Big Trouble in Little China Pork chop express

Fruitcakes and Wheaten Terriers

 
   "Fruitcakes and Wheaten Terriers"
   
   Holy Fire!  I'm invoking Tone Loc.  He was in a Western.  Played a cowboy.  That's pretty cool.
   When God was passing out brains, Johnny Carson got a nice one, and I got a fruitcake.  Johnny Carson never liked fruitcakes.  The cake, I mean.  
   Again, the Northern Europeans and the trickster god, the supreme ruler of the gods, not the other one.  The old man on the battlefield.  I guess, kinda, if the One, True God didn't like me, he wouldn't play pranks on me all the time.  It's only to chisel me further, I surmise.
   And my Wheaten shifts, anchors herself on the Earth; next, takes a big, raunchy poop when I see a pretty girl at the park--all the damn time.  She loves to humiliate me.  Good for her.  

Miami Vice Theme HD

Funky Cold Medina - Tone-Loc (w/ Lyrics)

Honey Badger Liveth

 
   "Honey Badger Liveth"
   
   Don't know the details.  Don't need to.  Bullshit resides there.
   Anyway, the mother of a honey badger shoves the baby in front of a scorpion and allows her child a few stings.  Introduces him to more venomous creatures along the way; next, he's an adult, can fight a cobra, get bit, die, two hours later--he's freaking resurrected.  No horseshit Wang.  No horseshit Jack.
   Is now the time to again mention that I love the American truck driver?  Guess not.  Yup, and the American badger and coyote hunt together.  A predator''s synergy.  How weird is that?  Or is it?  Come on, now.  Second unto the Great Spirit, like an old man trickster, alongside a ferocious fighter, like unto the mighty wolverine.
   Nature is talking.  Listen.  
   But what do I know?  I still remember the 1970's and a peanut farmer's dream.  But old Jimmy is still kicking it.  Good for him.  

Doctors--drug-dealing scum?

 
   "Doctors--drug-dealing scum?"
   
   If a certain herb was legal; next, the pharmacies would go out of business.  King David:  "Wine to make man's heart happy, and herb for the service of man."
   Plenty of people use herb-derived medicine; moreover, never get addicted.  Some herbs can't kill; however, the shit modern physicians push can kill--it's wicked.  How do they know my serotonin needs fluxing?  Where's the evidence?  How do they know it is truly psychosis?  They don't!!!
   They are in their world; thus, be in yours.  You alone own your own temple--not them.  If you need it; next, take it; otherwise, don't let your doctor play drug dealer to you.  Know all about your medicines.  In one day, an American physician can prescribe more poison than a kid on the street does in a year.  But he's a doctor--he's educated, and a noble man.  Is he?  Nope.  Some might be; however, most are not.  Got that piece of paper that says they're smart; then, they start ripping the souls out of good people.  It's a sinister system.
   What's a marijuana cigarette gonna hurt you, if you don't act a fool and watch porn or waste the gift on playing video games and being a nobody?  What's a beer gonna kill you?  But their prescriptions will--yes, they will, and they do, every damn day.
   Some are sublime.  Some actually heal.  Others keep you hooked, or the doctors and their continual chant keeps you hooked.  The naughty nurses questioning you, putting doubt into your sub-conscious, over and over again, until you are a slave to them.
   Fight.  Spit your tobacco on the ground, and fight.  We all got it coming, don't let the bullshitters take you out.  

Laser-Like, Old Glory

 
   "Laser-Like, Old Glory"
   
   No studying to figure this out.  No practice; however, perfect practice makes perfect, not just practice; regardless, wanted to get an old Dodge; next, paint her electric blue, with Old Glory on the top; then, write GENERAL GRANT up there, and give it a proper number, though only some of us are limited by numbers.
   My step-dad told me:  "Boy, where every flag is, there's an angel underneath."  And every flag mind you, not just ours.  No flag should be burned, for men died under that flag, even if they were of the yutz family. 
   I'm too afraid to tell my shrink or priest my real problem.  I won't totally and sincerely own my German heritage.  Always felt guilty about it.  My Grandma Bertha was from the stock of German immigrants during the Second World War, and my step-dad always called her an SS Stormtrooper--it scared the hell out of me.
   Bertha was mean, tough, green fire in her eyes, and loved pastry.  One night she smoked two packs of cigarettes, ate a whole box of chocolate covered cherries, and drank near a damn gallon of Maxwell House--that's living.  And she did.  Never was sick during her modern existence.  
   Big Bert.  Tough as a fireproof memory.  So alive.