Human Sexuality: The Apex Of Folly

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Never would a righteous man be incredibly intrepid enough to tame a toxic womb; furthermore, the odoriferous chemistry of pussalicious contagion enchants them not; still, myriads of mild-mannered men are caught observing PLANET OF THE APES, peeling their peckerish bananas, eager to violently thrust within a reeking vaginal cavity, not minding that yeasty cream is always an infectious possibility--the modern girl gallant enough to dangerously deny the immaculate benevolence of peppermint douche, which also promotes healthy bowel function, beyond the lip-like labia, where resides a self-cleaning oven--what hogwash.
   I imperatively urge all foolish females to meticulously douche, imbibing the bacterial inertia of Live Cultures from Greek yogurt while dreaming of John Stamos; plus, take the dietary supplement known as acidophilus pills, keeping them refrigerated for an even fresher cleanse of gregarious genitalia--women enjoy sex since the 60's, the eager exposure of the clitoris deeming them anthropologically-constructed for multiple partners.
   Why do men thunderously thirst to hungrily spread the lesser sex, hoping for wicked entrance until the demon of discharge contorts their countenance like a country singer vocally animated by facial expressions of anguish and sadistic suffering?  Where is Free Will?  Sex commands man--makes him a slave to seduction.  Hence, ask a Freudian physician to remove a testicle, crafting you more docile, or plead for chemical castration--all in altruistic hopes of dismissing ape-like lusts to lasciviously lay the pipe.  Men are morbid monsters, deconstructed spiritually by a million nagging sperm spawned daily within their sacs of eternity.   Thus, to transcend the terrible trauma of humanity outshines the admiration of your own ejaculation, denying the magnificence of a low rent Moll ornamented in talocrural region tattoos and shiny-pink pumps, wanting to be ogled by masses of men; next, ravished till stupidly squirting, as if this type of fluidic climax makes her lover the best of men.  Verily, Big Deal if men grossly glare at your buxom blessedness or hearty thighs, for men will boldly bang anything--this does not make you special ladies.  Nor does back door entry, which is similar to getting a recreational colonoscopy for kicks without the tranquil effects of conscious sedation.
   Truly, there is no Free Will save in the awesomeness of asceticism, and we are all chimpanzee-like coolies without proletarian humility unless disciplined by a cosmic conscience constructed towards a targeted lunacy of Earthly denial.  I'm guilty of being Curious George as well.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The United States Of Entropy

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   America has monstrously morphed into a political design that sinisterly caters to the genetically gifted; specifically, it was the obscure philosopher Popper taming the vociferous futurity of the ebony ectomorph Tyra Banks, her curvaceously claiming to have won the Genetic Lottery for simply being corporeally pleasing--what I'm say'n:  Not only is the brilliance of beauty a blessing, yet the sophisticated suavity of intelligence is an inherited gene, meaning:  Success within the American Machine relies upon the pulsating parts of talents and genetic gifts--hard work reaping success, while somewhat a sublime standard, is pure mythology crafted by the Republican Party, denying the minimum wage soul, him disciplined by a steeled determination to stay afloat economically; moreover, hard work minus talent and intelligent introspect reaps nothing save mediocrity.  If Steve Jobs was only armed with a 87 Intelligent Quotient, he would've been the "Work'n Man's Man", yet not architected a fat wallet and legendary status.
   Verily, if you are intellectually challenged, morbidly obese, or asymmetrical in facial features; then, your only chance at success in America is to be the remarkably rare case of Forrest Gump, and modern media will shake this unique success story in front of all the STUPID, blaming the impoverished for not having worked as hard, these media hounds of hell not minding the fundamental truths of anthropological axioms that forecast a capitalistic champion.
   Just look at all the awe-inspiring athletes making millions--90% are genetic freakshows, gifted by an innate grace beyond the common man, or the pornographic princesses made sexually stunning by way of firm, symmetrical breasts, outshining the mundane modesty of cupcake cleavage, which drives girls to social phobia and limited access to economic gain--but there are always the exceptions, yet those rare birds scarcely fly highwards.  And to climb the scholastic ladder of academia means more than merely studying, but a brain blessed by a high IQ, which always eclipses the double digit studier suffering from the demons of something like dyslexia. 
   In America:  We proudly frame the gifts of inherited genes, incarcerating the mentally ill and denying that mental illness even exists, as if cerebral matter cannot decay, but is the foolish fault of the soul itself--to be blamed and tagged diabolical, getting a moronic tongue lashing from a pretentious prick of a Judge sentencing someone to a life of sodomy for their inadequacies that don't glamorously gel with a sinful society built for the beautiful--and how much more cruel and unusual is getting raped for a man, yet there is no female outrage for our macabre prison system that cerebrally assassinates the hopes of a redeeming futurity; moreover, Republican moralists giggle at the sufferings of the imprisoned, dumbly announcing:  "Don't drop the soap."  And then they believe that their pride and capitalistic success grants them access into heaven run by a blind and doltish God; still Democrats are no better, Obama and the insidious Elvis Clinton proof of buffoonery, both hornswoggled by their own status-seeking selves.
   ObamaCare forcing the impoverished to pay for his afro legacy, Clinton pushing the plan, ornamented in the falseness of intellectual eyewear, as if his shit doesn't stink, him having banged more yeast-infected beaver than Anthony Weiner, yet too proud to accept the comparison as if he is a better man--what arrogant bullshit, it all building another Tower of Babel for the luminosity of LEGEND.  The demonic domain has a special, rancorous residence for the self impressed, them denying the ugly and stupid mercy and compassion, forcing the disabled into the equal status of the gifted and gallant.  Just remember Bubba:  GOD HAS HIS OWN CELEBRITIES!
   Life is not a mirror image of death, Christ exposing the awesome eternity of the weak and weary, denouncing the bold and beautiful, unless they attack life with the mercurial merits of humility and decency, offering solace for the suffering instead of damning them for their genetically-inherited differences.  So, be proud America.  And now know your arrogance and success would be weakened by the chance of an extra chromosome, for the mutated constructed not their own physiology, yet endure the crimes being committed by the gifted.  Truly, I am an asshole.  Donald Trump doesn't give a woman with some chunk in her thighs a second look, but Dr. Oz does.  Regardless, the meek and weird are always outta breath in noble attempt to tread the wavering water of Earthly existence.  Yup.  And America is still the greatest.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

TEBOW: A Minnesota Viking?

  
   Adrian Peterson, ornamented in the mercurial boots of Hermes himself, dashing gallantly beyond the infectious ploy of a determined defense, while arguing his singular solace of adoring a scarce backfield, has been sweetly graced by an arsenal of boldacious blocking; specifically, Jerome Felton and T/E Rhett Ellison have architected a more SAFE passage for the gifted running back--not to crazily imply or say that Peterson can't do it alone!  My point:  Allow Tebow to block for Peterson--align the WICKED I; moreover, Tebow usurps Moose Johnston physically, surpassing a 6'2" 238 lbs. awesomeness by way of:  6'3" 245 lbs.--all approximates at the pinnacle of performance.  What I'm saying is that Tebow could probably take Daryl Johnston in a sense of combative anthropology.  As a result, Peterson might have genuine success behind Tebow--but that shit won't fly.
   Everybody loves the dance and dash of the charismatic Chris Johnson, him always offering a toothy smile gleamed with gold greatness, making the ebony ladies blush, and white ones too; nevertheless, watching the brutal Hulk known as Earl Campbell carry the pigskin should be a shimmering epiphany for Tebow.  Campbell:  5'11" 244 lbs.  My point:  The Great Houston Oiler adorned in something like a powder blue used ta', in hellacious fashion, offer direct impact upon defensive players, melting them down with the flowing lava of his Herculean stampede into their chest cavities.  Alas, Tebow could do this.  A bit taller than Campbell, around Eddie George size, Tebow has the theoretical possibility of damning defenders in Earl Campbell style.  The dude could do anything.  Fullback, Running back, End on either side of the ball.  Sure he might terribly injure himself and totally blow a chance at ever playing QB in the NFL; still, you don't put your best stallion in the stable.  An athlete of his caliber needs to play the game; moreover, chivalrously accept the humility of another position.  Tebow needs to get Saint Francis on himself, bleeding his bones to the ascetic core, morphing his mind mystical like Saint John of the Cross enduring a devilish Inquisition, accepting his rhino-like potency to powerfully play the game of football.  But I can't quit smoking cigarettes, so who the hell am I to say crap?

   Yes, Peyton Manning and little bro Eli (having the most talented hair dresser in football) are the best.  No doubt--pure passing poison against any NFL defense, Canadian too, perhaps.  They are the rocket arm.  Pete Sampras with the Big Serve.  But it bores you to death. I wanna see the late/great Steve McNair with his dodging dexterity.  Flutie dreaming Napoleonic.  This is exciting football.  Too, Michael Jordan always wanted to play baseball, yet his top-of-the-line talent glistened in the high pulse play of basketball.  I wanted to marry Britney Spears and ended up with the grocery clerk girl at WALGREENS.  We all have to make sacrifices.  The NFL needs good athletes--period.  Tebow should find a way, any way--to play the game.  For his fans.  For the Celestial Spangle of a Cosmic God birthing the luminous salvation of the Living Christ.  Every little boy wants to play the game.  But we are squirts.  Hence, we dream through these guys--I'm a fan, but that's it--and football matters damn't!
   Too, buy my books:  King's Books
   Sincerely, Mark David King

In Theological Defense Of Pope Francis

   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Pope Francis has ignited another unearthly case of controversy; specifically, he may back down from his reported vociferousness concerning entrance into the Empyreal Spangle (Heaven); nonetheless, his theology outshines his confused critics.
   The Gospel of Mark; moreover, Chapter 2 verse 17 of the King James Edition clearly explains the necessity of Christ, it boldly daring:  "When Jesus heard it, He saith unto them:  They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick--I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance."
   As a result of this effulgent epiphany, Christ offers up a theological maxim that those whose earthly motions are benevolent will inherit heaven regardless; it is the lewd and lascivious that need the attention of a spiritual healer in order to pass beyond the Sublime Perimeter of it ALL.  Still, all religions believe they singularly possess the axiomatic key to a perpetuity of a paradisal afterlife--what hogwash.  Ordained a priest in 1507, the most infamous Dominican Friar of the 16th Century, Luther was the ruination and retardation of a blossoming brilliance known as the Renaissance; specifically, even Nietzsche argued that the Papal Authorities had finally embraced the essence of art and science--all this to be sucked backwards into the ignorant vacuum of a man unable to endure asceticism, making Saint Paul's intellectual bullshit just as important as the Gospels Themselves.
   Are we really to adhere to the notorious notion that only a singular religion will, if properly executed, inherit the delicious domain of heaven?  Maybe the malicious Methodists?  But screw the polytheism of Hindu Holy Men, crafting excellent karma for their eternal ride into the celestial ocean, right?  Deny the agnostic Doctor who spends his whole life sweetly healing, yet cannot wrap his educated self around an omnipotent, loving God.  This is crap.  And Pope Francis has once again displayed his denial of these demonic traits that haunt supposedly holy religions--even if he shies away and regretfully retracts his statements.  Nobody knows the truth save for the most lunatic of mystics, denying earthly existence as commands a compulsion to know the truth of God; alas, Pat Robertson's cerebral arteries are clogged with the mystery beef of bologna; still, truth resides within his faith and determination to eagerly inject salvation into the monstrous masses.  The Torah, New Testament, Koran, Gita, Epic of Gilgamesh--all religious doctrines have truth and lies.  This is the dangerous dualism of humanity.  But we have to accept that--our imperfection, never blindly believing the balderdash of an umbrella theology.  Man is good; man is a son of a bitch.  Being a Methodist is not the singular path towards heaven.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The Art Of Death

   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Foolishly, the quintessential man prepares himself for life--not death.  Yet physiological life is just a fleeting glimpse of eternity, one page turned in the perpetuity of a soul's epic poem.  Regardless, people persuade themselves into becoming as human as possible, eagerly embracing their liquid-form existence, unaware that there is no Free Will--I am no better; indeed, I have toxically touched myself like an aroused chimpanzee, fantasizing stupidly, thrusting to not the true intent of my spiritual self, further castrating my fragile immortality, crafting crappy karma that will one day morph me into a dung-eating Beetle within the rerun of corporeal life--if that shit sails.  And the Hindu epics touch upon the illumination of light perceived after passing into a lack of physical consciousness, as does the Gnostic-like tradition of the Angelic Twin Himself, Mani, the incarnation of the Holy Ghost, the Helper Christ promised would arrive.  And Christ Himself, in the non-canonized Gospel of Mary Magdalene, pulling His female friend aside from the 12, whispering to her the secrets of death--the Light, the Darkness, the encountering of trans-corporeal entities, matching magnificently with the doctor from daytime; moreover, Dr. Oz's televised special on the essence of death, him having had a singular patient fade into the entropy of it all, encountering shame for all his ego and pride, before being divinely ushered into a celestial household of a zillion lights merged with the Pantheistic perfection of it all--if that shit sails as well.  Or Chief Mojo Rising, the chronically intoxicated Jim Morrison adhering to the American Injun symphony of swimming away from cerebral reality, into the void of delicious death, where you first encounter a hissing and venomous snake head, and if you ignite fear within yourself; next, you're blotted out of existence, though, if you kiss the snake--you choose to reconstruct yourself for a perpetual paradise of contentment.  Like this:  Ride the snake, to the lake, the ancient lake baby--the snake is long, 7 miles, he's old, and his skin is cold.  Could be bullshit.  We'll all soon be aware though; thus, it's imperative to prepare yourself for death and quit thinking about getting laid all the time.
   So when I see Miley Cyrus exposing her tongue, soon to be laced with the yeasty punishment of oral thrush, I hungrily understand that our lascivious loins control our cerebral capacity.  Freud knowing:  "It's all libido baby."  Still, better to metaphorically emasculate yourself then be a dumb fink, thinking you're the best, boasting your fleeting accomplishments and nastily nailing the seemingly plush opulence of creamy poonani, for you will be an old bitch soon, and then, dust and bones dude.  Until the Genetic Revolution offers a mesh of man with machine, forging us forever into a bio-mechanical existence, we will have to pass into the mystery of death.  Religion offers solace for the terror and trepidation of losing your last LIFEBREATH--though there is no maxim of truly knowing save for the most intrepid mystics.   But we all should be worried.  Worried about our personal pride and monstrous fascination with sensual ecstasy.  Loving our children simply because they are our own joyous ejaculations into wicked wombs needing the pulsating pound of a piston as anthropology dictates--we are fucking monkeys.  Still, a divine essence lurks beneath the fiery pubes and liquid discharge of it all, if indeed we are hybrids, housing a cosmic creator from within, and if that's true; then, we'd better architect some religion, remembering the humility of the most unusual demi-god, Christ, saying:  "He who is last shall be first.  He who is first shall be last.  If a man wishes to save his own life, he will lose it; if a man wishes to lose his life, he will save it."  What insane lunacy is this, yet sublimity squared.  Christ taunts us into humility.  He offers up an Earthly existence of denial and introspect of things ethereal.  He wants God, not fortune, fame, the scandal of sexuality.  Be safe.  Have a drink.  Have another drink, maybe.  Every hippie in their sensual ignorance knows that there is an afterlife, Thomas Pynchon reminding us:  "LSD gets you through the door; PCP pushes you through the door and locks it behind you."  Verily, a healthy brain ignited fantastic by the gateway of narcotics knows there is more than banging babes and getting a good job.  Truly, life be thataway.  Not here.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The Smok'n Vision Of Tom Aquinas

   As always, my books:  King's Books!
   Pope Benedict was weirdly wise waywards as his fade into the cosmic black of nothingness, like a Church Window politely surrendering to wax on and wax off, gleaming the cure of a nasty mire, offering up the benevolent charm of Pope Francis, swift with the stampede of a zillion ignorant Nations, offering the solution of solace on TWITTER, bolding beyond the beauty of JP the 2nd igniting MARY as the Co-Remdemptrix--which should'a been; regardless, Pope Benedict was vociferously known to interrogatively boast towards the near direction of humble, ascetic underlings:  "Have you ever heard of the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise?" This is the infinite formation of Truths in the Megaverse.
  Verily, Christ had no pie in the face for Pilate as Mel Gibson offered up a fondness for Ezra Pound, me too, but the guilt of the most insidious evil against mankind--the foulest and nastily toxic state of German hysteria trumping Luther's uncool and uncouth transformation of Jesus the Christ into the intellectual rabble of the salacious Saint Paul. The Gospels outshine all the rest--no matter!  Christ is the only positive demi-god mentioned in the entire Bible--let me think, I'm intoxicated, oh yeah--it's true.  Alas, Gilgamesh was 2/3 god, usurping the spiritual anatomy of the Abrahamic God in fanatically forging Christ; still, no other demi-god would humble themselves to the pussy of the Cross--and it isn't.   Jesus stupefied Nietzsche, and with sublime intent, inflicting upon Himself the shame of Creation, for He did it--He was the Hebrew God Incarnate, the most powerful of all the gods; as a result, He buried it deep inside His celibate self, offering up spiritual castration for His own reeking flesh and His Immaculate Mother, denouncing the demonic dance of carnal play for the thunder of asceticism, fasting till serpents in the wicked desert, doing the combative dance with the Devil himself--Jesus be awesome, and Oh My God--is Tebow Right?

   Regardless, Thomas Aquinas was transported or teleported into 1977, within the confines of a movie theater . . .                                                                                                                   

Tebow/Canadian Football: Do It Man . . .

   As always, my books:  King's Books

   Warren Moon is Captain Black Sparrow of symmetrical cool; moreover, Doug Flutie dodging with mercurial Spider-Man offers a dangerous game that outchills the Frozen Tundra of Green Bay; specifically, anybody can wrangle football in the States, but running through the vacant fields of Saskatchewan during times of BarleyCorning Civil War, Flutie transcends the rest; next, mid-thirties and again gelled with the NFL, architecting "Comeback Player Of The Year" with a dexterity determined to eclipse the spies of a mutated defense.  Yes, Peyton Manning is a cerebral assasin--an adrogynous android rocketing with the eternal arm, much like Pete Sampras (spell'n?) of tennis fame; nonetheless, Manning never gets his shirt dirty--no Mean Joe Green toss and a fizzy bottle of fabulous Coke, though better ingested like the free-lancing intellectual known as Freud to soothe the slain spirit of romantic decadence.

   And it is that:  The Saskatchewan void of it all, HOLE, vacuous yet voluptious with the mirth of a humble God adoring the Combative Anthropology of Man minus the sanguine spill of crimson guts and ruptured intestinal tracts. 

   Allow Tebow the GRACE of achievement, for he did more than both Cam Newton and RG 3 merged for immaculate respect; still, he gets nothing for his Moose Johnson ability to make horizontal the adversarial athlete lined up across from his Christian Gleam.  So chill, hit Canada like Chief was in One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, daring the amber bush of carnal insanity, though besmirched better by an actor damned and destined to be the Joker before Heath Ledger's accidental insertation of legal medicines into his gorgeous corporeal aspects.  Regardlees, we must adhere to the futurity of continuance, allowing all Quarterbacks the chance at Kenny "the Snake" Stabler Fame even if a fifth of Vodka a day is drank for dangerous purposes.  God Bless the excess of William Blake, if understood for a sublime purpose.

   Tebow can hone his katana in Canada; then, inject his venom into the remission of the unathletic, passing QB, dumb and dumber to a Safety Blitz forged from the quicksilver of a 4.3 forty short man, weighing in at 170 pounds, but smacking the ass of gangly stars into the quicksand of recovery.  God Bless the running Quarterback!

   Sincerely, Mark David King