Tex-Mex Guy (1)

   
   "Tex-Mex Guy (1)"
   
   He resided out in the scalding yet dry heat of Arizona, clearing up his armpit psoriasis, not down in Old Orleans, where the resonating vibrations of Saint Joan of Arc are highly gyrating on the mystical frequencies, arriving swifter, many times so, than the speed of light, like unto immediate Internet service; specifically, the Tex-Mex guy called, through cerebral focus, that particular Saint unto him, not selfishly, yet to assist him with the negatives and positives of life, knowing they (the Saints) have the ability to superposition themselves through time, space, and other dimensions, all due to them being supernaturally alive in Christ, being a magnanimous frequency of total reality; thus, Saint Joan was with his seemingly-perpetual delivery of:  chili con carne, fajitas, and cheesy nachos.
   So, piloting his 1987 five liter, 302 cubic inch Ford Mustang, no hatchback; furthermore, one of the LX models, it only taking six flat seconds to triumph towards sixty, him redesigning the intake with ram air induction, and having two supertrapps sticking out of the rear end for increased vehicular outtake--the Tex-Mex guy was a metaphorical Mercury concerning delivery.
   Too, the Tex-Mex guy wore an inauthentic sombrero, part of the blue-collar job's innate humility, moving swiftly past hot women in their Lexus turbo-models, and flashing a curved grin underneath a wiry mustache that displayed his sense of pseudo-dandyism, and a Basset Hound named Curtis alongside him in the passenger seat, buckled in by the influencing protection of Saints.  
   It was a modest yet content lifestyle, him affording cheap rent at a crappy apartment, using Swedish Snus to control his anxiety, and never thinking of Saint Joan in any creepy way, yet only to help save his impoverished sufferings--her, a gift from God, as Saints mostly are, the Saintly soldier being a Divine shield against the capitalistic roller-coaster ride that can wither away a healthy corporeal existence--so it goes for the Tex-Mex Guy, anyway.     

Razorback Games & Catholic Mass

   
   "Razorback Games & Catholic Mass"
  
   If you goeth to see the sublime swine--them royally cool Hogs in Arkansas, you might be a bit confused while attending the always epic display of the Arkansas Razorbacks.
   Arkansas:  A poor as crap State--I believe, the 2nd poorest in the Union.
   You gotta doeth Hog Calls, specifically:  "Woo Pig Sooie!!!"  Raising them hands to Hog Heaven, bringing the spirit of the mighty, tusked beast down upon the tough turf of shimmering green, though soon clothed in the passion of red; plus, the purity and peace of white.
   Like at Catholic Mass with the Nicene Creed manifesting into a "Peace be with you" that freaks out parishioners with Social Phobia; nevertheless, you must face that funky fear, making it afraid of you, for the Transubstantiation doth happen, and the Blood and Body of Christ become corporeally, not symbolically real--in my opinion:  only if the Priest is decent, or having an innocent, dove-like day.
   Yes, you can pray to the Holy Spirit.  It is part of the Trinity--singular yet more, but so true, even in theoretical physics--there are thinkers beyond you and me.  God Bless them.
   So, Catholic Mass and Hog Games both have ritual and repetition; moreover, TRADITION--gotta love it!    

Regret & Redemption

   
   "Regret & Redemption"
   
   We all have regrets--hell, even Trump admitted his own--that's moxie!
   Young and molested girls speak with a high, squeaky adolescent vernacular, as if they are only a piece of sass and trash; moreover, what rhymes with that.  Is it their fault for their uncouth actions?        No!  They were submitted to a type of sinister behavior, not like the sublime, Catholic, intellectual brainwash, where Aquinas "The Good Doctor" was regally read, but "victims" through iniquitous, carnal torture; thus, forgive them!
   I hate this Election!  Hillary, possibly false medical crap; plus, Trump, flat-out ego, yet it fits well.
   I miss Bernie.  I miss Johnny Football and Tim Tebow--yes Mr. Tebow, you should've been a Defensive End and given poetic justice to other quarterbacks, for you will always be an awesome quarterback, but maybe:  time to transcend.  And you can still tackle better than swing the bat--we adore your love of Christ.
   We all feel; then, we fall--as might James Joyce mention, and he did.  But we can get back up--even in the terminal stages.  We can become angels.  We can pamper and adore the sublimity of things, such as sweetly:  Jude the Obscure, giving chances beyond pragmatic reason.

POST SCRIPT:  I will not stop fixating upon the muscle car--whether heavy or lean.  The massive eight cylinder, or the turbo-charged six--even the super-charged four cylinder--I might give potential praise to that intrepid toy.  The automobile is my solace and sanctuary, though I'm phobic concerning driving.  Just stay cool.  Too, test every spirit.  

Our Lady--the Fighting Irish

   
   "Our Lady--the Fighting Irish"
   
   When you watch Notre Dame take to Terra's turf--you don't care if they win or lose--if you got them Lucky Charms in ya.
   The glistening glow off of the golden-hued helmets--it's mystically brilliant, them handling the pigskin with a leprechaun's love of gladiatorial sports.  Did you put on 'em pads when u were younger?  Or did ya become something second to hard hits, like a cop with a gun?  Didn't I mention Milton claimed the Viper invented gunpowder, and for the fallen?
   Can't a cop Billy Club a dude, like them old days in Boston?  Use the Blackjack attack instead of spraying prey?
   But it's a tough job--I hear.  There's always two sides to the lucky coin flip.  Still, if the cop played football as a kid--he might be more prone to heroically tackle a guy instead of making him "eat lead" like many cowards do.  But hey, it's all relative.
   Get it out of your system.  Put on the pads and make a direct hit--you'll see the light; moreover, possibly have neurological damage in the future, or not.
   Isn't God in charge of destiny anymore?  Regardless, it's always a fun-time to watch the Irish play with the pigskin.    

The Cult - Love (with lyrics)

Arcane Pontiac 301 Turbo

   
   "Arcane Pontiac 301 Turbo"
   
   I always figured, if Christ drove a muscle car--it would be a small block V-8, or something esoteric and mercurial out of the hole.  Anyway, here's a weird, little pseudo-ditty.
   With the Clean Air Act of 1970, certain federal emission standards were being spawned to help protect Mother Earth; moreover, this was before Al Gore came from the planet Uranus and invented the Internet.
   Thus, we get:  1980 & 1981 Trans Ams with Cabalistic displacement.
   The esoteric Pontiac:

301 cubic inches.

4.9 liter.   

Rated around:  210 horsepower.

Torque:  345 ft-lb?  (What!?!)  I could be mistaken.

First production Pontiac to utilize a turbo-charging system.

Regardless of performance--it's mysteriously cool.

But if you want muscle in small size, of course, nothing trumps the:

1987 Buick Grand National GNX!!!

A mere V-6, yet turbo-charged to the core!!!

Can hit 60 swifter than most of yesteryear and today--not even a Boss 429 wants to do the "quickstep" with that thing.  

Snoopy's Doghouse

   
   "Snoopy's Doghouse"
   
   Indeed, it is animated esotericism; moreover, Snoopy's Doghouse first made its showcase on September 4, 1951--or approximately so.  The philosophical Linus suggested that Snoopy sleep inside, which at times he did, instead of using his ears to perch upon the top; also, Linus stayed there for a night or two himself.
   Within was way weird but soooo cool.  Snoopy had a library larger than that of the Vatican.  It was a fourth-dimensional tesseract space, containing even a huge basement, CB radio, pool table, stereo, and bunk beds; plus, more--but only the true PEANUTS mystic knows such things.  
   Too, it had the ability of flight, and could travel back in time and engage the Red Baron in aviation combat.   
   This was one cool Doghouse, and even I would like to reside there, encompassed by all the loving gang save Lucy, but Snoopy could keep her in line.  That's my boy!