400 pound simian & warrior dwarf

   
   "400 pound simian & warrior dwarf"

   Science is a lie, mostly.  It's like the Star Wars cantina out there.  400 pound simian hovers over lady with hallucinations and makes her tear up in tormented terror.  Doctor Death's witches invade suburban habitat, spying for the grim reaper, but their salacious sorcery is woefully weak.  Old man Bill Cosby has put pills in the pudding--old people can be selfish and downright iniquitous.  Warrior dwarf at grocery market punches ectomorph elf in the face.  Hey, I'm being allegorical, or am I?
   Captain Crunch--it's crunch time.  Gets ass kicked in titty bar, while wearing the uniform, not for God and country, but for himself; plus, shoots down own aircraft.  She went to the University of Kentucky Fried Chicken.  I've had debates with a West Point grad; moreover, called him Colonel Sanders.  SOLDIER!!!
   Enlisted men aren't good enough to hold their swords up--you were an enlisted man, you slack-jawed Philistine.
   Esau forms hairy man tribe, swings from the cross, scratches hairy face, and can't contemplate the Trinity--he's not wired for anything but thieving birthrights.  
   I'll release my medical records later in the week.  Show the false testimony.  How they tortured me due to invoking comedy towards the rich man's nucleus--his pocket book.  They lied to police, called in favors, and over a poor man, not knowing that physicians and nurses are one of the leading causes of death in America.  
   It doesn't get any better than kneeling for the flag.  Wipe your ass and spit on your piece of paper that claims your superiority, and your family looks like duck people.  
   Is this ambiguous?  Yup.  I don't even know what the hell I'm writing--or do I?
   Love you Mom.  Sorry they want to lock you up.  Oh well, that's why the Virgin Mary is the Mirror of Justice.  When they look at us--they'll see her crystal cool blue and inviolate white.  It's freaking unearthly, Jerry!  If you can't stand in the Virgin's scalding white presence; next, you can't be with Jesus, for He lives with His Mother.  

Catholic School Reflections

   
   "Catholic School Reflections"
   
   After 3 years of reading the King James for hours everyday at Protestant school, where they kinda/sorta surmised the entire Virgin Mary thing as witchcraft, in a polite way mind you, I learned by way of a an ex-Carmelite Nun @ Our Lady of Holy Souls that we only honor the Mother, not worship.  She is an advocate, the Queen of Heaven, and like on a Chess Board--the Queen is the most powerful, while the King is in sort of a Spinoza-like lack of interest by way of being a cosmic consciousness non-attending, as went the ex-Rabbi's posture on Pantheism, more or less.
   The Monsignor and Priest were afraid of the Nuns, not because they wanted to put our fingers in the Gom Jabbar, teaching us to use the "voice" and all, like a Blue Jay singing a harsh mimic of a larger bird; on the contrary, they were rosy-cheeked and sublime, but rigid and steeled by the discipline of celibacy.
   It was a Gothic atmosphere, statues of Saints, Confessional Booths, Altars, and this would be totally alien to any outsider not in a blood and guts religion.  
   They were the best of my days.  A sprouting adolescent.  Before I grew in school, and they took all the religion away, replacing ritual and ceremony with the mass appeal of being a fine young man ornamented by way of a short haircut, how not to get a girl pregnant, and further fund crappy colleges that aren't worth a damn, them sometimes even pressed into conforming to this world, which isn't that bad, and I've missed out on karaoke night at the Chinese restaurant, but I still see birds in my trees and squirrels in my yard; plus, other mammals that hop and scatter.  It's been pretty cool, having a chance to live, even through the sludge, so I own my delinquency, determined to dare myself for more challenges, as nature dares the wild canines to endure another year without indoor plumbing.  I use a pee jar.  An old European thing.  

Raw Deal (1986), funny moment

Indigo Samson--Mr. Yummypants (28)

   
   "Indigo Samson--Mr. Yummypants (28)"
   
   Samson's father turned crimson, furious with his runaway son--the damn vagabond hood, but who really knows.  "I'm gonna cut that boy's hair when I find him!"  
   Mrs. Landon spoke boldly back to hubby:  "And no razor shall come to his head, as the BOOK of JUDGES instructs.  And if you don't allow him this fairy tale; then, I'll tell the whole world that you have an adult porn handle; indeed, you are known as Mr. Yummypants on the World Wide Web."
   Mr. Landon dropped his head in smeared shame, for Bluebeard's wife had unearthed his secret, and she was too much of a hardcore witch for him to slay her, being all down with the dangers of Advanced D & D.

* * * * * * *

   Bobby Rook had health problems.  His ass had been handed to him from his genesis.  I hated you even in the womb, but that was not the Trinity talking to him, but doubt and fear, and Christ is not the author of confusion.  He stammered in speech nowadays, stuttering as he probed Liberty's cerebral self for answers to Miriam's horn call.  Liberty, a closet nerd, having turned over numerous libraries in Michigan's wolverine state, knew that 46 chromosomes are in every singular cell, usually, split into 23 parts, and that a defect in chromosome 7 leads to stammering, but if metaphorically charged and royally resurrected, we become linguistic lanterns, being beacons of beatific bantering.  Even though she was in the filthy restroom at a gas station in Helena, Montana--she was fully capable of offering Bobby Rook's brain a kiss of Saint Raphael's healing hue, going at about 560 THz, for Liberty was the one who had called the Archangel, sub-consciously; otherwise, the advocate dove had invoked a family member standing before the Throne of Him.   

Indigo Samson (27)

   
   "Indigo Samson (27)"
   
   Miriam was pulling the enduring team together through her use of being gregariously gelled with the atomic consciousness of it all; specifically, some would turn their backs, due to chromosomes, lacking, or extra, being too gifted or ignoring their purpose to reside within parallel realms, yet knowing there is always two, at least--as did Miriam.  
   She pondered The Catcher In The Rye, and how people could not perceive that a hard-drinking youngster armed with tobacco products could want to save children out of a knight's noble purpose, yet chalked it all up to linear thinking, and how that diminishes the facts of EVERYTHING.  Corn on the cob is yummalicious, unless the children aren't baptized once, and for all sins--just once, along with a small exorcism performed by a Catholic or Orthodox Priest.
   The word on the street about Christ was wrong, as Saint Peter pointed out to the Lord and revered Rabbi.  Saint Peter truthfully admitted who Christ was--that He was Christ.  And Jesus basically said:  "There ya go."
   Miriam was introspective about herself and others enough; hence, she enjoyed the azure noon of it all; moreover, battle is from Sun up till Sun down, yet even Christ yelled at Saint Peter for falling asleep during Sister Moon's reflecting dream.   

Tom Petty

treat them like the gentiles

   
   "treat them like the gentiles"
  
   How did the Son of Man treat the Gentiles?  Thanks to a Priest being the branch of Christ's vine--I totally know.  He broke bread with them, and he healed them; moreover, he nourished them with love.  
   Of course He said that salvation is of the Jews.  A mere tradesman.  Is God a trickster?  Coming in the guise of poverty, lack of education, fatherless, yet truly having all of those things, if only within the theater of His immortal soul.  Why form into tribes?  Why segregate yourselves, when America is honorable, and a family?  Protest injustice, yes.  But don't hate Old Glory.  She gives you a holy land and freedom, no matter how unfair--she gives you a chance to pursue liberty, whether a craftsman or an engineer.  Do not complain of your portion, for if you are of Christ; next, you have an advocate, a tough and loving dove, asking God what you are not bold enough to ask.