Voltaic Junkyard--small block

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--small block"
   
   Sheila giggled as she felt the flow of a facing wind get sucked into the ram-air intake of the somewhat, from certain perspectives, small block Ford; indeed, the 1969 Boss 302 was not to be forsaken, especially--out of the hole, like a high-velocity bullet.
   Sheila was also enlightened as to not be all personal sizzle and craze, though loving herself, yet never containing the light completely, allowing it to penetrate others, pink hearts and all that Kerouac jazz scripture--an asymmetrical beat, though forged by the Holy Ghost, haunting in spectacular shimmer, distancing her from the whirlwind, which of course she did not sow, only using her weaponized potential for defense, like with an art of the hand and foot--nothing else.
   Why prove the large breasts like a she-male, when the man prefers cupcake cleavage, not needing loud noise, though sometimes a GOODYEAR BLIMP is needed to spy Staubach and Bradshaw at the Super Bowel, when Rocky Bleier played with as much pain, if not more, than any man--I ask?
   Sheila steered the Boss into the junkyard, a soft growl of gristle grumbling, and the rubber on the heated wheels finding home-base, as if youth-inspired matrimonial innocence, from everlasting to everlasting.  

Prequels--Fleur-De-Lis

   
   "Prequels--Fleur-De-Lis"
   
   It transcends Joseph Campbell, by a zillion.  Nothing new under the Sun.  STAR WARS got sloppy with Lucas' remakes?  Bullshit.  Fleur-de-lis.  Unicorns.  Virgins.  
   Yeah, Anakin should've never hit on Padme, for only a virgin can tempt a unicorn, and the virgin can be persuaded if not wise; thus, test all spirits.  Regardless, without their copulation, there would be no Luke or Leia.  Oh well--the horsepucky (Colonel Potter here) always splatters on the rotating fan, especially when you're not like Jango Fett, cloning a single child, and not getting live-action with sloppy women.  Or just be Han Solo and hang out with a 7 foot tall canine-like creation, and know that true loyalty outshines romantic bliss, for women talk to women--about you dude!  And sometimes, how to allegorically kill you.  The world is full of bad advice.
   Just be a smuggler or gambler, knowing your best friend is yourself, unless you have a friend in Jesus--He never lets you down; specifically, Isaiah Chapter 53 seems to fit a bit; however, Christ had a bit of Samson in Him--both Nazarenes; plus, both of their Mothers were supposedly unable to have children in their condition, curious.  And Mary had to be part Levite--inviolate, pure, and clean, for as Her Litany wends:  "Ark of the Covenant!"  
   And when you open Her up--there is the Living Word, the Law Itself--so some would argue.  Maybe even me.  

Holy Fire--a Samson movie!

   
   "Holy Fire--a Samson movie!"
   
   Was sinking sadly into sorrows; plus, that of my over decade old terrier and her gimp-like strut; next, I just caught a swift glimpse of a SAMSON movie preview--HOLY FIRE, as my pal Jeremy used to say at old First Baptist in Little Rock. 
   Dude was a Judge, and not crooked, never eating tuna salad after a fake trial with the jury-picking attorneys in the business of purchasing phony justice. 
   Anyway, I heard a voice say:  "I hear your power comes from the One, True God."  
   People, even bogus physicians have told me not to read the Old Testament.  Get over it.  God has warriors on His team, not just wimpy buzz-cut monks that don't know karate.
   Why doesn't the Church get some allegorical Jedi Knights?  Let the Priests carry swords as did the First Bishop of Rome, Saint Peter.  Don't need no back-up high school football players that became wimpy deputies guarding the Church.  An old lady could take them out with a cane housing a .22 shell within the tricky chamber.  Never can tell.
  So, good to see SAMSON is coming to theaters, and that some women really will kill you, as it kinda went with him; however, he got the last word--or better yet, his God did.    

We all got it coming

   
   "We all got it coming"
   
   From Clint Eastwood--ya know.  I run a tight ship--nobody else really gives a rat's ass.  Dishes, garbage (always wanted to be a garbage man, for real), people shit, dog shit, cooking, dishes, lifting, lifting, more lifting, even things beyond, worked and slaved to the core with no portion on paper, beaten down, no social joys save the wildlife, and can you blame me?--have you met your best friend that wants to lay your wife?  Shit has always been going down, and affects all people; however, some are chosen to be metaphorically targeted before others.  Look at politics--who'd want to be in that racket?  Let us wend way back, going retro to a Free American West.  No pollution, no heavy Federal Complex, honest law enforcement dictated by true survivalists, Native American lore and the Earth, and being non-locals, we must enter not with papers, yet with determination and steel, though, laughter alongside Trump, and a better appreciation for his Free Speech that mercurially makes for a tickle in the pinkie.
   I expect a surgical environment.  Can you blame me?  I'm taking care of two sick people, my battered self, and a dog with a limp.  If you come to help, in any form; next, help--do not fool around in front of the downtrodden, for even they can get pissed.
   When they diagnose you with disease--that's cool.  Just don't give up.  You'll get yours, but fight for now.  What the hell else can you do?  Life is not meant for the wicked or wimps, and the wicked only bring grief, false testimony, and accusation, without telling the guy at the bar--how it is.
   Have a beer--shit, you're going to die anyway.  A while back, my Mom seeing visions, and she blurts out:  "Not today."  Moreover, 600,000 people fade into nowhere every year.  Maybe they get out, somehow.  But not all to a good place--me thinks.  

[ESB] Meeting Lando (HD)

Voltaic Junkyard--Watching the Oldies

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Watching the Oldies"
   
   Just with the black and white, Carter Era rabbit listeners, and you can still tune into the tube; plus, hook up a VCR and watch Captain Solo blast Greedo before he fired first; next, cowboy saunter out of the Galactic Cantina with a toss of some heavy metal, well--enough to pay off leaving a dead bounty hunter behind.
   Sheila whimpered at the thought of society, enforced without the Western aspects of cowboys, thinking STAR WARS a type of Space Western before the Space Samurai theme set in.  She'd been arrested for tagging a local park ranger after getting tongue-lashed by a lewd enforcement chick with a "I hug trees" badge; still, she didn't have to throw dead dogs into a furnace like they made some do in Arkansas after getting snookered into a state of probation; indeed, a shoot-out for survival in the Outer Rim seems not ridiculous, and that outer-space justice system seemed appropriate when people are pitching tents in America, and the water has morphed toxic in so many places.
   Sheila owned no firearm, going old school with the wandering monk weaponry tucked underneath her feminine frame, as if she was dainty, but Earth's energy, spawned on her own set of ideals, having her character alignment matched with a set of principles for all of her purposes, never magically shape-shifting though, but remaining cloaked in her own wardrobe of wondrous armor.
   She took a random muscle car out and bought some RANCH PRINGLES at a local gas station that had a Pac-Man video game in the corner; plus, a washroom that housed a crusty sofa.  Go figure.  

You know what Ol' Jack Burton always says...