Johnny Football got couth?

   I never watched college football other than the Razorbacks while living in Little Rock.  Didn't believe in all that school spirit and volcanic pep talks from obese coaches able to make their own gravy, delivering these profound, personal juices from underneath the chocolate yeast that boxer shorts and diets low in acidophilus deliver, though mostly to females; next, them needing to scrape the yeasty cheese with multi-forked injections of Greek yogurt, whatever . . .

   Look--college football was always a bodacious bore; specifically, it lacked the laser-passing attack of Joe Montana and Kenny "the Snake" Stabler, bringing Jack Daniels into the oval huddle, having studied his pestering plays by the neon gleam of jukebox lights the luminous night before.  Then--it happened.  A mystic epiphany forecast by the Abrahamic God--the bold birth of Tim Tebow.  College football was thriving and once again alive in my Hog-Laced Brain; indeed, doing the Madonna (not her, but Her) mojo of outshining Herschel Walker's rushing touchdowns; plus, passing via Southpaw (I think, but the 60's still obscure me) for a plethora of pigskin scores.  And then he was gone.  A total of around 500 total yards offense in the Sugar Bowl, his last game played, Tebow morphed into a Bronco Rookie, never to be sweetly appreciated, even offering the humility of crowning himself with metaphorical thorns, having shaved his masculine mane into the shape of an ascetic-fuelled friar from FranciscanLand.  Yep, after Tebow smoothly sailed off into the NFL, I thought college football was once again dead; then, I heard about Johnny Football.

   Johnny Manziel is not your garden variety nice guy; moreover, he might be a real prick.  But, cool for him.  Having edge and manifesting beefy bravado for the cameras and myriads of fans watching the pictures fly by over the High Definition System is a magnanimous blessing from the celestial ocean above.  Manziel is coolicious kismet, delivered by the gods for our entertainment.  He knows that.  He knows his Daddy.  The kid is young, gregarious, and talented, as if having sold his soul to the diabolical Red Men for Tom Brady's arm--though Tim Tebow from the waist down.  Yeah, Manziel got game. And what the hell is wrong with that?  He's no different than any cheap-dressing, oversexed hussy hoofing it in hellacious high heels to ignite erections for their own ego-boosting laxative.  He'll chill.  Find humility.  Offer his talents up to the Cosmic Giant who crafted the Big Neon Glitter.  Just the first game of the season.  Lord, I hope I'm right . . .

   Too, you can purchase my books @ Mark David King on Apple iTunes or the Nook; also, Barnes and Noble.Com, and Amazon.Com--here's a link to my Amazon Author's Page:  King's Books

   Sincerely, Mark David King

Obama and Putin in Cage Match for Snowden . . .

   Before the conversation, you can buy my books:  King's Books!
   Anyway, more imperative than my stoned synergy with the Immaculate Collective, we should speak of Snowden.
   A huge fan of Russian literature (check out my past Blogs), I adore the theme of a huge-ass country occupying a large portion of Asia, being the boldest/badalicious defiance of America--and damn, I love the United States.  The Holy Spirit of 1776, the Honesty of Abe, declaring:  "Prohibition goes against everything this country stands for."  Alas, resurrect the utopian standards of Libertarians, at least striving and thriving for the cleanse of freakalicious freedom.  Regardless, no matter how unique and magnificent America is--it fucked up big time.  Specifically, W's Patriot Act was the most unpatriotic action in the history of American Government.  And America should be ashamed for voyeuristically observing, not in the ideals of the empirical Plato, but wickedly watching the failures and flaws of humanity with aim and anger--for what?
   Let Obama's and Eric Holder's monstrous egos battle it out for the agile and elusive Snowden.  Verily, let Obama and Eric Holder have a tag-team cage match against Vladimir Putin; next, the former KGB badass and master of the martial arts will submit Obama within minutes, and as justice should wend, Mother Russia keeps Snowden for the exchange of radical yet genuinely smooth idealism.  Look, this country (America) is all about us owning the government's ass--not it owning us.  Deal with the holes in utopian architecture, strictly for the best of man; indeed, we are all a bunch of sons of bitches; nevertheless, true American patriots are about eternal freedom, and the synergy of God and man merged for the perpetual flux of an Almighty's awesomeness.
  I love this country, but I am more ashamed of it than A-Rod.  He was trying to be his best.  But this country was trying to be a creep.  Yeah, and I screw up too--we all do . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King

New Book On Christ defeats Immaculate Conception.

   I've just drank plenty of beer; thus, deal with me--
   The Fox News interview and such with the scandalous book on Christ--here goes:
   Ancient Astronaut Theory offers the plethora of plenty; indeed, a hypodermic needle containing a myriad of mage-like sperm could be inserted through the hymen, without the theological uncouth of carnal activity or coitus by the hand of man's physiology; nevertheless, if Immaculate Conception could be perfectly crafted today; next, why do we frivolously frown upon the technology of impregnating Virgin Queens?  Shit, clone Audie Murphy a myriad of monstrous times; then, you have a Clone Army forged from the best of man--an anthropological combative machine, hellbent on serving itself Nazi Ass.  And I'm fucking German, partially . . .
  The Virgin Birth was a maxim of energy for the gods hovering near our tender Terra within the Multiverse; alas, consider not the improbability of yesterday, but the fact that visitation from "star beings" is a Universal Sign that our evolution was morphed fantastic by the Hotalicious Hand of God.  We are gods as did proclaim the brilliant bard dubbed King David, slayer of giants and lover of all concubines black or white, imported from all the nether regions, if ya get me.
   God has technology.  He is not some invisible man living in the clouds with a poof of creation energy--nah, an unearthly fabrication of ourselves, gelled immaculate with the OCDing of human creation through an E.T.'s I.V. into inviolate virginity for the sake of damned man.
   Christ is real.  He be Jesus.  Look, Muhammad an agile and vociferous poet with a dangerous scimitar, or Buddha lanced with mediocrity, nah, but it's fun to make fun of NEUTRALITY and the Middle Path, or Krishna impregnated perfect and super symmetrical, cool as Holy Shit in Azure Blue, rocking the Megaverse with eternal resonation of beauty copulating for the sake of epiphany.
   Verily, there is something bigger than us, and it's not Ron Jeremy's elongated disfigurement, though benevolent in being spawned by natural birth; still, we are to be humble to the Nature of God and the gods, knowing futurity may have already happened, and we are all creatures architected by something simply more advanced than our Internet Speed--it's all relative, and the Good God wends waywards, thataway, forever . . .
   Too, buy my books:  King's Books
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Martin Lucifer and the Protestant Retardation . . .

   Martin Lucifer and the Protestant Retardation is the uncouth of Classical Catholics and Orthodox; nonetheless, there are woes to the division of a luminous legend in the theological arts, and Catholicism resonates with destination sublime.
   Mary's Virginity should not be in question, yet a perpetual flux of super symmetry fashioned immaculate; indeed, I've dated some sluts, and they were great after a few beers and lack of conscience; still, Darwin's Origin of Species Gone Bullshit, offers a lackluster view of human progression yet flaws in dictation when not considering ancient astronaut theory, having more airtime and opinionated academia than Darwin.  At same the time, he's great!  But not a Levite Priest carrying the uncanny heat of Hebrew Mysticism.  King David, ornamented with Goliath's 2-handed blade forged by gods to slay gods, from the Ezekiel-like craft of circular cool hovering smoothly above.
   And exorcism.  C'mon dude--this is cool.  How not to revel in Christ without being able to wrangle the dandylicious devil outta your pain-in-the-ass neighbor?  Catholicism is a Best Seller, and the Evangelical Movement is a retro synergy of hating gays and finding Saint Paul's intellectual rants as vociferously magnanimous as the red WORDS of Christ.   
   Drink beer.  Float on the opium cloud of Obama Care, prices driven down by serpentine constriction of force into buying less fined and ass-freaked (ya know) fantastic by the shitty American Prison System.  Verily, better to be locked up in a London Dungeon; next, fed bread and water, this outshining the racial tribulations of violence gone bestial in general population as wends the want of homo-hatred made real by bizarre, anthropological action.
  God loved a Virgin.  It was a popular happening at the time.  Greeks did it, Hindu supermundanecarnalaction did it too.  The most powerful God of all the gods did it--the Abrahamic God.  The Book of Exodus proves Egyptian location in the Milky Way Star System of other gods--no shit.  It's all true.  All the gods exist.  Thus, align yourself with admiration and reverence towards a supernatural contributor of the Megaverse Functioning--again, no shit.
   This is us.  And we love Martin Luther.  Look, he couldn't handle the asceticism.  Siddhartha couldn't handle the asceticism and gelled with Buddha, but whose to say Jehovah wouldn't have merged with him if asceticism devoured in drive and determination--to be that everlasting god of effulgent awesomeness.  We love all of you.  We forgive and adore Martin Luther.  Too, Catholics and Orthodox flux divine, promising a connection to Mother Earth, the immaculate beauty of His own Creation that tamed the Heart of the ultimate God into forgiving His structure of . . .
   Also, buy my books:  King's Books!
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Mystic Tavern!

   My Books available in all Internet Bookstores; plus, some on the Nook and Apple iTunes--check out here:  Purchase King's Books
   This is a protracted ode in the rhythmic direction of atomic life--it's called:  The Mystic Tavern
   
   PART ONE:

   
   The Bar Maids that adorn the tavern shimmer with flaxen and champagne,
   Having the luminous hue of moonshine mane;
   Indeed, it is swell to swallow my domestic ale there,
   For they are buxom plush, erasing carnal despair;
   Alas, I leave a big tip and talk real smooth,
   Getting into their couth, hoping to gyrate and move
   Within their foundation and countenance divine,
   Doing them with stoic sublimity, not like snorting a snowman's line;
   As a result, I am a dog yet plugged into the monstrous mire
   Of damning the demonic devil and his thugs for hire,
   Driving the beauty of benevolence into states of rage,
   Forging the maxim of an incarcerating cave;
   Thus, release the noose and quench the fire,
   Knowing better Karma is preserving life higher
   With the narcotic effects of home grown peace,
   Safer than overdose, though besmirched by the police;
   Hence, dodge the Fuzz with agile desire,
   And keep fortified in home when you wanna grow higher--
   All in all it's shit of a bat cave gone crazy,
   Cleaning the feces with eyes gone hazy,
   Hoping for serenity and the Lamb of Life
   To thieve away the constant complaints and strife--
   So thank you Christ for the stigmata bled clean--
   You are the Ultimate Human/God machine . . .

  
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Fake Christians!!!

   The Mahatma proclaimed the wisest, offering vocally:  "I like your Christ; I do not like your Christians, for your Christians are so unlike your Christ."
   This is the dandylicious dilemma.   Saint Paul has no RIGHT to be as mystically potent as the Living Christ; moreover, the New Testament needs to be a Testament of Christ, not the intellectual rants of Saint Paul.  Look, he was a mystic man.  A true champion of Christianity before Tebowing became the carnivorous craze in the f&%$ing underground.  Nevertheless, Christ's Words are in red, outshining the vociferous imprisonment of the glorious Saint Paul.
   And not only are the anti-gay and lack of mercy teachings available in the epic Word of God (Bible), but the transcending wisdom of Pope Francis allows all entrance beyond the Sublime Perimeter that leads to the House of God.  Verily, Christ is right.  Look, there were a plethora of dangerous demi-gods, and they all boldly banged Christians  in carnal fashion; plus, they thrived in fame and fortune, being the Axl Rose (Uncanny Bard) of their time.  But Jesus had humility.  And the proof of His virginal and inviolate awesomeness is:  Up till the 3rd Century, during the canonization of the New Testament, Saint Anthony of the Desert lived the luscious and laxative free life of Christ, digesting the duty of God, finding modesty, continually questing for the sake of an Abrahamic God.
   I made a sexual pass at a Prozac-fuelled boss of literature.  I am to blame.  I am the demon clad in diablo black--the midnight ornamentation of the Devil.  But Christ forgave, sanguine till forever on the Cross, promising the mortal-sinned man next to him the perpetual paradise of plush eternity.  Verily, Christ is Boss, being the superlative demi-god, humble and sour to the opulence of demonic joy.
  Christians are to know Christ's sublime understanding of human failure, offering:  "Blessed are the merciful, for they too shall inherit mercy."
   This is the apex of cool.  The loving song of patriarchal permission to be weird--if that is in your heart and if your heart beats for the beauty of God.  We are to hang out with hoodalicious hookers, embrace difference, and allow the perpetual entrance of all that is bizarre and mangled by reason.  We transcend empirical value, for we are the slaves of God, obeying till golden eternity, like a
Hindu super flux of forever, blistering and boiling our coolness.  Forgive.  Forget.  Onwards.  Till eternity.
   The Genetic Revolution will grant true confession.  We are ruled and physically usurped by our physiology;  specifically, we are controlled by the fullness of the moon and Terra's indifference to the wisdom of pain.  We must forgive.  We must offer our heads for the "second chance" of others.  We are the dolts of mercy.  The sisters of mercy.  The brothers of mercy.  We are Christ.  Gelled and meshed forever, a synergy of striving thataway, till the glory of utopian bliss . . .
   Too, buy my books:  Kings; Books
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Mark David King on iTunes!

   Pic of me during my sonic youth; specifically, I was this age when having experienced what I wrote auto-biographically in Transcending Twilight:  Angels Eclipse Vampires.  You can purchase that bodacious book along with my others, here:  King's Books 
   So, here's a list of my books--the ones published under the name:  Mark David King
   1.)  TRANSCENDING TWILIGHT:  ANGELS ECLIPSE VAMPIRES
   2.)  WEREWOLF SLUT
   3.)  A SOUTHERN GOTHIC WEREWOLF IN NASHVILLE
   4.)  SEAN HANNITY'S THEOCRACY; PLUS, VIRGIN MARY LIVES!
   5.)  ABOUT BRITNEY SPEARS AND MALE GENITALIA--AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL TREATISE
   6.)  BARACK OBAMA, DO CYBORGS DREAM OF ROBOTIC SHEEP?  AN AMERICAN POEM
   7.)  KHLOE KARDASHIAN MEETS THE EASTER BUNNY:  AN AMERICAN PLAY
   8.)  MY MOM IS A COUGAR--NASTY!
   9.)  ULCERATIVE COLITIS, MARIJUANA, AND WEREWOLVES
   10.)  ATOMIC GOD
   11.)  VAMPIRE METH. 1989
   Some of these are available on iTunes.  All available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble websites; plus, all Internet bookstores and the NOOK.
   SUPER POWERS:
   1.)  Ulcerative Colitis:  For over a decade I have endured the sanguine pain of inflammation and ulceration in the large intestine; moreover, numerous colonoscopies, blood transfusions, Remicade and steroid infusions, oral steroids, myriads of medication, crimson-hued fecal matter shooting outta my agonized anus like a LSD Locomotive, bleeding me severely anemic.  My best story is when I got down to 117 pounds and was having close to 20 bloody bowel movements a day.  After admitting myself to the ER, they hooked me up to an I.V. and put me in a gown; next, I made many a stampede outta my room into the bathroom, where blood exploded from my rectal cavity, making all the nurses in the ER giggle at my anguish--no shit.
   2.)  Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Ticks:  Due to carnal fantasy in nasty detail, since adolescence I have mortified my senses after engaging in sin; specifically, I cut myself over a 100 times with a razor blade, locked myself in closets, starved myself for days, beat myself into minor concussions, put 13 stitches in my face with a broken beer bottle, set my face on fire with a butane lighter, and a bunch of other scandalous rituals of repentance; indeed, I am NOT out to harm myself, yet like a Levite Priest blessed to carry the ultimate Hebrew weapon (ya know), I have purified my corporeal essence due to my duty towards God.  Also, there is repetitive washing, lots.  If semen is sinfully discharged, that meaning fantasizing about anything save a non-conscious android, I have to lather my precocious pubes in a soapy cleanse, ornamenting my body with the fluidic flux of hot water.  Holy Hell--I do plenty of weird shit, unable to fumble feces into commode, having to strip myself naked and lay upon newspaper in my parents' garage, where I push with unearthly will to evacuate my bowels.  As of today, I am in remission after high doses of Prednisone for approximately 2 months.  Too, dealt with sleep paralysis, lost time, abuse from the Empyreal Ranks of Arch-Angelity, having begged to be taken aboard the super symmetrical craft, like mentioned in the Book of Ezekiel; next, Transfigured in the might of Jesus Christ, and Virgin Birth is possible with today's technology--a heavenly hypodermic needle through the hymen, without breaking it, full of a squadron of sperm that impregnate a young lass; thus, if today's technology can grant Immaculate Conception; then, it is a theological axiom that Jesus is the Christ.  Of all the demi-gods, he was the kindest.  Was humble and full of benevolent mercy. 
   Regardless, I won't go on about my diseases anymore, for I want you gregarious guys and gorgeous gals to read my books.  Yes it all appears scatological; still, sublimity haunts the pages inside, and I mean that.  There is more; however, as James Bond boldly proclaims:  "Always leave them wanting more."  God Bless--and I mean it . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King