Five Haldol A Day, Rand, & Sheriff

    
   "Five Haldol A Day, Rand, & Sheriff"  
   
   Curious.  Boy, give her five Haldol a day.  Doctor Edwards diagnosed her with Alzheimer's Stage Four many years ago, ya--five Haldol a day, to kill dementia patients.  The info age.  Like Blake lived in the Age of Enlightenment; regardless, it was malicious and murder.  Hey Monica, ya fat ass, fat girls stick together, if thugs don't write your plan, you put Mom into a death facility.  And I can't pray for Mom, or speak to her?  Can't bring Priests over and giver her the Eucharist?  Just five Haldol a day, and keep her in the black?  My step-dad saying, "Don't talk to her; you totally can't get through to her demented brain."  He wants to live his life and be free, even though he took an oath--in utter sickness and hopeful health.  My Mom worked for the Rand Corporation, a higher level of FBI investigation and knowledge than any other, and she never broke her oath.
   They torment her with thug-like pseudo-caretakers that don't understand the Queen's English. They don't ask you a question, but they "axe" you a question.  No teeth.  Grills.  Dope use.  And the Sheriff lets them get away with it.
   I never threatened.  I only said I would use my magic.  An allegory.  Like this:  Joan of Arc!  Joan of Arc!  Joan of Arc!  Why can't I chant a Saint's name, but they can lock her in a dark room, and utterly neglect  her--curious?
   Based on an intruders lack of the Queen's English, they can put her in a home.  Why?  She lives for six years, diagnosed, falsely with Alzheimer's Stage Four, and the physicians said:  "The feeding tube is coming."  They've been saying it for four years--where is it?  And they cut off physical therapy two years ago. Why?  Cause they had her dead, yet she still breathes life, and laughs.  
   Phony doctors, and false testimony, because they don't want to deal.  They don't want to wash, brush, bathe, love, pray over, and enjoy a living soul.  Euthanasia is their tactic.  Good for them, Sheriff, ya milkweed.  Why would you not look at my videos, but look at my brothers--the filthy rich man?  Got you in his pocket?  And you kill a woman, allegorically, at least.  Love ya some Jesus, Bubba Cheese.

Pulling Poop: God's Work

   
   "Pulling Poop:  God's Work"
  
   Having lived with Ulcerative Colitis for over twenty years; plus, being told my colon would be out by now, and it isn't, I'm used to scatological scenarios.  And while taking care of the elderly, which is a blessing, I sometimes have to pull their firm, symmetrical Lincoln Logs out.  Has a medical student ever been five inches from the anal cavity in a state of fecal evacuation, watching as Mr. Poop slides out, the anus opening happily to detoxify a determination to live?  Nope.  Most physicians like the prestige and money--not the care; thus, they're dumb shits, not reading their journals, but flogging the bishop after an episode of the insidious Game of Thrones.  I like Sanford & Son; plus, Barney Miller reruns.  Say what you will about the peanut-farming Jimmy Carter, but during his Administration--television had true metaphors, without the rancorous raunchiness of the late Roddy Piper's kilt displaying dancing genitalia.
   So, no problem.  Everyone has got to poop.  And I thank God for assisting, for it's not gross, as gross is a frat boy eating olives out of his pseudo-brothers rectum before a cocktail is mixed; next, the world saved by a progressive education, and we all go trans-human, forsaking the Spirit.  Chief Mojo Rising is not mad, just disappointed.  
   Like Christ would mention that giving water to the poor, sick, and thirsty was actually giving water to Him, for we are all, mostly, the face of God Himself, in the Maker's image, unlike angels, who can be fallible; indeed, a Guardian Angel is so possessive it may instruct you not to run into a burning house and save children, for your face will be burned off.  Sometimes you have to argue with angels and negotiate.  Saint Francis said he always saluted a Priest before an angel, for the Priest performs the ritual of Transubstantiation.  
   Oh well, don't pity the sick--they're tough.  But pity yourself for not assisting them.  
   

Saint Francis & the leper

    
   "Saint Francis & the leper"
   
   Saint Francis was disgusted and ran away at first when God instructed him to kiss the leper.  But he got over it, obeying his Lord.  This from a guy who tamed a wolf; plus, would strip himself naked and jump into the thorn bushes if arousal hit him due to hot chicks walking down the street.  Gotta love it, definitely.  The Patron Saint of Ecology, his seed firmly sown in the fertile Earth.
   My family is disgusted by sickness, taking the approach of Dr. Jack Kevorkian, believing the sickly should be put out of their misery, one way or the other.  And Dr. Death was actually considered for Surgeon General by the Clinton Administration before they chose Joycelyn Edwards, her dumb ass wanting to teach American adolescents the proper techniques of masturbation.  You can't pray in school, but you can flog the bishop and get free condoms.  
   They neglected her for six years.  Wouldn't even let her go to her granddaughter's graduation, ashamed of her sickness.  Saint Francis kissed a leper--get over it.  They told Saint Pope John Paul the Second that if he went outside with his Parkinson's he would embarrass himself.  He told them to get over it, and that his sickness would give others hope.  
   I bled for five years, having sometimes 17 bloody bowel movements a day, my entire large intestine ulcerated and inflamed, and a nurse told me:  "I know when it's my time to go--when I lose control of my bowels."  I took care of a family and ran a household, not shedding a singular tear or questioning God.  Just kept laughing, knowing I would endure.  
   People give up.  Leave soldiers on the field to be eaten by vultures.  Cowards.  No faith in anything save their money that they manipulate the law with.  But they cannot conceal from God, nor manipulate Him.  They will face the Divine Justice System, as Spinoza referred to it.  
   And I will come into the Courts of Christ, praising Him for all of my sufferings and humiliations.  

Angry people (Michael Clayton VS Karen Crowder)

Poltroon Sheriff (1)

   
   "Poltroon Sheriff (1)"
   
   Danny knew the words of King Solomon:  "It is God's glory to conceal things; next, a King's glory to uncover them."  Danny had been stillborn, but cooked to life by incubation; moreover, dropped on his head by a step-brother, autistic, and with toddler eyes watched as that step-brother tortured his mother, causing her to contemplate suicide.  His step-father belting him, saying, "You're totally nobody.  You don't like yourself."  Plus, a headlock or two along the way, continually fed false mantras.
   The rich man doesn't want to be distracted from his riches.  Does not want to work in the fields and harvest good crops.  The sick are a burden.  Danny adored the sick and downtrodden.  Loved the underdog.  But the Sheriff was too phobic of digging deep into the truth.  Would turn a blind eye to torture and neglect.  Would allow Danny to bleed internally, due to all the stress of his youth.  Would fixate on shining his badge, as the Confederate Generals wore feathers in their caps, but wouldn't pay for the enlisted to have shoes, while Sherman and Grant dressed in dull uniforms, nurturing their enlisted men, the cornerstones of war.  
   Danny took nothing for himself, yet watched as the world got fat on the lamb.  They make Christ easy, when it is all blood and guts.  Always loving Him through the sorrow.  Thirsting for righteousness, while their pets are killed, the elderly tormented by thugs with no teeth, and they say they are helping.  The Sheriff believes the false testimony, due to lack of ethics.  Doesn't want to get his hands dirty.  Doesn't want to pick the fruit of love, because he has trepidation concerning a richer man.  Bows to the system.  Worships the false god, known as the dollar.  Let's a patriotic and devout woman be undone, for he trusts in death, not believing in light and life.
   For evil to sprout, all it needs is for a good man to do nothing.  

80's Movies and Cotton

   
   "80's Movies and Cotton"
   
   What I learned from 80's movies:  Fat girls come easy, and piss as much as you can; moreover, always marry a girl that looks like she was kicked in the face by a donkey.  Why?  Because a beautiful girl may leave you and break your heart.  But what if the ugly girl leaves you?  Who gives a damn.
   And pick your own cotton southern man.  Lazy.  Importing people, bringing them over cause you can't even work your own industry.  After Stonewall Jackson died of friendly fire, the Confederacy never won an offensive battle.  They told General Lee:  "Grant will retreat."  Lee's eyes lit up with phobic fear, him whimpering:  "Grant is not a retreating man."  
   They had no industry.  Can't make a country on selling tampons.  
   Sheriff, why would you look at the rich man's phone, but not mine?  Can a rich man not sin?  Not if he has you in his pocket.  You can't handle the truth.  Neglect.  Abuse.  And I love every minute of it.  
   Now, a pic of my Mom:  

Six Man Football

   
   "Six Man Football"
  
   They say it's still big up in Montana; anyway, my family knew this shy child, him not even able to speak until he was at the age of four; moreover, once he learned the gift of language, he didn't use it much.  So, when he put on the pads in the fourth grade, playing on dirt fields in Arkansas, where it was half African-American and half Hillbilly-American, they were astonished at his mercurial speed and skill.
   The kid was All-County Quarterback that year, scrambling continually, and running back the kick-offs--nobody could touch him, mostly.  He once had three touchdowns in a game.  And it was Iron Man football; as a result, he played Safety.  Still remembers the words of his Coach:  "Boys, it's a crispy Autumn night, and I want you to go through the other team like a hot knife through butter."
   When this anti-social punk made it to Junior High, they said he was too short to play QB; hence, the coaches put him on the corner.  All they did in Junior High was run the option.  His Defensive End always stumbled, and his job was to be blocked to the outside and let the Safety do his thing; however, the agile Cornerback didn't listen, dodging until leading with his helmet, and had an interception every game that year; thus, they let him return kicks, mostly due to his swift forty and vertical leaping ability.
   He soon became the Captain of the Defense, called the plays, returned kicks, played QB when they needed to run the option, and knocked himself out twice in one game before the Razorback Great, Kevin Scanlon lifted him up into a state of consciousness.
   Into High School with all the social aspects of the locker room, he wanted no part; still, made Special Teams, and fractured two bones.
   Yet nothing could match his Dad.  Pennsylvania's little tank.  Cigarette burns under hypnosis in the locker room for fuel; next, running it down their throats in College Ball like John Riggins.