King David--get me . . .

  
   "King David--get me . . ."
  
   Not a cold heart.  Not Mr. Freeze, or whatever the hell ever.  Just WON'T let people take what is not theirs.  First.  Base.  Maybe.  Still:  To pleasantly push in God's Face.  To shine His Lord's Light.  Never himself, in all his fighter/bard strengths.  A gray-haired nimbus, before a proper invention of the nimbus.  Moses is smoking awesome.  King David has the Heart of Gold, and Neil Young can't find it in Alabama.  It's kinda/sorta true.
   But really--King David needs not my or nobody's defense; he made it!  

Go to: Bar or Church?

   
   
   "Go to:  Bar or Church?"
   
   Don't be such a sanctimonious squat, or you will be selling the world Earth's fever, like Al Gore; moreover, don't be Mister Smarty Pants and think your shit doesn't smell, unless it doesn't.
   You have the Divine Spark, the Heart, the Spirit, what more but a remembrance of Cinderella do you need?  She is gorgeous.  Yet, like the phony Aaronite's may falsely think, you lust.  But you do; specifically, after the Sacred Heart, first owned by King David--in my opinion.  He was brutal.  Cold.  Froze people out.  Ordered deaths on his death bed, of ice.  His Son, Solomon--was all mind.  Life is a battle of the mind, unless polluted by a weakened sub-conscious full of phony bologna.  Go fry yourself a sandwich, you Bush League mystic.  Even me, at times, when I'm only talking to Brownies--they like too much beer.
   Just know:  Always judge yourself, for everybody else does, even if they don't give a rat's ass about you, they want to affect you; hence, affect yourself.  God is Good--nothing else; therefore, align yourself with God.  Always ask for more challenges, and you can do battle with giants.  Hell, you may be one yourself.  

Steve Earle - Copperhead Road (Lyrics.)

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (7)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (7)"
   
   Maybe to wrap things up--never neat and tidy, yet what you might call:  sloppy magic.  What a name for a band.  Sloppy Magic.
   Freddy Hart didn't hate her stalker Sister, Lady Shaqdiesel; moreover, was not upset at Hulking out of her clothes, or hilariously so as she morphed Were-Wheatenways.  Comedy, yup.  Tragedy, sometimes; however, ALWAYS comedy.  Life is a SEINFELD episode, it got Aceline through the cuckoo's nest, though Chief wasn't there and fleeing to Canada--they have nuclear power plants up there.  Canada is especially "Cowboy Way" in the West, yet not the far West.  I like to spell WEST.
   GMAN was way more downtown cool than the ravenous Red Tornado, thirsty for programmed justice, and your conscious phone is smarter than you, unless you carry a piece of copper in your pocket to calmly conduct the orchestra of going to a grocery market and spying the sway and strut of so many making you noxiously nervous, so much monstrously so that golden, cream-filled Twinkies magically appear from your pretentious pouch, like busy bunnies hopping, and the savvy Peter Cottontail gets liquid-papered by freaking Father Christmas, until he lives to lay eclectic eggs again.
   It all worked out, as this is not working for mundane me.  Gonna study Euclidean Geometry and see if that makes a damn difference--let the water flow, you damn beavers . . .  
   Freddy Hart got:  CASUAL.  Wore the Reebok brand, for an instant.  

Ninja 250 vs Car.

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (6)

   
   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (6)"
   
   Aceline, penning her diary:
  
   Christmas near, getting so.  Practicing better British, urh, English.  Peace to all people!  If we only followed true law, got occupied by gaming, ya know.  Bless the raccoons too, those bandits of suburbia, living in attics.  
   The waxing Moon and Venus line up tonight--November 30th - December 1st.  Will Jupiter be in a viewing angle?--some say.
   Worried about Freddy.  She needs to be prayed a bone.  Dogs are people too--if they're people.  And, they are--in my world.
   I'm praying for the pooch to purchase a purse.  - revoir -   

A Were-Wheaten Christmas (5)

   "A Were-Wheaten Christmas (5)"
   
   A lonely arch-angel dubbed Bill was kinda/sorta lonely of late.  He was all out of Maxwell House, and Christmas was approaching.  Most of his regal relatives were in the celestial cosmos, beyond the Sublime Perimeter.
   But Bill was a pretty good remote viewer.  Pretty good.  He had heard of Miss Freddy Hart; specifically, that she was a Were-Wheaten.  A curious breed indeed.  Kinda Irish.  And while the Irish are stubborn, they're not exactly stupid, they just like to get hit in the face every now and then, to recharge their Shamrock batteries; next, bite a guy's ear off in a bar brawl.  
   So, Bill constructed an android in his North Dakota household; moreover, it was an exact duplicate of G. Gordon Liddy.  Bill named the android, simply:  GMAN.
   Bill would send the android to assist Miss Freddy Hart in her uncanny pursuits of persuading this pernicious world that freaks are people too, in a weird way.
   Bill probed his creation:  "Are you ready GMAN?"
   GMAN robotically responded:  "I was born ready; plus, vigorous, virile, and potent--I am!"