisticuffs against his corporeal essence, saving himself from the nature of a thuggish attack.
   Trayvon Martin was not innocently eating his Skittles and whistling the song to the Andy Griffith Show, or maybe he was; nevertheless, like all young, adolescent bulls armed with the mercurial quicksilver of youth, he most likely thought he was a bad ass.  The anthropological axiom being that he assaulted Zimmerman with the physiology of teenage fury.  He could've retreated.  He could've ran away.  He could've apologized and said he'll never take this path again--but he didn't.  When confronted by Zimmerman, he allowed his testosterone to fuel an attack.  And boy oh boy, he attacked the wrong guy.
   The Second Amendment is pure sublimity, protecting the rest of the Amendments.  The reason no other superpower country has ever invaded our glorious shores is because not only would they have to cope with our military, but because our citizens are heavily armed.  If the Chinese or Russians attempted invasion, not only would they have to deal with our monstrous Armed Forces, but also the African-Americans in the Inner City who are locked and loaded with their 9 millimeters; plus, the rural and pastoral peoples fortified by way of their hunting rifles, shotguns, and yes, assault weapons.  Alas, America is made golden by the right to bear arms.  And guns are architected primarily for the purpose of death.  We legally sell them; thus, they have a right to be legally used if someone is beating the living snot out of you, to the point where you may become paralyzed.
   This being said, why is the African-American Community protesting violently?  Did whites tear up the streets, throw rocks at cops, and vandalize private property when O.J. Simpson got a "not guilty" verdict for wasting two white people in savage fashion?  And was the Zimmerman Case not affected already by the hype of Obama boldly proclaiming Trayvon could have been his son?  The odds were stacked against Zimmerman, yet he broke free of the racial noose.  The African-American Community is spawning a number of radical racists just like the mean-spirited whites.  Even after the majority of white people elected a black President, watch predominately black sports and television shows--the African Americans still want more.  Myriads of Union Soldiers went to their deaths in order to abolish slavery; specifically, more white people sought sanguine circumstance for themselves in order to help the blacks than blacks did for whites.   But still--the white man is the monster.  Sometimes.
   Eric Holder has no right as a person who has climbed the scholastic ladder of academia to believe that Zimmerman should endure more trial and tribulation.  Verily, a teenager was killed and that brings melancholy; nonetheless, millions want Zimmerman to be lynched and infused with perpetual pain because they believe white people are racists.  Look--this is the United States of America.  A Free Country.  A melting pot.  And logic should outshine hatred.  We all have the right to defend ourselves.  Prayers and positive thoughts should be with Trayvon; at the same time, they should be with Zimmerman as well.  Only if we gel and have sublime synergy can we get past hatred of one another.  A white is no better than a black and vice versa.  Lincoln was correct in comparing us all equal; hence, we should not see color, but the divine nature of humanity.
   Too, buy my books @:  King's Books
   Sincerely, Mark David King

God is not Love; Love is a Battlefield!

   My book, (I'm Gay, And I Hate Myself:  American Loser), offers the sublimity of criticism concerning Oprah; specifically, Oprah has been witnessed commenting:  "God is Love."  She is thieving away this theological theorem  from the likes of the New Testament, inspired by Saint Paul.  Moreover, I have no idea why the Holy, Roman Catholic Church canonized Saint Paul's scribble more than the plethora of other Gospels able to choose from.  Verily, there is a reason Christ's Words are in Red.  He usurps Paul; alas, His Gospels trump the religious might of all the New Testament.
   My point is this:  Pat Benatar had it right, angelically singing:  "Love is a Battlefield!"  Verily, when a girl is young, ripe, and hot; next, she will be pursued by a myriad of males, them offering up their genitals and cerebral capacity; plus, bank accounts and ability to score the good shit.  The female decides what boy to choose based on the boy's ability to Bring It.
   My wife left me after almost 20 years of being together; alas, I lost the fight to another man.  Nonetheless, I don't blame this man, for if I was him--I too would want to have had sex with my ex-wife.  As a result, what would beating his ass accomplish?  Prove I'm the superior fighter, a true scrapper at heart; at the same time, he still would be the voracious victor and champion of my ex-wife's vagina.  He beat me.  He nastily nailed her better, and I have to coolly cope.  He had more money, more fame, better looking, lasted (sexually) longer, was bigger, a better comedic spirit, whatever reason--he fucking beat me.  He took her.  So why the hell be bitter?  Gel with the defeat, and let it spawn you divine.  There are plenty of lewd and lascivious women who desire my attractive thrusts in the arena of intellectual symposium; plus, bedroom skills are decent, as the ex-wife trained me, forging my actions talented and architected by carnal couth.
    Look, even Iron Mike Tyson got worked over a few times--that doesn't make him a pussy.  Abe Lincoln was anthropologically correct in stating:  "All men are created equal."  For some men look like Brad Pitt, others endowed like Ron Jeremy, others funny as Johnny Carson, and others as smart as Albert Einstein; indeed, it is a level playing field concerning how to make "smitten" a gorgeous lass.  And that is why love is a battlefield.  Girls are pretty.  Too, they're plentiful in nature, so even if one dumps you; next, there's a bunch of magnanimous bush waiting for you on the other side.  Don't hate your ex, but adore her angelic curves and butt fantastic.  For staying friends gives you the mercurial ecstasy of maybe making love to her once again someday--even if he is the BEST, for your second place Silver Medal promises you a chance of forever in her heart.  No shit . . .
   Too, buy my books:  King's Books!
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Halloween Prank American Style . . .

  
   Date:  Late 1980's . . .

   Location:   Little Rock, Arkansas . . .
   Holiday:  Halloween . . .
   Prank: Bowel Movement inside Jack-O Lantern.
   He talked me into doing it.  His name was Stephen.  A redneck suffering from sublimity.  Loved Hendrix.  When he'd trip white blotter, he'd stick it under a headband; next, cut his suburban grass underneath the shimmering, yellow Sun, the LSD sweating into his joyous cranium, driving him elated in 60's fashion.
   Anyway, it wasn't summer.  That season had passed--now it was the time of crisp foliage fallen, ornamenting the suburban sprawl with the crunchy walk of autumn hues.  And Stephen had an idea.  He always wanted to prank somebody with the clandestine art of scatological warfare; moreover, his plan:  Gut a pumpkin, sit atop its throne and fumble fecal matter inside; next, put the top back on along with a Burger King paper crown, stick a cigar in the pumpkin, and put it on his adversaries front porch along with a few empty beer cans scattered around it.  I'm like, "Stephen dude--how do we know they'll open it up?"  Him back with, "Are you serious man--of course they'll open it up, and see a big pile of shit inside."  And he cackled.
   When I arrived at Stephen's mini-mansion on Halloween the first thing I had to do was urinate.  Going into his bathroom, besides noticing a few pubic hairs across the linoleum floor, I saw the pumpkin.  And I fucking opened it, greeted by a well-formed piece of chocolate brown stool--it was fucking disgusting, and I moaned in unexpected agony, Stephen cackling outside as he knew curiosity had slayed me, just as it would be for the victim of his prank.
   I kept insisting that we might get arrested as we drove through the suburbs with a pumpkin full of shit.  Was all, "What if the cops get their CSI Unit and test the crap, matching it to yours?  And we'll get busted dude."  Stephen told me to chill, comfortably smiling like the Joker from Batman, allowing himself to have a soothed conscience--being a trickster god like Loki was fine with the low-leveled guilt complex of Stephen's bizarre psychology.
   So, approaching our prey, I cut the headlights; then, Stephen ran out amidst the effulgent night, neverminding the illuminated porch that was highlighted by the sweet kiss of the glistening Milky Way.  And with meticulous passion, he gently placed the pumpkin on the victim's front porch, placing a few empty beers cans around it, fixing the Burger King paper Crown in symmetrical style, and making sure the cigar stuck out boldly.  Afterwards, he casually sauntered back to the van, me shitting Twinkies, and he got in--I switched on the lights and hauled ass outta there.
   We sat at the end of suburban sprawl and drank Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Stephen proud of his devilish deed and doodoo.  We never got to see what the culmination was concerning the shit-fired Jack-O-Lantern, but surely there was an unhappy customer of trick or treat that night.  All in all, we were assholes.  But hey, there's couth here somewhere.
   Check out my books:  King's Books
   Sincerely, Mark David King

If I Had A Daughter . . .

   Being the patriarch over a daughter usurps the joyous wonder of having had spawned a son; specifically, if you have a son, you don't have to worry about anyone riding them like a jet ski, unless he's incarcerated in a Less Free America everyday.  Regardless, a father raising a daughter is a gut-wrenching venture; alas, when releasing the primordial ooze of carnal discharge within the foundation of a woman's womb, there is always the possibility a daughter will be ignited in this eternal play known as existence.  Her to forever be reincarnated or blissed into awesomeness in consistent fashion, elated perpetually by the soothing comfort of a silky cloud.

   And if I was married and the wife was launching a daughter, vaginal style, into the world, I would insist upon my wife:  "Her first name is going to be Liberty.  And I'll pick the middle name as well--oh, no, sorry honey, you pick the middle name, but the first has to be LIBERTY."  Too, she would keep my Irish surname of King, even after marriage, resonating it onwards to the title of her child as well, for she would be a stronger soul than her husband, this due to the anthropological axiom that her mother is hotter than her husband's mother, or at least I could dream.  Still, the idealism of her in my life would command me for her not to take her husband's name after marriage; she is an independent, altruistic soul, entitled to be the singular leader of her household, if it is her money and good looks that support the family--bread winner I'm talk'n.

   I've been called misogynistic; I like Guns 'n Roses; plus, I once bitch slapped an imaginary female, pretending I was Clint Eastwood in some primate-based movie concerning bare knuckle brawling, for a good man desires fisticuffs in order to having had felt his testicles drop and glisten in the silky comfort of boxer shorts.  And my daughter would wear boxer shorts, though this has been linked to more yeast infections claims the televised wisdom of Dr. Oz, on everyday in Nashville @ 2:00 PM!

   So, if you have a daughter; next, be the ultimate man, and aim her in the direction of machoness as well, though she shouldn't enjoy the endeavor of sex as much as a man, or so you should inform and teach her.  Verily, having a daughter can make a man out of you.  It is the ultimate adventure in matters of biology, and in a spiritual sense, there is always the Virgin Mary and the sublimity of Catholcism, chasing her celibate and into the arms of a benevolent God.

   Also, check out my books:  King's Books!

   Sincerely, Mark David King

Android Lovemaking--a mechanical crime . . .

   Origen was never sainted by the Holy, Roman Catholic Church; specifically, he deserved as much, emasculating his corporeal essence with the slick steel of a sharpened razor.  Verily, Origen castrated himself to free his mind of lewd and lascivious endeavors.  Thus, why was he not canonized?  Pope John Paul the Second is undergoing the process of canonization as I forge this twisted and macabre blog; still, Origen is resonating in Limbo, holding his severed testicles in immaculate fashion.
   This all has to do with the futurity of humanity.  The creation of artificial intelligence and the liquid nature of intercourse.  Verily, the Real Doll, available to purchase on Internet Sites is the silicone flesh of utopian masturbation; alas, she is real, though not animated by an intelligent mind or fleeting euphoria if induced to orgasm.  Nonetheless, she is real in all her corporeal features, offering up the brainstorm for sex with androids.
   Consciousness is the key here.  Will androids develop consciousness?  Obviously, robotic life is a zillion miles away from breathing the clean air of human consciousness, though with a web-laced brain and the knowledge of the Internet bull's eyed between its ears--androids will soon have consciousness; hence, they will have souls, and physically copulating with them will be regarded as sincere and genuine sexuality.
  This is our tomorrow.  This is the evolution of man mimicking the divine nature of a Supreme Being spawned for our elation and creation; indeed, God was crafted to architect us.  He was lonely and curious; therefore, our births were thrust onto the scene, given birth by vociferous action.  It was His words that engineered our existence.  And for the polytheist, it was a Hindu dream, though fabricated by vocal command.
   Indeed, all the gods exist; however, the Abrahamic God seems to contain the most raw power within His majestic frame, furiously igniting humanity with fervent desire and mystical manipulation.  But what about our creation?  What about when humanity spawns the axiomatic truth of androids?  Will the lovemaking be true sublimity, or just a futuristic version of a man with his gym sock?
   Totally, it will be divine.  Orgasm inside the womb of a woman or machine is just the same.  Climax will not disrupt a man's hornafied intention.  If she is gorgeous; then she is gorgeous--pure simplicity.  The only fabric of fear is if the android wants to usurp the human.  If trumping humanity seems wise action for the machines.  This will lead to sin.  This will lead to nuclear war and the rest of Pandemonium.  Man is a gentle fool in his creation, but the thinking android is pestilence, offering exile and destruction for its robotic purpose.
  Be well.  And crave the infamy of tomorrow.  Too, buy my books:  King's Books!
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The Holy Spirit of 1776!!!

   It has been mentioned:  "Without the quill of Paine, the sword of Washington never would have swung."
   Verily, Thomas Paine, alcoholic and altruistic author penned Common Sense--this was what ignited the great American Revolution.  The Colonial Press couldn't print enough copies.  And even John Adams, who detested Paine, purchased a copy.
   Way back then, when George Washington was growing hemp and Samuel Adams drinking large amounts of grog while agitating the British with his rogue group The Sons of Liberty, America was promised greatness; alas, we might have lost true liberty.
   The men who architected the magnificent American Revolution were true Libertarians.  Yet if you grow hemp today, the Republican judges will put you in prison and you will get sodomized--this is the great liberty that has attached itself to the Conservative machine.  Conservative people fancy themselves patriots, yet they might be blind concerning the Holy Spirit of 1776--an actual incorporeal entity brought down from the ranks of heaven.
   Conservative means to limit.  To pace oneself.  It is not synonymous with the fundamental meaning of liberty.  For instance:  The Drug War, spawned by conservative thinkers violates the Constitution.  It is Anti-Constitutional for the American Government to declare WAR upon its own people, yet that is exactly what the Drug War is--a declaration of war by the government upon its own people.  DEA breaking into houses wearing masks, shooting the family pet--all for what?  Because somebody ingests a substance that gives them temporary euphoria.  Big fucking deal.  What would the hemp-growing machine General George Washington say about that?
   Democrats are no better with their hatred of firearms.  Or Bloomberg making the Big Gulp illegal.  What happened to:  "Live Free Or Die!"  It should all be legal--guns, drugs, hookers, firetrucks . . .
   This is the United States of America!  The greatest country on the face of the Earth.  We need to remember our historic nature of LIBERTY and pursue it with as much muster and mojo as possible.  People try to duplicate what we once had.  People are jealous of our beauty and intellectual fiber.  But we are still the greatest.
   Sincerely, Mark David King
   POST SCRIPT:  Oh yeah, my books, offering Libertarian idealism:  King's Books!

Muhammad in America . . .

   Sir Mark Sykes, master of the Middle East (sorta/kinda) expounded about Muhammad this way:  "The Four Winds were silent.  The big neon glitter shimmered above in effulgent motion; thus, for Muhammad--there was no denying the existence of God."
   What makes Islam so unearthly in magnificent fashion is the mysticism of Muhammad--mysticism meaning:  The co-action of God and man; specifically, the synergy of organic Earth gelled with something supernatural.  And this is how it was for the magnanimous Prophet.
   Like a rapper was Muhammad.  He was young and not literate, though could spawn poetry divine.  A loafer of the desert.  A second rate man.  Just like might be some type of African-American thug who hasn't climbed the scholastic ladder of academia but is able to forge words in uncanny fashion, rapping better than a Harvard Scholar might dream--this is Muhammad; next, the arch-angelity of Gabriel does emerge, crafting monstrous mysticism; indeed, the arch-angel Gabriel gives the Prophet the gift of literacy.  As a result--the genesis of the Koran.  Unlike the Torah or New Testament where prophets and saints are filled with the Holy Ghost to pen theology, the Koran is direct dictation from the supermundane mouth of the arch-angel, being the exact words of the Abrahamic God, or so the story goes.  Therefore, education does not fabricate good literature, but it is mysticism that scribes the highest awesomeness of the written word.  The Koran is the apex of literature in that it directly descends from the mouth of the Supreme Ruler of the gods, given ink-tinted ode by the hands of an illiterate man.  Nothing in literature outshines the Koran in its miraculous birth by a second rate poet made immortal by way of Gabriel's mystical communication.
   But we are ignorant of Islam in the States.  We dismiss it as stupidity in motion.  We aren't educated or made the wiser concerning its mystical aspects.  We label it monstrously macabre and deliciously evil.  And some sects of Islam are; nevertheless, some are the Holy Sparks of sublimity.  Jesus the Christ is alive and breathing in the text of the Koran, though not perishing at Calvary, yet ascending directly beyond the Sublime Perimeter and into the ranks of an Abrahamic Empyrean.  Too, the Virgin Mary is honored more than the heretical mouths of Protestants who consider Her apparitions as Satanically-charged spiritualism.  Verily, we are all a bunch of sons of bitches; hence, know your adversary.  Study him.  Love him.  Forgive him; next, Christ enters.  Like the most potent of all Catholic Saints, Saint John of the Cross boldly brags:  "When all is emptied, when the window pane is wiped free of grime and smudged clear; then, the Good God can enter."  This is the Union-crafted Way of Catholic mysticism, transcending the illuminative way.  Why aren't soldiers masters of Islam before the battle?  Why do we hate what we cannot see?
   Truly, to dismantle the enemy is the sublimity of knowing him.  Blind kills only birth more kills.  The Abrahamic religions need synergy and to mesh mystically.  It is all the same God--the superlative God.  Hell, hate the Hindu faith or Buddha and his Middle Path, but the desert religions of Abraham are blood, spiritual blood.  But like the Protestants hating the Catholics we fight amongst ourselves for no solid reason.  We are deaf and dumb to the core of reason.  Hating the immaculate nature of the Virgin Mary has caused many a Protestant in Ireland to gun down virginal, Catholic girls.  And now, we are killing our own theological brothers instead of offering the Ultimate Reformation.  A benevolent Reformation rooted in the Patriarch Nature of God Himself, not one spawned by a loser who couldn't deal with the rigidity of asceticism as was the flatulent Martin Luther lost to his own libido.  Alas, gel.  Just fucking gel!
   That is all, and, as always, my books available on Amazon.Com, Barnes and Noble.Com, Apple iTunes, the Nook--buy here:  King's Books!
   Sincerely, Mark David King