Jazzmin Flush (46)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (46)"   
   
   "You can't have a torrid Tolstoy story, written in eloquent sequences, before being divinely spawned everlasting and eternal--without a pizza delivery guy as a main character!"  Thomas cried.
   Jazzmin Flush didn't blush, but passionately pushed back:  "The L.A. Derelict published my first obituary on Girthy Gilda, but--I'm not a novelist.  I'll never be a novelist.  I don't wanna be a novelist!"
   Thomas sideways, sideburns growing Wolverineways.  "Just check it out, will ya?  This dynamic dude dubbed Danny--he may be your father.  Why else would he deliciously deliver an anchovy deep dish decorated with baby, multi-colored gummi bears?"
   "He thinks I'm pregnant."  Jazzmin Flush biting her lip at the resonating remembrance of an entire rainy year.
   Thomas continued:  "He's got your goldenish hair, same almond-shaped eyes, and his 1957 Chevy with two, mind you--TWO, four barrels is constantly rumbling, like tough pit bulls, outside of your basement habitat.  And he's too much of a geezer to be stalking you.  I would sniff out that testosterone-laced crap, easily.  I can smell him, and he smells like you--this dude is your Dad."
   "But he's a pizza delivery guy?"  Jazzmin Flush snarled.
   "Now that you are a hot, sexy reporter--you think you're too good for him?"  Thomas imperatively probed poignantly. 
  "Okay--I officially hate myself."  Jazzmin blowing a strand of gold out of her eyes.  "And I do love gummi bears."   

Cats and Mexican Lasagna

   
   "Cats and Mexican Lasagna"
   
When I first read that "real" cats don't eat lasagna, I was a bit perplexed;
Next, a devil-worshiping, teenage girl, concerning me--hexed;
As a result, I got bubbly and baffled; plus, sincerely bizarre,
Morphing into a quasi-gourmet, suburban kitchen-cooking star;
Moreover, I artistically crafted a Mexican Lasagna,
Using mild salsa, so as to not scald mama.  

Jazzmin Flush (45)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (45)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush royally regretted not being a more fantastic friend for the great Girthy Gilda, remembering how ruff ruff Rascal had recently reminded her of the mystical coyote's reason for altruistic, canine-existence:  a tortured teacher of death, perhaps--giving old age to the human folk in order for them to make super-symmetrical their affairs, affording them with sublimity before being birthed into the unearthly Otherworld.
   Jazzmin Flush did not shed Freya's tears over Girthy Gilda's tiny tombstone, but should have, crying golden--though it lovingly lurked within her corporeal stronghold, that California wonderland know as her total, pulsating physiology--yet one day she will be rewarded and reminded of her regal wealth--inherited by the fabulous fable of a father.  For now, she knelt down, placing an electric-white tin of mint-flavored snus over Girthy Gilda's grave.  

Jazzmin Flush (44)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (44)"
   
   Thomas was a bit twisted at the moment, yet beyond billowing blood flow concerning Rascal's hearty scent--it was all terribly tragic--the raunchy roller-coasters of peaks and valleys in life's perpetual ping-pong game.  And as Jazzmin, Fredrica, and Rascal entered into Girthy Gilda's modest shanty, Thomas was protectively shielding the elderly Saint with his transfigured body, glaring at the female threesome, having washed his hands in obsessive scourge before closing the dead lady's eyes and placing coins above for the ferryman.
   Rascal blurted, "She knew, I surmise, that everybody's poop stinks.  Never shamed by others."
   "More than that."  Thomas spoke solemnly.  "She simply cared about the little guy.  The hobbits and hoboes spinning the wheels of life by little yet respected labor.  Hers was the pigskin scramble by fast-footed Flutie over the Canadian tundra, adoring the great games played by the underdog so much that she gave good will to the non-deserving.  Folk like us."
   "Why put us down?"  Fredrica pondered loudly.
   Thomas looked his sister in the eye, saying, "If you never fall down; then, you'll never know how to pull yourself up.  Every battery needs recharged by the tragedies of life.   The Cubs will win--one golden day."  

Jazzmin Flush (43)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (43)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush deliberately devoured another soft taco, hungrily inhaling the continuous, primal cravings of legal food, though never got horizontally-challenged; moreover, threw down the yummy, hard-shelled delish of Mexican cuisine, but slicing a cruel cut atop her oral cavity, knowing that the soothe of green tea would assist in inflicting tranquility upon the rising bacteria, not minding that the word "quack" was insidiously inflicted upon pristine physicians throughout American History, for their loving loyalty of Mother Earth's herbology rightfully stole away from designer drug companies having pseudo-politicians and demonic doctors boot-licking the crooked cash--all is such and is after the slave-making Industrial Revolution--God Bless it though, right?
   And Fredrica came upon Jazzmin's crunchy meal and blossoming companionship with rascally Rascal--Thomas' sister eagerly noticing the coydog girl's dog-like beauty, saying:  "Funeral arrangements for Girthy Gilda are in the works.  Thomas insists a simplistic burial in a modest, vampire-proof, wooden box, with a rose-petal forged Rosary wrapped around her eternal grip."
   "That sounds awesome."  Jazzmin Flush noted.  "Girthy Gilda will now feed the Earth, getting boldly burped beautifully into the forever folklore of an always risen Phoenix."   

Union Blue--underground, country music

   
   "Union Blue--underground, country music"
   
   Taken from the Earthy North after barely a year old, being anchored in the Confederate Capital; next, wending deeper South.  Here's a ditty:
   
I love my Jap-made truck;
My shamrock luck--
I'm a Yankee Doodle
Ain't being feudal--
Do you like to fish much!?!
  
   Like the American Coyote, every Transplanted Yankee absorbing Southern Beauty and simultaneously remembering his Sublime Heritage is an American Original.  

Jazzmin Flush (42)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (42)"
   
   Jazzmin Flush was cautiously crushed; specifically, got the nasty news that Girthy Gilda had passionately passed--Thomas explained:  "She totally uttered an Act of Contrition; next, boldly blasted off to God."
   And indeed she had, transmigrating until unto the DIVINE JUSTICE SYSTEM, getting great recommendations for a fabulous form of astral-like reincarnation, knowing her lazy family neglected her to the gruesome grave; still, to starburst ghostways, glittering eternal, haunting the horrid hell out of every soul wickedly infatuated with making Miss Jazzmin Flush and her pretty posse perish.
   As a result, infused with a specter's kiss--Jazzmin Flush knew this wasn't a nefarious death, yet a mighty challenge, a gallant gauntlet laid bear-trapways, smacked down, facing, always, the pestering poison of iniquity.   
   Thus, Jazzmin Flush graciously gobbled up another soft taco, sprinkling a delicious dash of the mystical mustard seed atop its open sombrero.