"The Milky Way Brothers (5)"
After greasy eggs, sunny side up,
And long swallows from many-a-coffee cup,
The threesome started to like toddlers giggle;
Moreover, Cherish's perky jugs sparked with a jiggle;
Thus, the threesome grabbed a cold 12 pack from a gas station--
Lager that gave ode to the moose from the Canadian Nation,
And on a dirt road in mythical Oklahoma,
They caught a mild buzz, not entering a drunken coma,
But Cherish howled hungrily at the shimmering Moon--
It was waxing near full, and she was feeling the werewolf boon;
Alas, Gloin and dumb Davy pooped Twinkies--becoming overly freaked,
For in the pulsating direction of their flesh did Cherish's incisors leap,
But Gloin was agile and swift with street fight dance,
Dodging the sharp supernatural, yet Davy had no chance.
He lost a thumb digit and swaggered in the blood,
Cherish say'n: "It will regenerate if you become one with the Earth and mud."
"The Milky Way Brothers (4)"
As the 1957 Ford Ranchero thundered its way over the blacktop of 40 West, Davy found sinister slumber, flagging a wicked fairyland, spilling the super ooze of spittle onto Cherish's shoulder, observing all iniquity; plus, the Lord of Werewolves himself, forgetting his own blonde ambition to engage in matrimony with a flaxen-haired farmer's daughter, him, though stupid, wisely knowing in his dreams that Cherish was a raven-haired, well--very bad person. Kinda/sorta a person in the sense of the word. Anyway. Knowing . . .
CHERISH
Your brother is bit of a precious soul, isn't he?
GLOIN
More or less. He's been going through plenty though--since birth. Mom left Dad, taking us with her, and the divorce did forsake all of our father's Northern ancestry. Hell, we don't even know our cousins or nothing. Went to a family reunion once up there; I didn't know a soul--at my own family reunion. Still, Dad always kept in touch, but now he's gone ill something terrible. The only cure for his disease is complete removal of the large intestine. And that's not a barrel of monkeys.
CHERISH
Being human must really suck.
GLOIN
What do you mean lady?
CHERISH
I'm just say'n it does--get me? Look Gloin, I may look like a savage beast of sexuality, but I'm quite sweet. I'm kinda stupefied by life as well, and I'm looking for a pack.
GLOIN
A pack? Pack of what--unfiltered Pall Mall?
CHERISH
Shit--I haven't smoked those since I was in the 7th grade. No, just forget about it; it's a long and complicated story.
GLOIN
Look--there's a Waffle House next exit. Wanna get some coffee and scrambled eggs? Then, we can talk about it.
CHERISH
Sure. But never order scramble eggs at a restaurant--they could've dropped them on the floor and scooped them up back up on the plate and the customer would never know it.
GLOIN
Suggestions?
CHERISH
Order sunny side up. Can't drop that on the floor and scoop it back on the plate to serve--not without the yellow breaking. But yeah, eggs would be great--I need some protein. Some little chickens cooked to my tummy's life before ready to hatch. Gory in a sense. I like it when there's blood in my egg after I crack it open over the frying pan. That suggest larger amounts of iron. Fights anemia, and a girl menstruates is all I'm say'n.
Gloin took the exit. And while not unaware of bizarre folk--this one gave him the creepies.
"The Milky Way Brothers (3)"
Gloin, a true paladin in the sense of chivalry and bullshit masculine duty was determined to give the raven-haired derelict with buxom beauty a ride. Hell, Davy didn't mind either, grinning wildly, a green Jolly Rancher between his asymmetrical teeth. So, the Milky Way brothers pulled the Ranchero over to the side of 40 West, not minding the zooming automobiles passing by as the Moon began to ignite with neon cheese, plugged in by the goddess herself; next, Gloin leaned over, probing the angelic-looking vixen as to her intentions, obviously needing a ride, but he pushed further, insisting that there be no shenanigans, sexually speaking. She agreed, squeezed in next to Davy's growing blood flow, and the threesome were off, a God-phobic Yankee band playing on the radio.
GLOIN
So, you said your name was Cherish?
CHERISH
Fluttering long eyelashes over a set of highly emerald-green and mysterious orbs. That's right. I'm from Northern Virginia. Making my way to the City of Angels.
DAVY
There be angels in California?
CHERISH
No silly, except for the baseball team. Anyway, I'm glad you two guys came by. I really wanted to show you something.
DAVY
Your boobs, huh?
GLOIN
Davy--be a true gentleman here.
CHERISH
I'm used to guys wanting to see my fine jugs. But no, not yet. I'm on the Internet plenty, and I really like downloading exotic pages. Kinds with two cool guys and a hot female--that'd be me. I think we can have plenty of fun together out in the American West.
GLOIN
Girl--we got couth here. Now keep your boobies inside that overly tight t-shit of yours, leave my dumb shit brother alone, and we'll get along just fine--you hear?
Cherish smiled sweetly, all while spawning something terribly sinister within her cerebral capacity. Yummy--she was thinking.
"The Milky Way Brothers (2)"
Gloin and Davy Milky Way were in the classic Ranchero. The V-8 was rocketing with pit bull rumble. Gloin was piloting the classic muscle car/truck. Davy was playing with his girly goatee.
"You're too pretty for facial hair Davy," Gloin had blurted out with barrel-chested thunder. "For Christ's sake, you look like a quasi-bearded lady at one of em cheap carnivals that comes to town."
Davy just grinned with his chipped teeth. Dental work done by way of hard candy. Didn't mind getting the business from big bro--was used to it. Was just glad to be exiting Tennessee where the governor was a demonic troll under freedom's bridge and the lieutenant governor was a shape-shifting reptilian hung up on devouring baby flesh. Verily, Dad needed the herb to calm and soothe his disrupted gut. The agonizing pain of bleeding while you punched out a stinky shit was not the crystal smooth lovemake of a delicious bowel movement; indeed, Davy couldn't comprehend evacuating your bowels and squirting blood at the same time, and Tennessee politics had not a single slice of mercy. What was it that Christ offered: "Blessed are the merciful, for they too shall receive mercy." Well not in the Volunteer State, bought by a billion dollar governor. Thus, Davy offered wisdom over the hungry sounds of the hot rod, saying, "You can't make billions in America without there being a few dead bodies along the way."
Gloin was stoic in response. "People have a right and privilege to medicine. But all the healthy politicians will get theirs. Unless of course they're run over by a garbage truck."
"Do they even have garbage trucks anymore? Isn't all that shit done on the Internet nowadays?"
Gloin was like, "Davy, you're too stupid for life. But God bless you." Then, noticing a fancy lady thumbing her way Westwards, holding a sign over her bosom that said: CALIFORNIA OR BUST!
"The Milky Way Brothers"
Their last name was Way. Dad thought both boys should share the middle name Milky. After all, as little peckerheads, Mom let them gulp and suckle the stuff.
Anyway, the older brother's name was Gloin--like in Lord of the Rings, for Dad's favorite character was the girthy dwarf dubbed Gimli--he was the son of Gloin, both probably wielders of the battle axe, but Dad didn't know with the suave of total clarity--he only read books during the waxing Moon and after imbibing, at least, a six pack of Canadian lager.
Dad had absorbed Lord of the Rings before it got popularized in 1970's America when graffiti claiming "FRODO RULES" ornamented the New York subway system.
So, the younger brother was called Davy--after Mr. Crockett; still, Dad was birthed a Yankee, but he did dig that coonskin cap and all.
The problem here was: Gloin and Davy were dealing with a bitter pickle. Dad had severe Inflammatory Bowel Disease and was suffering something more than just personal demons. Would tell Gloin and Davy, "Boys, I crap constantly, and in my pants; plus, there be blood I tell ya!"
Gloin, dwarfish himself, yet like Odysseus, barrel-chested and with a billowing voice commanded Davy, "We gotta go to the American West and get Dad some organic herb grown in licensed greenhouses. Living down here in the South with Mom's side of the family for all these years and there is still no natural medicine that doesn't get you thrown in jail for using. Southern Pride I guess."
Davy wasn't the brightest bulb on the marquee, more worried about manscaping his little goatee than the tangible real of it all. Nevertheless, the Milky Way Brothers gelled in blood-sharing synergy. Yup, they were going out West to help bring health and solace to the old man.
Their ride was an antique. A 1957 Ford Ranchero, candy apple red with a touch of green mint fused into it by the labor of a non-quintessential paint and body man. Too, there would be werewolves and witches along the way.
"Comic Books & Sons"
Totally--they seem to freakishly fade away, magically teleported into your genetic material's underground bunker, or traded mischievously to his teen friends for tobacco products; regardless, we, as fathers, highly value these enchanted items of our pre-adolescence, before those hot cheerleader girls from junior high thieved away our vigilant virtue, it mercurially happening--us dazed and dumb by elevated kicks at the Friday Pep Rally. Nevertheless, we explode ourselves Back to the Future, finding bizarre classics and filling our quasi-geek with many metaphorical meatball and kosher WEREWOLF BY NIGHT sandwiches, digesting them into our intestinal treasure chests, beyond the bowels of constipated agony, like an omnivorous coyote built to dine on toxic waste from city sewers and dirty baby diapers out of suburban trash cans. Yes, we do--love our comic books.
"Shame--a speck, why not . . ."
Your dastardly daughter dunks far worse than a doobie into liquidy threesome,
Tattooing bizarre and beyond her once innocently powdered plum;
Moreover, hubby happily rests in uncaring uncouth with your best friend's heart--
Does the pain not start?
Unless daughter's folks are wing-clipped and demon,
Or husband has permission to on your friends spill his semen;
Alas, SHAME . . .
What's an android without a conscience?
Most likely--very violent and obnoxious.
Yup, I still believe in old Santa Claus,
Only minding the unjust laws.
Shame on me too.
Not cunning enough to thieve my way through.
Merry Christmas Mr. Gumby.
