Bursting with love poop

This is what I tell my dog when I talk to her, asking her if she is bursting with love poop except in a voice that would land me the role of a lifetime as a leader of a castrata army that sings and dances their way to victory of 6,000 computer generated Norse gods.  I have a belief that come December 21, 2012 when Quetzecoatal returns with Jesus in sort of a Supertour sponsored by State Farm Insurance both of them will appear on national TV, maybe co-host SNL and during their opening monologue where Alec Baldwin drops by for a cameo both of them will unzip their bodies and a bunch of wiener dog puppies will  spill out and run around and for twenty four hours control all of our minds and the whole planet will strip naked, eat whatever they can find and sniff and hump and be adorable.  The Mayans knew it; just because they cast shit in stone doesn’t mean it’s true; nothing’s written in stone, especially if it’s written in stone.  This is my vision, as fed to me by Cairn Terrier. The truth is I want to be in a room full of wiener dog puppies. I think it would be very healing.

I am also going to start keeping track of commercials that use couples who take subtle digs at each other to keep divorce lawyer business and handgun sales robust. I was watching another ad for a cell phone and the girlfriend said something to the effect of ‘my hubby/boyfriend/secret enemy never does this right…’ or something horrible. I’m getting a notebook right now and putting it by the TV….ok that’s done.

On another foreign note drifting by the tune, I wish my birthmother a happy holiday.  I wish my birth father a happy holiday. I sent out a personal energetic transdimensional greeting card and hope one day there’s a little crack in the windowless shack and one reaches out. I also wish my birthfather’s wife a big sweeping breath of mental clarity.

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