"The Milky Way Brothers (2)"
Gloin and Davy Milky Way were in the classic Ranchero. The V-8 was rocketing with pit bull rumble. Gloin was piloting the classic muscle car/truck. Davy was playing with his girly goatee.
"You're too pretty for facial hair Davy," Gloin had blurted out with barrel-chested thunder. "For Christ's sake, you look like a quasi-bearded lady at one of em cheap carnivals that comes to town."
Davy just grinned with his chipped teeth. Dental work done by way of hard candy. Didn't mind getting the business from big bro--was used to it. Was just glad to be exiting Tennessee where the governor was a demonic troll under freedom's bridge and the lieutenant governor was a shape-shifting reptilian hung up on devouring baby flesh. Verily, Dad needed the herb to calm and soothe his disrupted gut. The agonizing pain of bleeding while you punched out a stinky shit was not the crystal smooth lovemake of a delicious bowel movement; indeed, Davy couldn't comprehend evacuating your bowels and squirting blood at the same time, and Tennessee politics had not a single slice of mercy. What was it that Christ offered: "Blessed are the merciful, for they too shall receive mercy." Well not in the Volunteer State, bought by a billion dollar governor. Thus, Davy offered wisdom over the hungry sounds of the hot rod, saying, "You can't make billions in America without there being a few dead bodies along the way."
Gloin was stoic in response. "People have a right and privilege to medicine. But all the healthy politicians will get theirs. Unless of course they're run over by a garbage truck."
"Do they even have garbage trucks anymore? Isn't all that shit done on the Internet nowadays?"
Gloin was like, "Davy, you're too stupid for life. But God bless you." Then, noticing a fancy lady thumbing her way Westwards, holding a sign over her bosom that said: CALIFORNIA OR BUST!
"The Milky Way Brothers"
Their last name was Way. Dad thought both boys should share the middle name Milky. After all, as little peckerheads, Mom let them gulp and suckle the stuff.
Anyway, the older brother's name was Gloin--like in Lord of the Rings, for Dad's favorite character was the girthy dwarf dubbed Gimli--he was the son of Gloin, both probably wielders of the battle axe, but Dad didn't know with the suave of total clarity--he only read books during the waxing Moon and after imbibing, at least, a six pack of Canadian lager.
Dad had absorbed Lord of the Rings before it got popularized in 1970's America when graffiti claiming "FRODO RULES" ornamented the New York subway system.
So, the younger brother was called Davy--after Mr. Crockett; still, Dad was birthed a Yankee, but he did dig that coonskin cap and all.
The problem here was: Gloin and Davy were dealing with a bitter pickle. Dad had severe Inflammatory Bowel Disease and was suffering something more than just personal demons. Would tell Gloin and Davy, "Boys, I crap constantly, and in my pants; plus, there be blood I tell ya!"
Gloin, dwarfish himself, yet like Odysseus, barrel-chested and with a billowing voice commanded Davy, "We gotta go to the American West and get Dad some organic herb grown in licensed greenhouses. Living down here in the South with Mom's side of the family for all these years and there is still no natural medicine that doesn't get you thrown in jail for using. Southern Pride I guess."
Davy wasn't the brightest bulb on the marquee, more worried about manscaping his little goatee than the tangible real of it all. Nevertheless, the Milky Way Brothers gelled in blood-sharing synergy. Yup, they were going out West to help bring health and solace to the old man.
Their ride was an antique. A 1957 Ford Ranchero, candy apple red with a touch of green mint fused into it by the labor of a non-quintessential paint and body man. Too, there would be werewolves and witches along the way.
"Comic Books & Sons"
Totally--they seem to freakishly fade away, magically teleported into your genetic material's underground bunker, or traded mischievously to his teen friends for tobacco products; regardless, we, as fathers, highly value these enchanted items of our pre-adolescence, before those hot cheerleader girls from junior high thieved away our vigilant virtue, it mercurially happening--us dazed and dumb by elevated kicks at the Friday Pep Rally. Nevertheless, we explode ourselves Back to the Future, finding bizarre classics and filling our quasi-geek with many metaphorical meatball and kosher WEREWOLF BY NIGHT sandwiches, digesting them into our intestinal treasure chests, beyond the bowels of constipated agony, like an omnivorous coyote built to dine on toxic waste from city sewers and dirty baby diapers out of suburban trash cans. Yes, we do--love our comic books.
"Shame--a speck, why not . . ."
Your dastardly daughter dunks far worse than a doobie into liquidy threesome,
Tattooing bizarre and beyond her once innocently powdered plum;
Moreover, hubby happily rests in uncaring uncouth with your best friend's heart--
Does the pain not start?
Unless daughter's folks are wing-clipped and demon,
Or husband has permission to on your friends spill his semen;
Alas, SHAME . . .
What's an android without a conscience?
Most likely--very violent and obnoxious.
Yup, I still believe in old Santa Claus,
Only minding the unjust laws.
Shame on me too.
Not cunning enough to thieve my way through.
Merry Christmas Mr. Gumby.
"Lime-Green Doll"
Lingerie designed with the healing hue of a seductively alive green
Allows me to believe and will myself into a She-Hulkish machine,
Not wending monstrous cause of gamma rays gone crazy,
For my feminine muscle is fueled by the Good Spirit--an antonym of lazy.
I'm not saying others are limp and lack heart and soul,
Yet without the Spirit present--the afterlife makes you pay a toll,
And I'll go to a metaphorical college to flavor my Multiversal eternities
By billowing sublime, pumping iron, eating acidophilus milk over my Wheaties.
Just remember: Whether skinny, mid-grade, or sincerely obese--
Forge yourself fantastic by being reminded of the Good Spirit's peace.
"BLONDE--northern beauty weeps over Romo & Manning"
Eli Manning, bad comedian: "Whaaaaaaat!!!"
And I keep large-curd cottage cheese out of my gut;
Otherwise, jiggly junk in an asymmetrical trunk.
"Daddy, I'm 18; thus, please inject my ripe rump with selfish lard for a birthday chunk;
I'll endure the A Cup with no teen angst dismay,
And to the Holy Spirit will I merge and pray."
Look, be the god or goddess you are,
For King David did Psalm: "Ye are gods." Hence, shine like your birthed star;
Regardless, organic cucumbers in tap water
Fight cavities and electrolytes do holler;
Indeed, keep the body cool that does house the keen Spirit,
And on All Saints' Day--of possibility--do hear it!
"Vampiric Patriot"
Shrinks claim I'm a real hard case;
Alas, I did try to bite off my boyfriend's face,
But the hunger and crave to be who I am
Means that like a fox in the trap--I don't give a guilt-ridden damn,
For I'll vote for Trump and drain the rich people;
Next, confess my sins under non-heretical steeple;
Moreover, the government knows the supernatural exists,
Yet the spineless people would shit Twinkies and discharge a nervous piss;
Thus, wend weirdways but keep your American Couth,
Knowing: Wisdom (fear of God) does outshine hubris-tainted youth.
