lebronomicon edunaedensis.

The discourses revealed unto sensitive ears, things that were like "hard sayings", words a regular person wouldn't dare put in their mouth.

But there, but for the grace of God.

This uh, toxic work environment, mopes and such, tomfoolery and prevalent opioid cocktails.  Better living through pharmacology.  Me dragging a body out behind the house, meanwhile one of her slippers is left behind like an orphan, sitting upturned on the kitchen linoleum.  She kind of flits about, and I'm trying to brain her with a landscaping stone, her squirming and all that.

Slippery like a fish.  Get the jumper cables on her, if for nothing else, hurt her some, but also to hold her down, and leap like MacGuyver for my 6v deep cycle button.  Between huge gulps of air, I'm trying to get out "ride the lightning" like its a catch-phrase(usually my mic skills are at least passable), but the aerobic crap, like training TEN THOUSAND minutes for a ten minute contest.

Flummoxed.  Shagged and fagged, and rolled over into the scrub growth.  Laying there, fly undone, but pecker not hanging out, like "on guard" with the undies in place, but the button open.

Doug still out there?  Well, say your prayers.  Check under the bed before shut-eye and all that.  Don't leave an uncovered foot near the edge of the mattress.

All I hear anyway is a bunch of disgruntled "Nakers", and let's face it, that crap don't even budge the needle in Trump's America.  Cue Chris with his revisionist history.  But anyway, I can't say I've ever been friends with a Naker, but maybe with some that like Nakers.  I mean there are Nakers around.

Now you're gonna tell me that all Nakers play basketball, right?  Is that the depraved stereotypes that we're peddling now?

Some of them are even black, too.

Let the sunshine in.

Oh, I say!  Careful, young Cheever, what thou purses thy lips in pursuit thereof, or to wit, you may not want what you get when you finally get it.  The pursuit, some find often times is more titillating than the actual enjoyment of the having of a thing.

I will thus commit to a new arc in frustration of the Hairspray revival of some other groups, which I come across with innocent eyes, but become more and more suspicious, even to the point of loathing.

The programmed February that I went through, my own words peppering me like bird shot, then dingling on the floor like pennies, I was first to forecast nothing happening, but oh how much machinery was in the works, the this and that.  Somewhere in there senior dance news was hitting the scene, and that was another empty socket, a memory I could not recall because I didn't participate in my own back in the day.

Indeed I was kind of pushed away by my own echoes, and that's where I get online today, ranting about defying sin-consciousness.  But anyway, then I said I would have an 18 pack, get buzzed and go to sleep.  On the actual lover's day, I had a blood glucose problem, needed a sugar hit, got that, then, depleted, I went home(without the beer) and slept for 17 hours.

There were two peaks, one obviously being the day of lovers, mentioned above.

There was another peak, though, that was on another sort of calendar, one of those, "the expected fallout" kind of deals, where there is an "equal and opposite reaction".  More perfect strangers laughing in my face, and me, at the time, too embarrassed at the time to be killing mad about it.

Then I swore some stranger made an analogy where I was referred to as a "spare tire".

And what kind of velvet-lined stupid prison is that supposed to be?   And since then, less than that, kept away and misunderstood but yelling when I feel up to it.  "Oh," I'm thinking, "I'm extra".  "How nice".  I'll just sit home and read a book while my biological clock slows down in my ears.

Anyway, there is a movie that explains the relationship as I see it, a trilogy of movies in fact, and in the movie, my persona gets destroyed, the result of which restores normalcy to the world.  

Cue the pretty sunrise.

A bit of a vague point is the origin of the character, and even a true definition of what the character really happens to be.  And I'm thinking, "is that me?"  Consider the following: a vast backtrail of my online history on display in a public place, literally, being used as cues and markers for people that literally seem to laugh in my face.  They say I'm Mexican.  Sometimes(even though I have begun to self-identify as Guatemalan).

Question: if I officially renounce US citizenship, would I have to have special papers to be in country?

But there are analogs and overlap between the principles in the movie.  Anyway, I'm gonna have to watch those three films again to try and get it straight once and for all, as to whether I was the villain or the hero or the love interest or what.  Nevertheless, I saw something of my own struggle(Mein Kampf) in the movies.  And yet, another "entity", and having seen the analog with my own eyes, I think the story is quite told wrong, but enough superficial similarity to call the thing up in mind.

And where am I going with this?

You ever been "in" a movie?

 Imagine me, pushing the "play" button.  The movie begins: "it ends tonight", and a chill goes up my spine because what it would mean to me, even though the whole work is a bunch of hooey.  They call the effect "the suspension of disbelief".  And my character is literally knocked out of existence.  And I'm like, "wait, I thought I was the hero in the first movie, and here I just got kilt, then everybody watches the sunrise with big smiles".

The traveling preacher cribbed a pocket watch from a hapless old man.(a homily)

Trying to preach the message....

"But wait" you say, "you preach?"

Me with the sharp tongue and all that.  Because underneath the worldliness is a desire for the best for everyone, none left behind.  I'm abundantly blessed, and I want you to be abundantly blessed, too.

Anyhow.  Where was I?

Preaching the message.  People doing catcalls, heckling, people even throwing things, and even Richard Dawkins himself steps from the assembled onlookers to challenge me to a debate, in the middle of the sermon.

But I was talking about Abraham and Isaac on the mountain.

"Abraham, son" says the angel.  "There's a ram in the bushes."

Abraham, knife raised, is like, "stop distracting me.  This is gonna take longer if you keep interrupting."

"No, no" says the angel again.  "You can sacrifice the ram that's in the bushes over there."

"Now" says Abraham, beginning to become annoyed, "that ain't what Yahweh told me to do."

"Well I'm from Yahweh" says the Angel, himself becoming upset.  "And I said you can sacrifice that Ram."

Now, that's salvation and sacrifice bought with the blood of beasts, like the "scarlet thread" that runs through the Bible, whereas Jesus was the ultimate perfect sacrifice.  Like the Moslems think, if Jesus was so great, why didn't he fight out of it.

We're like, he did it for us, idgits.  That's part of why we can kick the Moslems around the world today as if they were yesterday's garbage.

And no, with his blessing, we are washed in the blood, and in His Holy name, kicking the butts of the Moslems all around the world.  I mean, you can go around with your own sin nature screaming out of your guts, making sure women are covered in blankets(and in the desert weather, to boot), thinking the God of Abraham is blessing you, but you know something?

You put your faith in the world.  And you only reap a little harvest, as a result, because that does not last.  So in the long game, the Christians have not only "ball control" and a hard-nosed defense, despite whatever "home field advantage" the other side has.

And we don't worship our clergy, as much as Catholics and Moslems do.

More importantly, roll over John Calvin, we acknowledge without accepting our own depravity, which provokes us to evidences of our faith, naturally, in our conduct, while the others are called to do a regimen of works.

How could I ever be so vain as to think I deserve any of my blessings?  Its all straight unmerited favor imparted by God, onto me, the imperfect vessel.  Meanwhile, the Moslem, having ignored scripture, in modernity tries to separate the Jew and the Christian from his fellowship, which again, craps on the Moslem's own Holy Quran,  I was amazed to find the Pentateuch commended and validated in the Moslem scriptures, especially with the modern Jew-hating culture, but there it is.  If one wants to be Orthodox, be it Moslem or Jew or Christian, we acknowledge the Covenant between Yahweh and the Hebrews.

I will be your God.  You will be my people.

To pretend otherwise is a heresy.  Elseways, its a "pillage culture" where no one on the Middle East block is safe, in the final analysis, and every kingdom is subject to invasion.

Stoop 110 in Little Bogota

Gaughan is as temperamental as any, though he seems to have brief periods of lucidity.

The meaning of life?  All boils down to one thing: my index finger.

Ju bassars!  Ru-Ju es sumbeech!

Republic pushed up the Hill, confounding the strong, confounding the proud: a report from Haimish Excelsior.

Sean, trying to dry hump everything around the office, like he's "in season" or something, then Little Rufus shows with rolled-up newspaper and thwacks Sean across the back of the head, in hopes that Sean would come back to his senses.

He was screaming over and over, "media!, media!" and, hearing that, Alexa ordered him some CD-R's.  He got his semi-erect dickle stuck in the hole in the middle of one of the discs, broke the disc in his clumsy caveman hand, which almost sliced his dick clear-off.

Which would have calmed him down more than a little bit, this blogger wots.

And then, they were like "God uses the weak to confound the strong".  And I thought, "Bernie!"  But this is not a joke, as much, but a stern rebuke to the elite.  "Examine yourselves, lest you be found wanting".  Nebuchednezzar saw the hand writing on the wall, and had to ask the interpretation of such.

"God is trying to say that you suck, Sean", said Haimish Excelsior.  And being mock humble, I might say, "I use the week to get my swerve on, then watch teevee all weekend".

"My name is Buford Pusser and I was catfished."

Morris was dying in the spaceship, and Davis was just freaking out.

"Wait til the poor bastard sees those bats" croaked Morris.  And about that time, someone tapped on the porthole door.  Must have been, wait for it,

real Martians.  

Like Marvin.

Like the people that work at Mar-A-Lago.  People call me one of them, but I self-identify sometimes as Guatemalan.  I am a man of many stripes, who, like Marcus in Raiders of the Lost Ark, can blend in all around the world, despite circumstances or diction.  "He'll blend in and disappear."

A horrid analog.

Wallsmark Supercenter #1010, Rockfish, near the city limits.

I intend to ask REAL UNELECTED GOVERNMENT REPRESENTATIVES about my legal case against Bentonville Arkansas, and if asked, I will sit and recite all the strange "coincidences" that occurred there.

 "Oh, ghost of Morris, try the fondant."

"You were right, Morris!" screams Davis, dejectedly, looking into the faces of his alien captors.  "You were right!  People ARE alike all over!"

I told you Old Man, this world is our soup, and we have to make it good.

Some spice here and there.

A bay leaf.

Celery, garlic, and pepper: same stuff we put on chipmunks.

 Anyway, I still think about filing suit against the discount store, though clearly they were not the only offending party in the matter.  I could easily make book against them, though: I remember enough of those coincidences to more than establish a pattern.

"The new normal" as Harris would say.

"New normal?" I asks.  What the ying yang?  You think a broken situation is normative, then you have the wrong job.  I once was against idealists taking journalist work, but nowadays, I think I've seen the Dark Side of the Force at work once too often, and I'm back to think that motivated idealists should, in fact, seek employment in the news media.

life advice from Sniggers advertisements, being cleverly disguised as "much ado about nonsense"

They was all like, "that nigga need hep, yo".

And I was like, "I'll give his ass some help."

Anyway, dude was a wrong guy.  So it wouldn't a matter of "if" he got dealt wit, but "when", and you know, like the Sniggers commercial, "why wait?"  Cause be it now or tomorrow or next year, somebody was gonna have to put a hot pepper up his ass.

He was working the wrong side of the street, like tromping through someone else's otherwise well-kept rose garden.  And you know, nature cleans itself, like them ovens that heat past burning, like hard men was just nature's own toilet paper.

Mike had juice cause he ran cigs in C block.  So e'rybody like owe him something.

But you know, "careful what you wish for", lest that self-cleaning nature of the universe wash you right away, too, along with the stuff you think caused the trouble in the first place.  Like, your wish, master, has a world of unintended consequences attached.

In the popular idiom, that ho was "stuck up", but notice how it doesn't work in the natural way, because he's literally pushing her up the wall.  Therefor the common idiom is rather torn away for something new.  Notice also, its not a gut shot, but the diaphragm, just under the boobs, which frustrates the idiom again, and just for the purpose of getting the bare breasts more screen time.

That way, if responsible adults were to cut the film, so much could be offed in one sliver.

Bamatron Chromasory or The lingering weekend

I'll haff my swerve hangin' out the window.  

Meanwhile, dat woman, like she da dang Ayatollah of Cooter-Hola, and all the other, the fast turnover and now all but four hours television news cycle.  "while the print stuff is making", as they say, feet on this desk, stogie ash on the starched shirt.

 "Uhhhhh.... dey talks about us" says one fictitious personality, in my mind, "and we talk bout dem."

Being, as it were, the most cynical playwright on my rural road, I mean, people think I gave up on humanity, off my countenance, like I just couldn't be moved.  "I shall not be moved" as King David was apt to write.

Chicks like guys that register to vote, like they have a least half a care about what happens around them, not just servicing their balls, stuck in their own swerve, where my swerve, at this "mid-life juncture" hangs out the window: a caffeinated, iced thing, my genie, like, as if to say, how many times have I got juiced and then logged-in to talk smack to the entire world?

You're just a cynical playwright, Mike.  Even a simply scene of a man sitting at a writing desk is like a "fuck-you" to the world.  Its as if, I got juiced, got my swerve on and sat down to write and was saying, like:

The Ayatollah hisses and spits

but still

has no Oreo cookies in his fists.

Or the Ginsberg way:

I saw Walt Whitman today fingering of

the dew water on the veggies

in the Whole Foods

making sure

the water was at least cool

Or as of the Bin Origen household:

so much depends

on a 16-piece family bucket

and a red True Temper wheelbarrow

with a solid no-flat tire

the reprobate idler entertains the lady with a yarn(for my 2020 Shakepeare challenge cohorts)

"Away with you, Fool" says Olivia.

The Fool says, "I take in the procession for all it's worth and thusly do reply, 'away with you, Fool'".  (pointing at Olivia)

"I would hear more of this, Fool", says Olivia.

"Shall I pluck the lute or lyre as I dazzle you?" says the Fool.

"As you would, what you condone as germane to your menagerie."

"Very well, then something of the constables always puts a good hue on your countenance, m'lady.  Such as the when the 'rook' had come across the money bag, and we know, the constabulary works sort of as a 'lost and found' for the general public, so he held the blessed thing, for the sake of posterity and propriety, if not only because the finely-dyed cotton of the bag complimented the color of his eye."

Olivia briefly interrupts: "I like a story of this fashion, Fool."

"May I continue, dearest?" asks the Fool.  "Or shall we sit through a Natalie Portman as Eros advertisement?"

"You give me a dilemma, thou sharp-tongued Fool", says Olivia.  "On one hand, me thinks the Johnny Depp spot reminds of Snoopy's cousin from the desert: the one with the mustache and the hat.  But then I enjoy a good story.  It soothes so better than the voices in my own head."

"Here it comes then, some more of the story, right down Broadway, my dear.  And where was I?  Oh.  The flag of the 'colognies', then." says the Fool.  "It was Cinco de Mayo, and the constable was going to serve a warrant on a person of, shall we say, a questionable status of citizenship.  They say its the New Red Scare among so many, to report on one's own neighbor.  An observance: paranoia, as the Existentialist Jean-Bn Sauter said, creates such beautiful chaos.  Well, our hero met with harsh resistance, something of a ratchet higher than Tina Fey's Allstate commercial, and our hero was already counting the minutes remaining of his life."

"It was the money bag, anyway, the one the constable held for safe-keeping.  The interlopers found the money bag, which belonged to a relative of the chief interloper.  So they were grateful for the constable's integrity, and decided not to take his life.  The young constable tore-up the warrant, with his own gratitude.  All turned to smiles, they gave him a cold Sprite to drink, patted him on his bum, and let him go about his other doings for the local establishment."

"Such a story, Fool" says Olivia.  "One would be hard-pressed to imagine such a thing happening in real life.  I suppose one must be a reprobate idler in order to come up with such fantasies."

"It's part of an old epic that won an Academy Award, actually", says the Fool.

"Oh dear!" says Olivia.

The End of the Beginning, with a decade gone: "I'm not the man they think I am at home".

Dustin.  Not Cowboy Dustin or Movie Star Goldie, but post-modern Dustin, the guy who came through it all and has ALL his personality mojo on his side, at his command.  Anyway.  I saw Dustin, punch Sammy in the ass twice last night.  Now, I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but I think, beyond it being a punch, a show of aggression, that there was like a secret message in that.

Something like, "Hey Sammy, you're a bitch."  One of my own personalities, Dolemike, would say to a bitch, "BEEEEYITCH, BOW DOWNNNNNN!"  Just the other day I popped-off with my Theologian personality and was talking about the prophet's words of the "child playing at the hole of the asp", which caused a nice silence from my familiars.  But that's neither here nor there.  I was watching and saw him punch Sammy in the ass the first time, and I thought it was funny, but then when he did it again a few minutes later, I thought "that's no accident".  Obviously intentional.



Update: I forgive the "sharp-laughing lady" from WBTV.  Staying mad with her, is like getting mad at a puppy.

Because

A)she was just doing her job

B)she's quite cute(Yes, I tend to "put women in my pocket" as if I were collecting them.)

(a personality flaw)

My buddy Taylor, who I should probably refer to actually, not as just Taylor, but Buddy Taylor, didn't understand the nickname, but it all works out, calculated and counterbalanced, and in the interim, I'm still the same old Sonny.  Sonny and Taylor.  Like a buddy-cop movie.  "You're off the case!  You destroyed half the city!  You're a loose cannon!  Gimme your gun and badge!"

Yet another personality: a cop on the edge.  "You ain't just buckin' for a psycho pension, are you?  You really crazy!"

"Do you really wanna see?!?  Do ya?!?"


Anyhow.  Ten years ago today, I was sitting, last of the Walmart roll still in my pocket(it had been delayed thanks to the fact that I had shot my cell phone dead), and I had just read Under the Dome by Stephen King.  I was musing and downcast about how he used the main villain's name, how it would change from the familiar to the formal in some mentions.  But then he was respected and hated at the same time, so it was like there was a different reference for each lens.  It reminded me, that duplicity, of how people would talk about the F1 legend Michael Shumacher, how sometimes he was just "Michael" and sometimes "Shumie" or "Shoe", depending on whether the reference was positive or not.  It seemed to me then, that people online didn't like "Michael", and that was all a factor, that thought, in the "manic episodes" I was having at the time.

Anyway.  Old King really strives to entertain people, but between all this we do get glimpses that the man really is a talented writer.  He made his bones, back in the day, behind his technical merit as an author, with a few nicely done scenes in the novel Carrie, before he got pigeon-holed as a Popular Author.

Reset the Doomsday Clock. Update: Three dollars from Midnight.

I wot the agent of the pilfer was of Macbeth's own selection, but nevertheless, such unbridled f*ckery brooks uneven and insolvent among the more calcified jewels of paradigms and parallelograms and trick billiard shots.

Applied with the proper English, the dervish 9-ball can cut a wicked arc then crawl over the rail towards the floor.

Such things have I seen, and when I am gone, the experience is whispered in the shuffle of the dust.  Crossing across the upper atmosphere, the rare air, lungs kicking at the pricks, racing against the terminator, seeing a glow of those first rays beginning to gray the blackness of the void.

It smells like somebody vomited pizza and Mad Dog in here.

The instrument then of the prescribed up-come-ance, a flip of the glittery fingernails against the cloak's philactery, and the putrid procession coming like a coal train.  What's that you say?  Peyronie's Disease isn't contagious, but I suppose it could be like a lifestyle choice.