Werefox Vaquero--Parrot Man & Saint Patrick

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Parrot Man & Saint Patrick"
   
   Parrot man, call letters unknown--live Arizona--the Bird, baby!  Always opens with:  "Live Arizona--Parrot Man; moreover, ladies' man!  I'll give you the talk, 'bout what this bird picked up while flying through the skies."
   Today, Parrot Man speaketh:  "Have you people looked up?  Looked down?  Grounded to the fertile Earth; at the same time, blue skies above, and just take a gander, automobiles do drive the blue skies, getting lost in clouds, and the kit fox walks the terrain, and a rainbow connects it all--if you believe in the promise."
   Max and Junkyard were getting a giggle, listening intently, and waiting for Ela to have rounded up the ponies.  She sauntered out of the cattle yard, that chipped tooth grin, shining an eternal ray of fidelity.  Fine features for a young lady.  So some guys think.  
   She smooched Max on the top lip, wrinkled her nose.  He voiced:  "It's Saint Patrick's Day.  Doesn't that say it all?"
   Ela grinned, knowing she had gelled with a pretty decent guy.  Pretty decent indeed.  
      

Turbo Mustang Night Cruise

Werefox Vaquero--sunny side up

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--sunny side up"
   
   Max got some steaming grub in the morning at the local eatery.  Let it cool off, and always made sure to never order scrambled eggs when dining out.  Heck, scrambled eggs can be dropped on the floor, scooped up; next, put back on the plate for toxic consumption.  What, all people are clean and friendly?  If they say that; then, they're full of Bravo Sierra.
   Max put a little spicy mustard on his sunny side up eggs, easily being able to detect if they'd been fooled with.  He observed the golden flow of a yoke, running towards delicious, dipped a piece of crispy toast in the chicken eggs, and it was all THANKS BE TO GOD before the sustenance entered his Temple, but for him--it was a wrangling rodeo.
   Junkyard sitting next to him in the place of business, ownership used to the cool canine now, knowing:  most dogs go to Heaven.  If you aren't fond of magnanimous poodles, altruistic golden retrievers, or even a noble mutt, well--it seemed to Max that the Good Lord may not have a room for you in the Mansion of Almighty God.
   Max flipped Junkyard a piece of toast lathered in the gleaming yoke.  Junkyard gobbled it up--no hesitation; next, licked his chops, smiled, and gave a bodacious burp--so golden.  

Werefox Vaquero--Beetle Bozo

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Beetle Bozo"

   Ela didn't mind Jiminy Cricket and all, a good bounce, yet lacking the pounce--who fears cats now?  And no, she wasn't into pussy; at the same time, didn't condemn an innocent lesbo, for that would not be proper.  Maybe she was having a crummy day because she got her buttocks slapped and gawked at by the strange assortment of so-called ethical men, some of which like to play with little boys--kinda creepy, nah.  Ela stepped on a stick bug, and she felt better about things.
    A medicine man once spoke about porno with her--naughty naughty.  She knew what was on his mind, yup.  Dirty things.  A humpathon--not with her, sicko.  Still, you have the vibrations of a dolphin song; moreover, the cage shaking of Heston's confusion over horseback scenery; plus, the fear induced by stupidity, not owning God or the gods, or any angel or fish person, or lizard man, or truck-driver with a cigar-cranking fixation--they are not to be monitored nastily.  God owns you, Bubba.  Even a holy vine knows and reveres the pure energy which doth maketh it sprout forth--plant kingdom wars.
   Ela whispered sweet things to the church bells, returning a hopeful hearken.  And a father she gave a damn about sparkled, for a mere second, making her smile all day and night, not even sleep, knowing Pa-Pa adored her originality, not to be worn by anyone else--or there inside her frigid Temple, losing their meaningless microbes. 
  She shifted foxways, feigned a limp; next, some little boy threw a half-eaten honey-bun in her direction.  She rather enjoyed it.  Yummy.  

0-100 BUICK LESABRE SUPERCHARGED 0-60

Frequency: Purple Passion--Mexico Petersen

  
   "Frequency:  Purple Passion--Mexico Petersen"
   
   Petersen adored the Purple Passion, spilling it on a sofa in the mid-80's.  My last Blog stunk, metaphorically.  Can't find an adjective thingamajig for ARITHMETIC--still, nope.
   If only a Boss 302, any year--were to materialize.  Holy Heaven, wouldn't even need anything but an automatic.  Rednecks used to tell me, in the day:  "Shit, that's an automatic--ain't shit."
   But grabbing a second in an auto-powered 8-cylinder is sophisticated redneck.  Monza--4-cylinder; however, armed with Holland's V-8 transmission--no shit, could scratch a third.
   STOP sign.  STOP, an acronym for:  Scratch Tires On Pavement.
   Boy--it was Arkansas.  What the hell else does an adolescent have?  And I say:  "Jesus drives a muscle car."  You know what I mean . . .

Werefox Vaquero--Fossil Fuel

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Fossil Fuel"
   
   Max and Junkyard were @ the local tavern, waiting for a brew princess to flare up some inflammation with the wicked wheat, which crafted further Swamp Thing paranoia--in a manner of speaking.  But them glades supported some high adventure--and what is man if not up for the sport of his terrain, however it be?
   Max inhaled the tavern's atmosphere, swiftly forgetting the dry crisp of an Arizona Spring.  He made sure to sit @ the back of the bar, eyes alive to the possibility of oncoming traffic aimed in his direction by curious hoodlums.  The tavern was so crusty, minus the barnacles, that the management didn't mind a canine inside.  
  As Max watched the local sports on the tube, he reflected upon STAR WARS, just to entertain his mind, though Batman did arithmetic-like exercises upon his mental playground for peace.  Anyway, Max displayed to himself some dialogue from the 1977 movie.
   Chewie grunts a grievance.  Han with:  "You said it Chewie.  Were did you dig up that old fossil?"  Luke with:  "Ben is a great man."  Han retorts:  "Yeah, great at getting us in trouble."
   The moment passed, yet it would return in the future.  Next, Junkyard yawned and Max sipped his beer, patiently.