About Paul Ryan

Paul Ryan is a man who claims to be a devout Christian, but acts in quite the opposite way. Behind his blue eyes is a void, a dark cold place where no ray of hope or sunlight can penetrate.  He has no moral compass. . .   

 

Is he a stooge for Putin?  Given that Paul Ryan believes in nothing and has no morals, it wouldn't be hard to make the leap that he's also a puppet for the Russians.  Where else does he have to go?  Once his time in office is over, Ryan will be tossed into the dustbin.   He has so given himself over to the world of wrong, that even a million confessions could never wash the poo off his shoes and no amount of water will ever get the taste of shit out of his mouth.  If there is a God, Paul Ryan is in for a rough ride down.

Paul Ryan is a political Ted Bundy. . .  The handsome, smiling man who lends you a helping hand only to use that hand to plunge a knife into your heart.  And who better for this political serial dream killer to follow, but our own Charles Manson of a President who gets his many followers to throw themselves into the fire while they are cheered on by a chorus of Evangelicals and pious politicians who traded in their vestments for a pitchfork.

The day after

This is the day after the SOTU clown show.  As usual, the bumpkin in chief had nothing to say of substance. . .  Because he's basically an empty sack of skin filled by spiders.  He spent his time parading people around to demonstrate his 3rd grade show and tell skills.  Ugh.  I could only watch his speech in pieces afterwards.  It was hard to watch.  He's an ugly man.  Puffy and fat.  Bloated.

I was impressed that he was able to read.

Trump has risen from the grave.

NO! I WILL NOT WATCH!

I AM NOT WATCHING THE STATE OF THE UNION!

   

Cakewalk

My novel CAKEWALK has been published and can be purchased on Amazon.


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The 7 Lives of Me

This blog will be a weird hybrid of rants, raves and stories.



How many of you have had brushes with death?  No?  In the next few weeks I will detail at least seven times I had a close encounter with the dead kind.   No, I cannot commune with the spirits, but I've been damn lucky or maybe even blessed.  So, lets begin. . .  Where else?  At the beginning.


Neil at four yeas of age.  1955. . .  San Antonio Texas.  The house I was born in on Thorane Ave.  It was one of those brick houses built with money from the GI Bill.  Our backyard was dried up grass.  My mother had no interest in greenery, in fact she had little interest in anything except herself.  But we will get into that later.

My bedroom was at the front of the house.  Wooden shutters over the windows and a single bed.  My little brother was still in his crib.  My mother would place my toys on top of the dresser, so I couldn't reach them.  That was just the beginning of a long torturous relationship.  I had a lamp by the bed and if you spun the shade you'd have the illusion of horses running along the top.  Ah, the magic of childhood.  

Playing in our front yard was strictly forbidden,  because our house was on a busy street, but when did that stop me from doing it.  I walked out the front door and started kicking a little ball around.  I could hear my parents and Uncle laughing in the living room.  I kicked the ball into the street and chased after it.

There was a car.  A horn.  A moment of chrome flash before my Uncle scooped me up and dashed to safety.  My mother stood on the front lawn screaming.  Apparently, if my Uncle had not decided to smoke his cigar outside I'd be dead.  It was close.  Real close.

STRIKE ONE.

Music. . .  Murder. . .  Monsters. . .  Nightmares. . .  Growing up in hell.  These are some of my favorite things.

Allow me to introduce myself.  . .  I'm a writer, a dreamer and a horror seeker.  The primary purpose of this blog will be to recount what happened to me.  This is my canvas.  This is where I'll begin.