A Were-Wheaten Christmas (6)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (6)"
   
   Aceline, penning her diary:
  
   Christmas near, getting so.  Practicing better British, urh, English.  Peace to all people!  If we only followed true law, got occupied by gaming, ya know.  Bless the raccoons too, those bandits of suburbia, living in attics.  
   The waxing Moon and Venus line up tonight--November 30th - December 1st.  Will Jupiter be in a viewing angle?--some say.
   Worried about Freddy.  She needs to be prayed a bone.  Dogs are people too--if they're people.  And, they are--in my world.
   I'm praying for the pooch to purchase a purse.  - revoir -   

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (5)

   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (5)"
   
   A lonely arch-angel dubbed Bill was kinda/sorta lonely of late.  He was all out of Maxwell House, and Christmas was approaching.  Most of his regal relatives were in the celestial cosmos, beyond the Sublime Perimeter.
   But Bill was a pretty good remote viewer.  Pretty good.  He had heard of Miss Freddy Hart; specifically, that she was a Were-Wheaten.  A curious breed indeed.  Kinda Irish.  And while the Irish are stubborn, they're not exactly stupid, they just like to get hit in the face every now and then, to recharge their Shamrock batteries; next, bite a guy's ear off in a bar brawl.  
   So, Bill constructed an android in his North Dakota household; moreover, it was an exact duplicate of G. Gordon Liddy.  Bill named the android, simply:  GMAN.
   Bill would send the android to assist Miss Freddy Hart in her uncanny pursuits of persuading this pernicious world that freaks are people too, in a weird way.
   Bill probed his creation:  "Are you ready GMAN?"
   GMAN robotically responded:  "I was born ready; plus, vigorous, virile, and potent--I am!"  

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (4)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (4)"
  
   Sister Shaqdiesel pulled up onto the Holy Ground of her Church in an economically-inclined automobile; specifically, a rice burner; however, rice has fueled many throughout wars; regardless, Sister Shaqdiesel only had gasoline running through her veins to do one thing, as her bumper sticker boldly declared:
KILL ALL MUTANTS AND THEIR DOGS
   She wasn't fond of a Were-Wheaten making cute poops in the suburban sprawl under the government's bizarre selection; indeed, she was the non-patriot, forgetting that Washington, Franklin, and Jefferson knew money would be the main factor, but liking sport, they wrote in our laws that EVERY man should have a chance, whether a coyoteman, a baker, a truck driver, or even a naughty nurse.

* * * * * * * *

   Freddy Hart was onto the angry nun; however, her pal Aceline told her not to worry about anything save the Goodness of God.  To always question, though seem like you're not, and to never be bleu, but always have a little rouge on; plus, vert for those that venomously vex.  
   Freddy thought about purchasing a Pomsky.  To add a little spunk to the pack.  It would be all the jazz, especially if she named the dog something cool, like Junkyard, Mutt, or Burt.  Oh well, she'd look online tomorrow.  For now, she lathered her curious Chinese cuisine in heavy sauces and enjoyed the spice of it all.  

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (3)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (3)"
   
   Okay--Freddy Hart was an attractive, near middle-aged woman; specifically, a loner lady, always keeping her guard up, knowing that many a yutz is on the loose; plus, wanted to avoid any cat fights with the local tail, those frisky felines fervently possessive of even another woman's innocent and accidental (it's a word) glance at an owned and paid for tool.  
   She drove a Crown Victoria from the 1980's.  An old big block eight-cylinder that was fiercely cherry-hot-red.  Used to be a Fire Chief's car, having had lights and all.  The scanner and CB were still in there; also, Freddy frequently used the CB and scanner--her handle was:  ROUGE ONE--yup, she had a French app on her android; plus, did 6th grade with a blanc girl named Aceline; moreover, was still in touch with Aceline, over the antiquated horn of something like unto fiber-optics, but Freddy really didn't know what that was, neither do I.  
   The sirens had been removed from her car.  The friendly Fire Chief did it before the sale.  Wasn't a friend of the family or anything.  Random roll of the dungeon dice.
   As a Were-Wheaten, it was hard to make friends.  Yet Miss Freddy Hart was pals with a bitch West Highland White Terrier down the electric block.  Suburbia is high voltage crazy and plain kooky.  

Coyote Blogging

  
   "Coyote Blogging"
   
   How wondrous and good-girl charming is sprawling suburbia, when unable to see the waxing images of reality closer, yet lost in the nocturnal nature of semi-wildlife, for they live off of us, sometimes, nesting in our attics, making houses underneath even our foundations, eating from our trash cans, and drinking from our water, of sorts, huh?
   Why not get a camera, journey through the nearby night, photographing the live-action cinema of suburban pseudo-wildlife, especially the cunning and agile coyote, though never follow him, and even the partial liquid paper of skunks, still alive beyond their sight, smelling their mark upon your portion, though benign and loving, if you're not encompassing their possible handstand, what?
   So, maybe get a camera and forge computer-scribed script about them amazing animals!  Sometimes it's better to mystically make friends forever with the purposed creatures constructed for daily living, even during the magnificent and motherly Moon's reflection of the Sun's life.    

My travels with Charlie--4 real

   
   "My travels with Charlie--4 real"
  
   Print Media bit the bullet, didn't beat it, like that last rock and roll group out of San Francisco, before everything went grunge, and to crap, losing the high frequency of Slash on electric banjo, and this--from a damn Yankee.
   So, I was no longer a District Manager type-of-guy, and had to work the night shift with Henry Winkler; moreover, met a delivery man dubbed CHARLIE--he was a muscular and well-constructed older fella.  He also:  "Never Heard" of anything, if you know what I mean, and--you might.
   So, my Pap didn't have to "Soldier Up" cause he worked on the railroad; however, Charlie "Never Heard" of that--he worked on the railroad; plus, had to fight in WW2.
   So, the papers were heavy that night my friend.  Even the reporters and Mr. Moon himself had to come in and roll the cerebral smoke of newsprint.  After swinging my arm over a V-8 Camaro all night, I entered the warehouse, saw Charlie; next, uttered sorely:  "My arm is killing me from slinging all of those papers.  You gotta be Hercules to throw them."
   He looked at me strangely, asked:  "Who?"
   Me again with:  "Hercules."
   Old dude looked me right in boyish eyes; then, he told:  "Never heard of him."
   Like it was with the Superior Samson, my ropes of common sense melted off like weak wax in the Sunlight.  World was damn bigger than I knew.  

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (2)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (2)"
   
   Freddy Hart was in total Wheaten form--fanged, frisky, and fervent, knowing every girl who dawned a lime-green bikini was not insidious.  What else does an arch-angel wear while visiting the Gulf of Mexico?  If folks are tempted; next, it's their problem, unless the arch-angel is ornamenting itself to be completely lusted after; otherwise, it's all good, though nothing is really good save God, Jesus kinda/sorta mentioned, maybe a few times.
   Yet Freddy Hart had no iniquitous visions of the lascivious geography of the State of Florida; however, knew it housed plenty of low energy, in the form of quintessential suits out for themselves.
   Freddy Hart romped and rolled around on Terra's Terrain, getting as much of the Earth "All Over" her as she could, being close to the Yankee line, just not quite; still, it felt good to have the counterpoise of rebel dog and alcoholic Yankee, though she only drank beer, and never through a straw like frat boys in Congress.
   As she shifted back while Luna laid low, allowing the Daystar its ignition, the cool lady scrambled on bare feet to find her clothes that she had stashed behind a lonely tree in the suburbs--now, concrete sprawl its only family.  Of course there were cameras everywhere.  Yet what fool in their wrong mind would report a Were-Wheaten during the holidays?   Nobody even admits Saint Nicholas; thus, she had it made.