Thoracic Animus (16)

    
   "Thoracic Animus (16)"

   Mutt and his depressed dog had hitched it down to Texas, loving the Longhorns and Bowie knives, Big, everywhere.  At a local, bucolic gas station with a diner, near the key-locked bathrooms, his depressed dog mystically leaped into Mutt's soul-like essence, mutating his negative blood further into a werewheaten-terrier, the little, white angel dog, like out of the Book of Tobit, morphing him into a greater gravel-sniffing destiny, as if by magic, though not, a form of love united, like these here States of America, and Mutt knew he didn't need the Full Moon to morph into a 150 pound werewheaten-terrier; therefore, he sang:

The joyous werewheaten don't know defeating--
The enduring werewheaten gives merry greeting.

   Next, getting his clothes, or rags would be wiser, to fit again, Mutt went into the diner, sitting at the bar-like area, and after eating some eggs and toast, a bush pilot with a wiry nose cranked up the conversation, after introducing himself as Doc.

DOC
I'm headed down to Antarctica to get involved in the mysterious war.   Got a B-25 Mitchell that can make it to Cape Horn; next, land on the Southern Pole.  I'm on an idealistic crusade.  You interested in following old Obi-Wan, though I get my name from Steinbeck's Cannery Row, published in 1945.

MUTT
I've got fur that can endure; plus, fangs now, why not?

DOC
Gotta love blondes; then, we'll CLEAR PROP!  

MUTT
Every man's dream, of course.

   Doc smiled, and gave Mutt a slap on the back.   

Thoracic Animus (15)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (15)"
    
   Harry departed back to his inter-dimensional craft, and blasted off; then, Mutt awoke next to the orange glow of the campfire, his Uncle and Tanya still snoozing sweetly. 
   Mutt had felt a visitation of sorts.  A need for change.  An acceptance for his hypersensitivity, not in a political sense, but all the locomotion and commotion of Internet and people traffic, since women can't keep their legs together, and men can't make their own love, innocently.
   Therefore, Mutt woke Buckwheat from his depressed and restless slumber; next, the twosome made an exodus from the woods of Eastern Dakota, knowing Tanya and Uncle would be just dandy, doing what they wanted to do in life--you should always do what you want in life, unless it's sadistic.
   So, Mutt and his depressed dog thumbed it back into town, and he decided to investigate newspaper delivery, even though print media was dying, but the smell of dead squids and freshly cut lumber always inspire the most remembered activity to get spirited within, and do something about this shitty world, like take the Eucharist, and get a crossbow for the Brown Bear's sometimes curious kill factor, especially if it's a migrating Kodiak.   

Fleetwood Mac (Stevie Nicks) - "DREAMS" (With Lyrics)

Thoracic Animus (14)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (14)"
   
   Harry was writing in blue to communicate, within the mind of a snoozing Mutt, for the Bigfoot/Hairy Man knew that the Blood is the Life, a pattern of existence and outcome; plus, that Mutt's blood was negative, carrying a bit of immortal Ichor, so Esau's great, great, great, great, grandson probed Mutt's mind, and Mutt thought himself an asshole, not knowing people targeted him for a reason.
   Jung this and that, but the onion does peel, and Mutt needed to be warned to watch his favorite shows, read his favorite books--and to hell with the classics and monkeys shaking his allegorical cage.
   They wanted Mutt to think himself bad, hang a rope and dangle, do the dirt nap groove, or burn him to ash, but then Mark Twain always comes along and makes friends with Tesla, O-; next, Picard takes Twain on the ENTERPRISE, and Mark is like:  "Boy--this is a starship, ain't it?"  Keen talk from a former Riverboat Captain, and like Emily Dickinson--always in white.  Who says America doesn't have great writers?  

Thoracic Animus (13)

   
   "Thoracic Animus (13)"

   Harry approached the campfire, it still flickering with a vibrant orange flame, and glared at Mutt, his Uncle, and Tanya snoozing; plus, noticed the depressed dog Buckwheat, him having restless leg syndrome, shaking his hind paws in doggy slumber, as if possibly chasing an annoying rabbit that brought him no colorful eggs on Easter.
   Harry wanted to hang out with the humans, especially ask for a can of Beenie Weenies, always finding them out in the woods, noticing they were packed full of protein and fiber; moreover, containing the anti-inflammatory properties of turmeric, but with all the fiber, he pondered that a scientist may steal his scat and attempt to unearth what God has concealed--that humans are a mixed breed of many species, and like Lord of the Rings, we are living in a weird and wild world, which would be all too much for the quintessential business person to take, for careerism trumps a sacred tribe of celestial mutts.
   Oh well, Harry pondered if he should wake them with a howl, but that might cause cardiac disturbance, a sort of thoracic animus, which is why the future hides from the face of a self-seeking man.  

Robert Palmer - Simply Irresistible (Live in NYC - 1997)

Hell kicked me out for selling ice cream

   
   "Hell kicked me out for selling ice cream"
   
   "Got to hell, King."  That's what my 9th grade teacher told me; however, I was not to be scorched iniquitously, responding with my cousin's comeback--Winston Wood's words:  "I already went there, but they kicked me out for selling ice cream."
   Christ knows this well.  He lit it up.  He is:  ANGEL OF GREAT COUNSEL.  Look @ Pontius Pilate's physical description of Christ, and I believe it hangs in the National Library of Congress, saying, kinda/sorta:  "Chestnut hair, and blazing eyes."  Who are we to resist evil, when Christ mentioned not to?  And His Mother, our Mother, saying:  "Do as My Son says."  But they fear the Mother, for they have an Oedipus Complex, though we will pray for them to watch Notre Dame football with Touchdown Jesus.
   Weird is white.  Don't be afraid of a rainbow merging into the unification of salvation.  Raise your vibrations to a frequency divine--and maybe the government will thieve away your instruments as they did with Tesla.  We'll never know it all, but plenty have the fundamentals.  
   Just love, walk on the grass and feel Mother Earth, but be cautious of planted parasites if you're barefoot.  Get sandals, like Jesus, or as I call them:  "Air Messiah."  No offense to Michael Jordan's 1980's celebrity, but God has His Own Celebrities, and forty days paint a beard on a pretty face.  The Son is the Mother, and the Father--a synergy of elegantly AWESOME.