Kooky Lucy Frost

   
   "Kooky Lucy Frost"
   
   Way up yonder in Buffalo, where all they had was the resonating pigskin memories of Doug Flutie running the best bootleg in NFL history, plenty of snow, too much really, and some considered it the armpit of the world, but most know that the armpit is actually Cleveland, and kooky Lucy Frost had a Shetland Sheepdog; specifically, a Sheltie named Cleveland, for she liked the Browns over the Bills, having a weird fascination with a wild-hued orange and all its digestive deliciousness concerning abdominal chakras.  
   Lucy Frost was a thirty-something dirty blonde with forest green eyes, so pathetically single, living in a modest apartment complex colored Big Bird yellow, and she was a bag girl at the grocery store, where hand sanitizing was the order of the day, after funky folk that made their own nasal cavity gravy checked out, making her handle the contaminated merchandise; thus, like a metaphorical, phobic cowboy, she always had two bottles of aloe-kissed Purell in each pocket, compulsively cleansing after all the toxic gravy that came in contact with her Levite-lathered hands, and she was't even Jewish, but was well aware that a sneeze can travel thirty feet.  
   She pondered dating, but kissing a guy after a romantic dinner always meant tasting the remnants of his shrimp linguine.  Yeah, Lucy Frost figured life was hopeless, and she was so old school that she carried a pocket watch and never used the Internet, entertaining herself with 1970's Marvel Comics and the occasional jog through her urban geography--her Sheltie dubbed Cleveland loyally at her heels.  He was her best pal.  

Don't You (Forget About Me) - Simple Minds (Lyrics/Español)

Grizzly Hybrid (9)

   
   "Grizzly Hynrid (9)"
  
Johnny Starvation
Put away his crossbow without Elvis' thrusting, hip-like gyration,
Like a Pomsky named Quicksand, so soft and sweet;
Next, he inhaled the breath of God, giving the Pomsky a non-GMO treat;
Moreover, listened to Trixie, exiting his house,
Where the Grizzly Hybrid stood monstrously with a mystical ferocity--so unlike a meek mouse--
It growled, stomped, and showed sheer power,
Yet Johnny Starvation knew the Bible; hence, sought and stood like a high-tower,
Making eye contact and a pineal friend,
Though keeping his distance, as the disturbance of entropy has the 2nd Law, which is end;
Specifically, no change;
Thus, the two neighbors would honor but not penetrate that of each others' range--
As it will be in the Omega,
When Thermodynamics cages contagion and lets the light amaze ya.   

Civil War: A Modern Myth

   
   "Civil War:  A Modern Myth"
   
   The only myth about the word myth--is that it is called myth.  Look at the BIBLE, EPIC OF GILGAMESH, the NORDIC SAGAS--where we would be without them concerning Ancient Astronaut Theory and all?  Just me blabbering.
   Anyway, during the American Civil War, there were approximately 620,000 casualties, and we're erasing these men's souls, whether good or bad.  I'm from the North, and we don't talk about it much up yonder, until we get anchored deep down in the hot passion of the blistering South, where it is like a Roman religion.  And though I'm a General Grant fan; plus, like Colonel Tecumseh Sherman's holy fire approach in war, in the sense that he was baptized by a Dominican Priest, the word Dominican meaning:  Domini Canes in Latin, which translates to Hound of the Lord, and much metaphysical talk has been brought up in pulp fiction that he was a werewolf of sorts, his nickname being Cump.
   Nevertheless, Lincoln pardoned General Lee, the Silver Fox, and men like these died in our most horrific and gore-smeared war, when our country was almost torn apart.  Hence, why erase history?
   The Irish fought for themselves.  The Scottish did.  Saint Joan of Arc led France as a mystic adolescent.  The Patriots against King George's madness using thuggish guerrilla warfare, and yet myriads of Yankee men died to free the slaves, and nobody cares, while they didn't even fight for themselves.  
   You turn on television and everybody is African-American or homosexual--it's like:  Kill the straight white man!  Who constructed this country?  And at approximately only 12.9 percent African-American today, it wasn't them, but again--erasing history.
   Hell, I voted for Obama and drank the Kool-Aid, thinking all the impoverished would get health care, instead America was transformed into a Hollywood Party.
   And now there is nothing but division.  Over what?  A white man in office.  So what.  Are we supposed to hate the white man?  I used to like STAR WARS, and still revisit the original trilogy, but soon they'll resurrect Han Solo as a lesbian or something, and make Greedo transgender.  What the hell is going on?  And Lando is my second favorite character--Billy Dee RULES!!!
   We can't forget our history, or we'll be doomed to repeat it.  As Pope Francis recently said of the End Times, kinda/sorta:  "There is no more irony or fiction about it."  

The Rebels Retreat Echo Base [1080p]

The ill and elderly are NOT a burden!

   
   "The ill and elderly are NOT a burden!"
   
   Before my last wife hooked up with a teenage boy and gave me the boot, she said:  "You've just been so sick all the time."  The night my hands turned blue, as if they had neon ink on them, and a half-pint of blood came out of me, she screamed in a panic; next, drug me across the house, and lifted me up into bed.  I was on about 20 pills daily at that point, before the infusion therapy every 8 weeks for years.  
   When they had to give me a blood transfusion, as I had less than half the blood in my body, and Wikipedia says nobody with UC has ever gotten a blood transfusion, the nurses were all laughing at me as I was chronically crapping blood all over the place.  One nurse told me to just give up and die.
   I wonder why it took them over 20 hours to get my Rh negative blood, and why I was given so little?  They wouldn't let me leave until my blood count was normal, but hell, I just walked out at 117 pounds, put my hands on my stomach, and said:  "God, help me."   That was 16 years ago.
   When a veteran loses a limb, some family members quit their jobs and become their caretakers, their cooks, their physical therapists, their preachers, their solace and peace.  But most people throw the sick and elderly away.  I've been in nursing homes, seen thuggish caretakers, and listened as a nurse called a guy's hairy rectum the Holy Grail, and all the other nurses and physicians cackled at this poor man going into surgery.  That's why I always like to continually remind these spoon fed, quasi-scientists:  "Physician and nurse error is a leading cause of death in America, killing more people than gun violence, crack-cocaine, and chain-smoking combined each year."  But with Bush League schools on every corner, what can we expect?
   My point:  Don't listen to your ego and have WANT of the golden calf.  Sure, protect yourself economically, but listen to the beat of a Mother's Sacred Heart, and do as Her Son commands.  Take care of the poor, sick, ugly, detested, maligned, and don't just run from battle and have pride in yourself, for you are nothing without God having forged you into existence.  Unless your father is the devil--the father of lies and murder, as Christ told many a Rabbi.  
   And the rich man arrogantly comes to Christ--Christ always drawing on the Earth with his finger like an old-fashioned Quarterback, and the rich man says:  "I have totally followed all the commandments baby--what else do I do to inherit Heaven?"
   Jesus said:  "Give to the poor, and come follow Me."  The rich man went away, stupefied, and Jesus didn't go after him.  Curious.  

Grocery Store; plus, Sorrowful Mysteries

   
   "Grocery Store; plus, Sorrowful Mysteries"
   
   In a world, and as Jesus said:  "The devil is the prince of this world."  Well, in this world, the government offers many folks insidious population control, mind control, hidden secrets, and other forms of bologna, like covering up satellite images proving the most impossible story:  "Noah's Ark."
   Anyway, as I go to the grocery store, shaking with phobias; however, acting like Clint Eastwood, before I run out and sanitize myself and wash all the canned goods, I see this man sometimes, a little man, approximately only five foot even, and he walks with a limp, but has a dandy mustache and nice wire-rimmed glasses that aren't in style for those worshiping the golden calf.  I dream of him being bullied, made fun of, yet getting up every morning, being brave, and doing his shopping, loving God, and probably loving his mother's adoring heart, her, most-likely, having mercy and prayers for her deformed son.  I love that man.
   Having meditated upon the Sorrowful Mysteries today through the Rosary, I feel guilty during the suffering in the garden, the scourging at the pillar, the crowning with thorns; next, I help Christ carry the Cross instead of Simon, knowing it is my duty to give Him praise and thanks for His sacrifice; moreover, during the Crucifixion mystery, I know many think God has forsaken Him, as He might have mentioned, but as the Author of Life writes the story of us all, there have to be good guys and bad guys.  We must forgive them; we must forgive ourselves.  We are all vehicles sculpted by passengers who wish to manipulate us--it seems, sometimes,  But the Author of Life is the Editor, and has the final word.  All we can do is praise Him, and suffer next to Christ.  For the rejected stone becomes the cornerstone.