Nittany Lions

   
   "Nittany Lions"
   
   First of all, may the Holy Standard-Bearer Saint Michael deliver us from the lion's mouth, that we may inherit the Holy Light promised to Abraham and his seed.  
   My mother always wanted to go to Penn State (a real school); however, her father wouldn't allow it, knowing she was a bit boy crazy.  He was a Serb, and his best pal was Italian; thus, knowing--he told her strictly:  "You're not allowed to date Italians or Serbs."  She would say:  "But Daddy--he's so good-looking."  And my Pap would say:  "He looks like a monkey."  And once, threw a kid off the front porch.  Good for him.  That's what fathers do.  
   There have been two men I've known that I never gave any crap.  Pap was one of them, for he could crush me like a beer can.  Dude was solid--still is, I'm sure.  
   So, his daughter had to go on some damn idealistic crusade out to the City of Angels, leaving Pittsburgh behind.  What an adventure.  And a damn football-playing Irishman went with her.  They say he was my father.  One tough son of a bitch.  He was golden--still is.  

War & Amour

   
   "War & Amour"
   
   The pic below--having to do with a sci-fi thang, not southern fried ya'll, knowing that history repeats, and new Saints fashioned in the old will be reborn, as their candle has already been lit--kinda/sorta.  Yet not anchored down by a false grid of negativity (it can't be done) and many other Lilliputian lies, lathered in lascivious lust-ways--no wonder Christ was a bit hostile, for we have forgotten the words of the Psalmist:  "Ye are gods."  Want to play it safe; next, be a rock star.  What, I thought rock and roll was dead, you damn Yankee.  
   Slice their creeping elongation like a scrumptious piece of Brie de Meaux, yummying it up like my ex-mother-in-law, though with her:  le coup de foudre.
   Still, no TACO BELL, and never will run to that border--I hear the water has more crusty contagion in it than ours, while the government guys drink distilled liquids.  Must be nice.  They sit in a bubbling hot tub, a fat cigar in their oral cavity, singing:  "Ho, Ho, Ho--I wonder how all the poor people are doing, hee-hee . . ."  
   And granny gifts them moonshine and red hair skunk to take back to sonny boy--the spoiled fink; however, some say a portion of those poor peasants are part of the 1-4-4.  Never can tell, Wang.  And Wang is a pleasant man.   
  

Kim Carnes - BETTE DAVIS EYE - Les années bonheur - Patrick Sébastien - ...

George Hamilton KFC Extra Crispy Kentucky Fried Chicken TV Commercial 2017

Pious Bastard--it takes 2, not 3

 
   "Pious Bastard--it takes 2, not 3"
   
   So, he gets horny.  Would've been better if he just had one, but what a hunt from envy; regardless, the Book of Tobit explains matrimony--at its best.  How boring.  We find God, we get bored.  Not all of us.  The family can we see too.  The angels, saints, confessors, and all the rest.  We have a family, so we can see a glimpse of God, like unto a hind-quarter.  
   People get bored with duty.  The scrotum nags like a wicked wife.  Oh honey, he cheated on you--nail his ass.  Oh, I love you cool guy, she won't make you feel like I do, spoiling you tomb-ways. 
    From the womb to the tomb--disruption.  Did we not ask for this?  Many.
   Stay out of their singular attachment--themselves.  It takes two for romance, not three.  Holy Fire, if you think you're soooo damn cute; next, relieve yourself with a piece of fruit and thank the farmers in America--don't destroy a family, a true family; however, girlfriends, even the spouse, are at fault as well, bad-mouthing the bed they made, whimpering over a partner not perfect.  Who the hell is perfect save Christ?  He was too damn wise to get involved in carnal cravings.  You think so.  Your world is right, allegorically; at the same time, so ever wrong.  And yes, a virgin can kiss a child on the mouth--only to remind him, so that he never forgets.  Like a classy slap to the skull.  Good for her.  
   

Angel vs. Man: Jango/Obi-Wan

 
   "Angel vs. Man:  Jango/Obi-Wan"
   
   Their first encounter.  Cramped.  Polite.  A Personal Jesus.  A meek Christ.  And the Angel has higher frequency.  Must control himself, or be a rage machine.  Stay off the roids, kids.  Too, the Angel can read the man, if trained.  Realize it's the man's trepidation that makes his ownself taste a portion of phobic fright.  It goes both ways.  But the Man, in close quarters--is a savage.  Could head-butt the Angel by dulling his own lesser sensitivity.  
   It goes on and on and on, yet they had it out.  Equally matched.  Never can tell, says Jack Burton; indeed, the little old lady can slay a werewolf, for she might be carrying a double-pump full of pernicious pellets behind her desk.  We are not equally matched, from the outside nor in; on the contrary, the Man arms himself, wisely, as does the wise Angel.  And both can be living weapons.
   I got all of this from Attack of the Clones?  It was an underappreciated piece of art.  Like Kentucky Fried Chicken commercials.  Extra-crispy chicken.  Need a bucket of the Colonel.  Hell boy, in Little Rock during the late 1980's, we had a local hillbilly dubbed THE GENERAL, and he didn't wear any decorative ribbons or a fancy suit.  Said:  "Screw the Colonel, boy.  Come see the General."  My ex-wife's Mom knew him.  How typical.  Sucks to be me, sometimes.  You too, sometimes.  So, we are men and angels, living together.  

Hope Dad is not watching

 
   "Hope Dad is not watching"
   
   From the genesis, woken up to fabrication, exploitation, manipulation, and the erasing of folks and their internal selves; thus, the Mockingbird cries, yet somehow, remembers.  All that money and control . . .
   Just trucks, flags, breaking bread with the Gentiles, and offering a shock of witness, nothing more than a portion of ourselves, whatever that is, and we kinda know.
   Heavens first; next, here.  All connected, yet their glamour done gone goofball, and in the Heavens, like a football game on Friday--high school, no pressure Chief, and none.  The blonde cheerleader--come on, not you mousy-brown girls, the real blondes, ya know.  But it's all nice, if aligned with the process of a free will free-falling forward.  
   And to think that NASCAR doesn't have more, or any, inside tracks.  What a show.  And the purple pollution of it all.  Buddy Baker?  Was that his name?  And number 43.