Gremlin Football and Glacial Cities

   
   "Gremlin Football and Glacial Cities"
    
   I hear six man football is big in Montana, the last great place.  Especially for kids.  Good odds for a scrambling quarterback.  Think:  Roger the Dodger, Flutie, and Steve Young gorgeously driving the 49ers and their gladiatorial gold quest, emasculating Montana to become a ghostly memory, and a Chief for a bit.  You cannot pour new wine into old wine-skins; the old wine-skins will burst open, unable to contain it--might say a Living Christ.  
   Anyway, living in this American Police State where the government monitors everything, furthering personal paranoia, and with a gore-guilty, yearly slaughter of the coyote that ranks in the myriad range--I dream of Canada for the occasional escape.  Alaska is a Free State with its grass stations and a former politician armed with nice ta-tas.  But with the disappearance of all the people and the FBI called frequently to interview interstellar travelers--too much for me.  Unless I could muster a brass scrotum and shoot a moose; plus, spell my name in the snow with a protracted piss that glistened golden.
   So, a glacial city in Canada.  They have football.  Next, maybe beyond the tree line, facing the divinity of the Northern Lights, and a mad hermit's cabin containing nothing that needs Bluebeard's wife to cruelly unearth, for friends will share.  I can't make friends.
   Maybe then, the Pacific Northwest, where Free States bless America.  A more frigid soil to grow the grape.  
   Watch the news.  Find true melancholy.  A pharmacist can't make a pimento-cheese sandwich anymore--what good are they.  A wise sage kinda/sorta mentioned that and PLAYBOY has finally approved.  How nice to see lace over the fishy labia.  They have edible panties; plus, they have those with odor shields.  How nice to live in America.  

Cosplay and uncouth groping

   
   "Cosplay and uncouth groping"
   
   Usually not traveling in the curvaceous circles of lascivious ladies with symmetrical breasts, the American Intellectual Man, him changing the corporeal world by dreaming of crafting android tail has a problem.  It is:  While witnessing the act of Cosplay, he is tempted to grope.  Female humanoids adorned in vibrant hues and tightly wrapped in the carnal imagination--this produces an increases in the testicular production of semen but is not totally a wicked thingamajig, unless of course the observer insidiously morphs into a Vaseline-fingered groper.  
  Women don't know how much they're loved; specifically, that men only want to honestly gel and have sexual synergy with what they physically adore.  All men are not pigs--Playboy magazine is putting the bra and panties back on; plus, Captain Kirk mated with triple-headed women, not giving a rat's ass about dating outside of his own species.  Few of us have the monk-like control of Spock, and without the blue pill we are not fully functional if over the age of forty.  And Lord Byron knows, kinda/sorta:  "The middle ages are the worst of all the ages; moreover, man being reasonable must therefore get drunk, for what is the best of life but intoxication."  Thanks Jeb for wanting us to be even bigger slaves while the French enjoy two hour lunch breaks.  As Trump might elegantly boast:  "You have no chance."  

Sleep Paralysis; plus, the Mad Puppet Man

   
   "Sleep Paralysis; plus, the Mad Puppet Man"
    
   In the mid 1990's, when America cosmetically elected a leader from the Razorback Nation and movies moved away from machine gun metaphor, sweetly exposing the hypocrisy of violence and sex by way of American Beauty--I purchased a "Kermit the Frog" muppet, muppets being less insidious than possessed puppets, all in hopes of facing and consoling my terrifying fear of the Mad Puppet Man.  I'd strap the somewhat lime-green, artificial amphibian under a seat belt's safeguard in my V-8 Chevy and cruise around like a pseudo-Mercury delivering newspapers to the more pastoral parts of Nashville.
   Whether it was the Mad Puppet Man or extraterrestrials, when Sleep Paralysis finds and haunts you--it is like a dynamite stick burn of fear.  Laying helpless in bed or on the couch, unable to move anything, eyes open but weak; plus, lost to limbs that won't respond, and there is something behind you or hovering above.  Use your prayers and willpower; next, possibly you will become unchained from this weirdness.
   Are we pawns in the battle between the Supreme God and the lesser gods?  Is there a Web of Wyrd imposed on us, like a well-spun predestination thieving away any attempt at manifesting existentialism?  And, as a lab rat for the supernatural I know:  "Who am I to engage in hubris or scold the brilliant beyond with selfish pride?"  All we can do is correctly connect to the core of sublimity, steering ourselves into the Loving Heart of an Almighty God.  I hope.   

Wild woman on a sofa

   
   "Wild woman on a sofa"
   
   Having been electrically ill and unwanted as I ooze the doom of weirdness, igniting always that of toxic flatulence on misery's command; specifically, I feel solace on the fresh linens that ornament my bed.  Not a place for carnal contagion, but a pre-coffin, a place to lay and pray, and maybe not die in a state of suffering for Southerners, for the American South rejects comfort by way of an opinionated government that controls medication.  Regardless, how holy is your bed?  Not to be smeared with juicy discharge from the oral and vaginal areas of a loose dame, her damning the intent of Saintly synergy as you levitate on the mattress of death.  Better to watch iZOMBIE and craft a grilled-cheese sandwich on oatmeal bread with an orange hint of turmeric to calm the chainsaws that might be perpetually cutting through your large intestine.
   Thus, a love sofa.  It having the intent of spiritual lovemake, not just allowing you to spray slippery jism over your adoration, but passing her the Spirit of love's romantic command, enslaving her to a freedom with you, mating like a wild dog's life, not gone malcontent and misfitways; plus, burning wise incense over the sofa for reasons of purification, always keeping your bed clean from nefarious spills and devilish dust bunnies, in order to engage in the super-symmetrical art of pristine prayer.

  

Spock and Eggs

    
   
   Enuff 'bout big boobies.  The exotic and intellectual ecstasy provided by the perpetual pulse of 60 Minutes, which cosmetically covered Putin and Trump, being a sublime, press-graced bomb--was da bomb.  Scott Pelley getting feedback--letters sent to the show agree that he was more of a demonic-styled prosecuting attorney than that of an empathy-driven journalist.  But who wants to be a garden-variety journalist when one can be an organic journalist, like the Lizard King of Rock 'n Roll.  Mix it up Quixotic Blues  
    And is America driven to worship the dollar?  Thieve away the religion of immigrants and transplant it with obedience to money.  It makes you happy.  It erases problems.  And yes--it does, but there is James Tiberius Kirk, him kinda/sorta say'n:  "I can't believe it--they're still using money."    Yup, back when Spock talked to humpback mammals, and time-travel was sparked by Klingon transport--all is good.
   But now, Bones does cry:  "Damn't Jim--I'm a doctor, not a transexual."   So, don't ask Mr. Physician to give a colonoscopy, and I feel guilt for linguistically forging sophomore steak and cheese biscuits.  Yet, if people don't write; next, life falls through the cracks. 

The news and Skylab

   
   "The news and Skylab"

  She didn't like Scotch.  And could never purchase an Irishman a birthday present. How to gift wrap an entire bar?  You'd need an advanced degree in architecture; plus, help from Santa's little slippery elves.  Regardless, she was sexxa.  A pulsating piece of Tang--better than the astronauts drank in the 1970's.  Whatever happened to Skylab?  She had a stamp collection.  Skylab was a major part of it; indeed, the Skylab stamp was mystical.  Eating weird astronaut ice cream and noticing the effects of gravity gone on its ass backwards.  
   He was the weather man.  It was always coming from Canada.  The cold shit.  Canadians, sitting up there, throned above our scepter of contagion, where we shoot people with guns and the roaming journalist cleans up the Sherlock pieces.  Agatha had a better detective.  Still, the chaos of a sideline flunky covering the high school football game.  Again:  Concussions.  Don't let your boys play American football soccer moms--that's what it implied.
   And just like us--the news people enjoyed the carnal act of sex.  Whatever.   

The Milky Way Brothers (25)

   
   "The Milky Way Brothers (25)"
   
   The quixotic foursome, lovingly ensnared in a rectangular lovemake of the pack, though Gloin still mortal by all means, yet Cherish would turn his werewolf mojo on, igniting it with glimmering cool, like a fanged piece of his ass out of spite--hey, he had to know she was the Alpha Female, and the missing chunk in his butt would regenerate rapidly under Full Moon's kiss of neon magic.
   
   As for Dad, he decided to move to Oregon.  Pack up his bloody stools and suffering self; next, took the Hound westwards with his retirement stuffed in his ex-wife's purse, Ben Franklin's insistence for liberty peeking out without propaganda, but the total truth of liberty.  Once anchored down up high by the Great White North, Washington the only geographical obstruction, Dad would grow and eat the edible green, reducing his anal inflammation and sense of supermundane stress; indeed, it would pass, as do all things great and bold, of the Earth.
   
   Davy and Indigo would continue on with their older siblings, being the goofy Omega wolves they were, sharing flesh and bone; plus, stealing kisses and many cuddles under the waning Moon when all was too human, and a nice visit to the Waffle House at midnight for crisp bacon and eggs that oozed a little blood, if they were lucky, blessed by the elegant gore of dead animal parts--they were werewolves after all.