Proust And Joyce: Sublime Synergy

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   James Joyce, desiring to be a vociferous vocalist, offered:  "Genius makes no mistakes."  And I'm a dipshit, determined by dyslexia or something synonymous, forging the drunken fabric of Made in China sewing, though their love of the authentic American Automobile beckons beatitudes amazing.  Regardless, my humility is not ushered in by way of unearthly piousness, yet portrayed sincerely, me knowing that I am the best of mistakes and folly concerning the faulty nature of man; alas, armed with a double digit IO, damned to be daringly different, I can only discipline myself in the apex of authorship, whether I might mimic the linguistic greats or not.
   Was it:  William Carlos Williams--the poet/physician, like a spy upon the intellectual copulation of Village People being gay like Proust, him mostly adorned in a fur coat no less, Joyce, a negro erection forecast from his pursed plum suckers, blowing ghostly billows of American tobacco into the European winds--or so I believe.
   All basketball players steadily thirst to be the genetic duplicate of Michael Jordan.  Football--totally Joe Montana.  But most of us are mediocrity at the end of the day, though we try, eclipsing the wisdom of green-hued Yoda because we're not perfect; thus, pencils have erasers--this, a Southern Baptist Deacon keen on the book of Revelation taught me.
   Nevertheless, our primary function is to perform at an ultimate velocity; hence, the 9mm usurps the .45; specifically, spraying prey with the German-Dreamed mercury of high capacity outshines the steel fist of bear-killing ammunition, though this is an African-American preference, as well as mine. As a result, I'd rather have 17 rounds than less if inhabiting a creepy cabin within the bucolic bush of it all, having to crazily cope with multiple invaders who might intrude upon the inviolate virtue of my adolescent daughter yet to be lovingly tamed by the hands of desired coitus from a similar soul caged within her complete category of self.
   So--Proust and Joyce are the best.  I'm a douche of yet unknown flavor, and yes, yeast infections are prone with the irrigation of overused cleansers, though better than the piston-like entropy that promises hazardous reincarnation making you migrate, always, in the hellish direction of Pandemonium's promising mire, bleeding scabs like Wolverine, healing into the forever of mistakes made by the repeat of bad karma; hence, create your own brain, being determined and damned to make no mistakes. But we all do--and I'm a prick for mentioning this . . . 
   Sincerely, Mark David King

Tebow: Definite Defensive End, perhaps . . .

  
   As always-my books:  King's Books
   Known as completely "the Freak", Jevon Kearse was robust quicksilver upon the glimmering spangle of a grassy green arena; nonetheless, Tebow wears the mystic might of Perseus' winged scatterboots, if Zeus was his god of worship anyway, moving like mercurial dynamite as he strongly stampedes into the attacking upper body, corporeally wounding suffering defenders.  As a result--Tebow could play Defensive End in the NFL--imagine the glorious glee of intentionally annihilating the rocket arm of Peyton Manning, tossing his less athletic self to the floor of the field, though not with the unlawful uncouth of bullshit bounty, yet sheer athleticism let loose on Game Day.
   Kearse "40" and height/weight:  4.43, 6'4" 265 lbs.--the apex of approximation.
   Tebow "40" and height/weight:  4.71, 6'3" 240 sumth'n.
   And remember, Tebow runs like the ravaged Rocky Bleier, damning tacklers, proving my point that he wears brass bones underneath a determined dermis; also, resonates from High School action, remembering this:  High School Coaches ask their possible Special Team Players:  "Can ya hit!?!"  The athletically amorphous, charging crazily down the field as if Sir William Wallace berserkering into the beauty of an animalistic zone, hunting tailbacks like a beloved SEC coach feeling important since playing in the most competitive college football conference.  Too, Tebow could "take" Big Ben Roethlisberger, not minding that the Steeler is like Gene Kelley in the ever-collapsing pocket, dirtily dancing with the "push off" strength of being a human sasquatch, and soon he will do Beef Jerky commercials.  But what do I know, only having played Gremlin Football till thunderously stunned by the anthropological transformation known as puberty, where adrenaline drops, revealing the necessity of a cruel fit concerning the perpetual torture of jock straps that continually offer cramping by way of a notorious motive terribly uncomfortable and able to entertain with "scratch and sniff" possibilities.  It can be hell to play with balls in your teens, testicles churning you stupid . . .
   Sincerely, Mark David King

The Art Of Death--Part 2

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Like the mighty menthol to bacteria--religion kills the psychological trauma of death.  Krishna, adorned in the effulgent azure hue of Smurfberry Blue, shimmering colossal against the giant, this mimicking David's Goliath takedown, whether in futurity or before the mass exodus of a Torah scripted, me thinking:  Time like a curvature of SuperString Theory Forever, a perpetuity of rebirth and suffering Hellenization, agonizing at the hands of comedic gods.  And what did the Hebrews ask of Christ:  "Is he Elijah?"  As if the transmigration of souls might haunt the Abrahamic Religions, birthing a super flux of forever, or scattered atoms and gathered into the Borg Collective, though that bio-mechanical monster would not be clumsily cumbersome concerning its own self, yet athletically agile, like the liquid metal of T2 offering insight into the pulsating pectorals of Arnold Schwarzenegger. 
   Religion offers the smooth soothe of solace, especially Christianity, where bad karma can be constructed, yet a hint of Evangelical Pulpit-Pounding offers a terrific eternity through the unselfish sacrifice of Christ, that mysterious demi-god, fanatically forged for the sublimity of humility, meeting the damned devil, ignoring the tempting taunt of:  "Want all the women?  Whatta 'bout d' money?  Freak'n fame?"  The Christ Man denouncing all opulence, bowing down to the dictatorship of an awesome God--the Hebrew God, the most powerful of all the gods.
   Indeed, many a Roman Emperor, including that dude dubbed Marcus Aurelius, his auto-biography read every year by the now Vegan Bill Clinton, it offering:  "Yes, the gods do exist."  It wasn't mythology to Marcus.  His wife, hatching infancy without the aid of his spermy synergy, yet him low and modest enough to raise with intellectual copulation, mind-melding his brainiacish beatitudes upon a non-genetic lineage of love. And thus, the Vulcan prayer for the corporeally defeated:
"May you find a peace in death that you could not find in life."  Christ, Science Fiction is like reading the religious rants of Thomas Aquinas, blazing with spiritual insight into the gleaming ghost of beyond, if not then, architected into another, choosing your own adventure for a spare glimpse at the ever-turning wheel of life, Ezekiel spotting that circular craft, landing, Biblically, though obscured by modern theologians, them complaining:  The Priest of the age 30, stoned and stupid on the river Chebar, what idiocy, or concealing that Godly merge, them wanting to make it covert mysticism.  But it happened, or a crazy ass Jew was more of a modern genius than Tom Cruise himself, plugged into the symmetrical perfection of an alien religion, usurping the challenged minds of Hollywood Folk believing it to be an insidious cult that heals to thrill or some bullshit like that.
   All in all, our existence is intelligent design.  The atheist being the universal dolt in lack of imagination, at least, fabricating fiction where there is God.  Carl Sagan, in all his visionary coolness could not ensnare or wrangle the idea of an alien species traveling over such-many-a-light-year, yet modern physicists of today know that space can be folded; hence, wormhole availability for the Grays who are prone to anally probe the human rectum; plus, slaughter cows, like celestial cow tipping for those blessed with over-sized craniums full of space brains.  Look, it's all real.  Get sick--go to the doctor.  Get in trouble--go to the lawyer.  Get interrogative--go to a Priest, Rabbi, or Caliph.  And this is for a reason.  At least the Muslims conceal some of their women's curvaceous cunning, showcasing a sensitivity towards the beauty of creation--nothing is all bad, Islam meaning SUBMISSION, and Christ getting deadly for salvation--what is more unearthly, and real, than that?  So forget the art of modern proof, as through the Spanish Mystic Saint John of the Cross, scribbling a theological equation for ascetic entry beyond the Pearly Plush Of Always--it like:  Purgation +Illumination=Union.  The 3 Ways.  So don't just adjust yourself to the lengthy lectures of college professors, but find the counter-culture, going deep into mystical texts like THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL or THE EGYPTIAN BOOK OF THE DEAD, being brave enough to hopefully not be cursed for observing such radioactive material, your face maybe glowing, like Moses from down the mountain, having clearly communicated with the atomic elements of a technological God.
   Sincerely, Mark David King

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