My last wife: the Burning Bush

   
   "My last wife:  the Burning Bush"
  
   A great and passionate woman, descended from Italian and Scottish stock; still, she'll kill ya, allegorically.  She's metaphorically removed the testes of many men, sowing into them the timidity of trepidation.  My step-dad saw me put Kosher sea-salt down my pants the other night; moreover, he vociferously shot off:  "Boy--you salting your pecker like a holy man."  Holy crap, one woman kept me from being a virgin; furthermore, she gave me jungle rot.  I'd have to hose her down before the carnal mount, give a good swabbing off of her corporeal deck, and splice a lime--and I think I know what that means, even though I'm not an American Odysseus with a green parrot that channels the historical communication of others, though not shapes-shifting, like the American coyote; specifically, CANIS LATRANS.
   I love my last wife, like a sister, and an ugly sister at that--she wears no nose ring like an inviolate  virgin in the Old Testament; also, her intrinsic sexuality got me my own private hospital room when I was practically dead, and for the second time; plus, I'm sure the Chief of Staff enjoyed her yanking his, so--good for her.
   My last wife gets things done.  No horseshit.  She's a survivor.  Street smart.  Too, her Uncles love her, yet everyone else in her family bullshits her with tender mercies, and maybe her half-brother craves the creepy.  Shit happens.  Look at your own shit--not mine.  Like what--you never screwed the symbolic pooch?  I'd be rolling around in salt water like a Levite Priest if I did.  I'll weigh my sins against any man or angel.  How many dermal-layered pipes did you, naughty nurses, take into the vaginal cavity?  Yet you shoot off your mouth as if justice and peace have kissed.
   Like I said, forgiveness is great.  I don't hold no grudges.  I just SEE and know:  People are drunks, medically-induced drug addicts, have eating disorders, jerk off to reruns of Game of Bones, forge false testimony, give their children Pez Dispensers loaded with Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors; next, make you spineless with Benzodiazepines, getting the nervous system used to a chronic relax of the Italian noodle; next, you're screwed.
   I'm going to take some American Ginseng and slam a Bud Heavy--good for me.  Who wants to be a Valley of the Dolls Zombie?  We need energy, not sleep.  Bubba--you can sleep when you're dead.  

Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man (4/12) Movie CLIP - Marlboro's Birt...

Adolescent Angst in America

   
   "Adolescent Angst in America"
   
   The mentally ill, huh, press?  Having an eating disorder is more than synonymous with being mentally ill, and practically all Americans do.  If someone is an obese person who makes their own personal gravy due to anything besides a thyroid problem or California case of the carnivorous munchies--they're mentally ill.  Hoarders are mentally ill.  Most people live in filth, clutter, dust bunnies, unless hopping around all cool to induce a mysterious atmosphere, toilet smudge, or saunter about in their own homegrown toe-jam--they're mentally ill.  People who wear sandals, picking up all the spilled and spiked steps of those before them; plus, rat droppings and mice hairs--they're mentally ill--no?  Then, just stupid. 
   We're warned of this or that--smoking, drinking, the Big Mac, yet some of those folks don't do the dirt nap till 120.  And those people are always like:  "3 Dr. Peppers a day--that's what did it."
   You can get the wrong leg amputated by a doctor possessed with the spirit of a cheating wife, her slowly removing his scrotum in metaphorical fashion, this anxiety contained within the theater of his mind.  Maybe we should let androids run the whole show and just be lost numbskulls--people are always going to screw up--shit happens, but don't force it to happen.  Why butt into the lives of busy folks?  Furthermore, just take a look at what the tempted teenagers are into.  They're all medically doped, absorbed with kill games, and yet some determined ones enlist in the Navy, being better built than this old man.  And isn't that what family is for--to be assholes?  Not all of them, or all of the time.  When my Grandma was in her 80's and chain-smoked with us, she drove me so crazy that I hid in my room at times, telling her beforehand that I was going to the track and bet on the ponies.  Thus, who needs more interruptions while staying alive?  Go watch the last Rambo movie and see how it works out for you.  

Physicians & Attorneys bombed on psychotropic medication

   
   "Physicians & Attorneys bombed on psychotropic medication"
   
   Should you be allowed to practice law or medicine if you're imbibing psychotropic medication?  I know attorneys that drink the shit out of it, feed their fat heads with tons of psychotropic medication; plus, I know medical students that do it as well--WTF?
   How many people in this country take something, especially pharmaceutical pushed garbage?  2/3--at the minimum.  Moreover, they're total drunks, like some Deputy Dawgs I know.  
   Look at Kennedy's medical records?  What did the last President take?  Yet non-FDA inspected substances of potent purity are banned, because fools party, play video games where all they do is murder people, and frequently flog the bishop to the gyrating images of exploited young women and men.  Physicians lock us into a prescription protocol that has no damn right to be dictated by the deep state.  You've seen the drug pushers in the doc's office, carrying suitcases full of contagion--you don't think they get reports back; plus, kickbacks?  
   We got along just fine, and even better at times when America was a Free Country.  Now, it's all about control, the common people getting engulfed in a quicksand mire, losing their status, as our handlers merge and herd us into a global web of corruption.  The Ten Commandments, if followed--allowed a people to retain their geography, from everlasting to everlasting--that was the deal.  If America continues to break the True Law; next, we will be sucked and stuck into a binding glue.  Oh screw it--just go ahead and burn the Bill of Rights, for Congress thinks we're all nothing, when they cheat on their wives, spit on the Flag, and massively import people, not out of love, but for political purpose.

Leia Rescues Luke [1080p]

Monotheism versus Polytheism--Arkansas, boy!

   
   "Monotheism versus Polytheism--Arkansas, boy!"
  
   All of the gods exist--the determined documenting of the Talmud and Bible Itself is poetic and Hebrew-witnessed proof of that, axiomatic; moreover, King David and his wise son imported herb, spice, clean water, wine, beer, defense, chances, pure and simple health care; specifically, Nancy Reagan says:  "Just say no."  I will--to crack.  But a beer and the garden do not determine character, or if; next, poetic and attempting in the suave of survival--at the least.  
   Pictures of Freya, Nordic fixation, concerning the hue-infused vibrance of tasting colors hang in my atmosphere, like when you were a kid and craved Frankenberry cereal, got your scrotum snatched by a white-coated doc every 12 months, and had dentists drill your teeth, when they never needed to.
   Maybe love, or reverence for the American Indian, knowing at 18 years of adolescence how it feels to be in Arizona, at the witching hour, having anchored a Mustang 8-Cylinder on a dry heat surface; plus, knowing the seriously strong stare of approximately 20 Apaches, and yeah--I didn't feel like a cowboy, but a little awkward, like the intruder, and I knew I should never forget the ways of them home-grown upon this terrain, as if maybe many mixed, yet the living history of a hat's tip.
   Yet Jesus Christ hangs above the rest.  A Crucifix is wise, above all objects, in your room, having nothing greater or before Him.  Grandma always exclaimed:  "Just live your life by the Ten Commandment and forget the rest."  I guess it's that simple.
   Maybe a friend here and there.  Labor-living.  Men, whatever color--cool guys, and elegant chicks. Everybody gets shit yet has the counterpoise of a personal power source.  This country just can't simply absorb everything.  We are great--NOW.  Have mercy Uncle Sam.  The Bill of Rights does totally hang in my heart; furthermore, the Declaration of Independence hangs in my room, and a Southern battle flag with thirteen stars, but Old Glory hangs higher.  Hey, Arkansas made me the soul I am.  Nobody has more turf-forged quartz than those guys--in a way.  A place yet to be discovered by the future--in my opinion.  So yeah--God is Boss; however, an infinite number of sometimes pestering possibilities.  Jesus just seems, well--kinda extraordinary, forged in Holy Script and Spiritual Sublimity.  

Voltaic Junkyard--cuisine of casual

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--cuisine of casual"
   
   And constant consumption of Gatorade, as if surfing on the sonic signals of thunder, or stampeding on that Brave-Heart tundra during Special Teams play @ full speed, the shakes are infused, not just mere milk, and even if--yup:  Nestle Quick, but everyday?  What else.  Sheila was fed up with cage free eggs.  She went to the grocery market like everybody else, used the sanitizing wipes upon entrance; next, pushed a buggy and made not government decisions on diet, yet her own, whether buying sugar cookies, pickles, or blocks of hearty SWISS--she simply figured it out on instinct, not minding a Vitamin C here and there, better absorbing the iron, when eating upon the chewy munch of organ meat, and it's not a crime, though was to Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli.
   Sheila always got the sparkling water gelled with a B-Complex source, and found almonds beneficial to stool evacuation; moreover, a hyssop drop during the dreary days wasn't bad, yet always a Cherry Coke, and then some, on the weekends, for every girl, even a She-Hulk minus the girth deserves random sugar, or so it would be so nice.  These are the products they're offering us.  
   She had piloted the Boss 302 to the store.  She left in a casual prance of white-letters rotating and dual-exhaust growling like defensive German Shepherds, with that wolf's recent snout and uncanny smell of milkweeds and all the rest.  But rock and roll never died, for history will always exist, knowing nasty was never fond of an early bird dinner, where silver hair comes alive.