Simon and Simon theme - intro - simon kardeşler

Where did the coyote go?

   
   "Where did the coyote go?"
   
   Canis latrans, or sumth'n--nobody exactly knows nowadays.  Every minute in the United States an old school coyote is killed; next, ten take his or her place.  Yet as the ultimate survivor, and friend of the badger, the coyote interbreeds with wolves, dogs, maybe more; thus, is it exactly even a coyote anymore?  Moreover, are wolves, through the genetic manipulation of the coyote, gonna be re-introduced back into the American Southwest?  Never can tell--a truck driver might ponder, who never stays to kiss the virgin ornamented in the Fleur-de-lis, cause it's best to be chaste, unless of course God calls you to the action of high romance--and He can; He can do anything He wants--He's God, dude.  And check out the Red Wolf in Carolina--that's half coyote and half wolf.  
   The Sheriff here gave his weasel-like deputies the authority to shoot coyotes years ago--they were calling them coydogs, which was a big myth in Williamson County during the late 1990's--I was out and about in the area all night, talked to witnesses and spotted only garden-variety coyotes; however, unlike the fox who likes to entertain with hilarious antics, the coyote is more reclusive, not flashing the chicken in his mouth at you, like many a fox has done to me during my nocturnal time in the suburbs and beyond as a newspaper man working circulation.
   Oh well.  Androids, new wolves, coydogs, firetrucks, nanobots, hookers--it's all real, fella.  

Born in the U.S.A. - Bruce Springsteen - [LYRICS] [HQ]

Reminding phony sheriff, or Deputy Dawg

   
   "Reminding phony sheriff, or Deputy Dawg"
  
   Wanted to royally remind of July 4th, 2017--sleazeballs.  When you drug a disabled man out of his house, in front of his traumatized mother, on phony offenses; moreover, even you:  all the insidious architects involved, so as to further neglect and abuse a woman, my mother.  A woman who was hijacked into Notary Fraud by attorneys, and the toxic guilt still stains your sadistic souls--unless you confess, both honestly and humbly; otherwise, you can look over your sinister shoulders for the rest of your impotent  days.
   How many folks can you keep giving false testimony to?  Haven't you covered the bases?  Holy men and physicians.  Family members.  And when I was wrongfully incarcerated with dangerous psychotics, my Rosary Beads ripped from my hands, blood taken against my will, Grandfather's watch broken, my mother was sitting (crooked) at home, and nobody brushed her teeth, bathed her, or gave her a damn vitamin for an entire week, which equals seven days for all of you who attended Bush League Universities.  
   Good for you.  You people are officially odious Satanists, more or less.
   Keep screwing your ugly wives in your dirty money--it won't make her, or you, look any better, on the outside or the inside.
   God Bless America.  Trump.  The Virgin Mary.  And I even dig Elvira and Pee-Wee Herman.  

Arkansas Gyro (Kinda Culmination)

   
   "Arkansas Gyro (Kinda Culmination)"
   
   I think my name is Leaf Flint.  Got lost in the KALEVALA, as a pseudo-cerebral soul may say, if only to astonish, like a Valley Girl that spies a guy; next--he's in trouble.  What, some women don't look at men only in order to exploit them?  Some women are jealous of men.  Some are not.
   Don't trust the girl in the serpentine pantyhose and heels higher than her halo, for she's a man-killer.  Look at Adam and Eve, not going Talmudic and pseudo-scriptural; however, as Christ boldly declared to the father of lies and murder:  "Man lives not on bread alone, but on every word breathed from the mouth of God."
   The basics.  Yet don't limit God.  That's going too far?  We are gods.  I didn't invent the phrase--it's purely Biblical.  What are we to do yet trust in Christ's bodacious benevolence of the supernatural.  
   If you're fairly kind, not out for a buck or the purse of credit; next, the sparkly stag invites you to hide behind his resplendent rack, like with the regal Rudolph.  
   Should've been a truck driver.  It's kinda like being in the Army, but you don't get to beat people up as much--only on holidays.    

Arkansas Gyro

   
   "Arkansas Gyro"
   
   Me, Leaf Flint, and I'm a girl, well, really a lady, lost in my middle-ages, driving a funked-out family wagon; however, hubby put in a small block Ford motor, dual-exhaust, high intake on an old-fashioned carb, and double-pump of sumth'n.  
   Always the Greek Food Festival, with our bunny child Patrick, we called him Pat, like the Rams' QB back before the Italian guy played in the 1980 Super Bowl.
   It was easy to eat there.  For the Yee-Ro.  That's how he pronounced Gyro--"Jie-Ro," I solidly say.  
   Schwarzenegger talks a good talk.  Comprehensible and articulated fella.  Down here, where the Hogs run screaming scarlet, bleeding a bodacious bastard's "poor man" team, yet so magnificently honest in their diligent devotion to the Natural State of thangs.  
   I just wish that I had inherited more expensive time to regally raise our wondrous child, while he (hubby) gathered up an awesome adventure, like a spy novel, in order to complete the magical marriage with live-action challenges involving esoteric espionage or covert ninja stuff.
   A girl can be a lady.  Too, a girl can dream that her husband is James Bond.  A pleasure to serve the British, and what it boldly means to be animated as them.  An elegant history, and futurity.  

McRib is back!!!

   
   "McRib is back!!!"
   
   Glorious Mysteries today.  Go with Pittsburgh gold.  Samson, kinda Nazareth, so much so, untying the bind, like flax fleeing disintegrationways.  Jango Fett's son's gun--an exact duplicate, not altered.  
   And the McRib is back.  What is more American?  Swine.  But a Hog is good for something--like a football team, charging fiercely.  And the potent aroma of BRUT.  So healing, Saint Raphael Green, like emerald armor, and the Irish know about this, as do they beer, poetry, and spirit.
   So, my ex in-laws who sang "LOVE SHACK" and performed 60's dance moves, though they only partied during the 70's--I would tell my ex:  "Get them the hell out of here.  I'll give them beer--now make them go."  Beer for a pleasant exodus, and for my horses.  Fond stirrings of my past; specifically, a gallant and ghostly Mustang housing the 4.2 Liter eight-cylinder.  Nice.  Weird.  Cool.  
   McRib is back.