Dances with Wolves (1990) - Two Socks Scene

Werefox Vaquero--on four paws

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--on four paws"
   
  The stars spangled in the Heavens, gifting even the night an eternal sparkle of light, and the desert floor was cool and shaking off the dry heat.  Ela as the kit fox, ears hearing beyond normality, and a sniffer designed to smell and sense the danger.  Yet Ela just pranced and played, a true fox, never condemning herself, leaving that for the guilty, and they ultimately view their reflection, ashamed--at the end.  Ela didn't see them, so they could not see her.
   She was just a kit fox at times.  Eager to be free and simple.  A gift given by life itself, and a divine justice system taking offense at any soul who thwarts life.  For every child that falls--God is offended.
  Ela found another female kit fox.  A sister of sorts.  They jumped at one another, biting playfully, only with grips of love.  Licking and smelling, the similar nature of their grace, and praise to the Heavens for having another day.  
   The envy of hunters cause their own grief.  The falsehoods spoken to reduce numbers.  To plant wicked seeds of guilt, yet they are the ones who harbor it, despising themselves; thus, labeling others, for they blame the Creator for themselves, not knowing, and they never will, unless . . .
   Ela and her sisterly fox friend laid down on the cool, dusty Earth.  Ears high, and eyes always gauged towards the sublimity of existence.  It was casual.  Nice.  Never utopia.  Yet, a walk in the park, and a thanks for the chance at life, knowing Space Rangers guard the innocent, in an allegorical sense.  For this planet has never been without guardians.  And if a simple kit fox knows, we too can learn from such simplistic dogs, loving to play, and loving to dance on paw pads armed with spirited spring, propelling us towards magnanimous dreams.  

Werefox Vaquero--Bubba Cheese, Resurrection

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Bubba Cheese, Resurrection"
   
   Phil Diamond wasn't your garden-variety bling, and if in the vegetation family; indeed, an organic vegetation god, like Sir Gawain mystically mixing up a personal Jesus quest, kinda, with a Green Knight, not personally pursuing the Grail, yet minerals, possibly that held the Eternal Life, allegorically--I don't want to argue this--out of my league; still, Phil Diamond had half a nose piercing, to camouflage his sudden forty-year old growth of nose hair--hey, it happens to the best of us.  Don't hide them from your wife--she knows about your nose hair.  Burt Reynolds mentions pulling them out with a two finger grip--what, you think I'm making this up?
   Phil Diamonds was introspective--to the core, baby--like the savory uniqueness of secret sauce on the Big Mac, though maybe we'll never know.  Phil Diamond knew:  the soul who patriotically probes the culinary mystery of Big Mac secret sauce, though not resisting liberal or conservative media, yet going to the arcane underground, finding the truth of dirt, and Jesus' spit, so simple, so is the super-symmetry of the Planet we have been given, as he made mud with his fluidic nature, reminding of the seas, and having preached from the living water, in a sense, knowing Earth, Sea, and Heaven; plus, full of True Spirit, and thus Phil Diamond just wanted to cover the sports for a local newspaper--have a day-to-day job and a beer at the tavern on his exit; however, the scrolls of print media have faded, yet he knew--mystics will battle androids, or he couldn't get enough upgrades, forgetting how to be a cowboy.  Oh well, an Arizona escape to very many sincerely close gambling atmospheres offered him a purpose of possible promise--but what kind of phony promise is that?  He got in the Buick, super-charged six cylinder with 3-speed auto, electric windows, a pack of organic cigarettes, no fillers or fiber glass included; next, smoked his tires till higher possibilities--at least there was that.  And remember--he drove a Buick, Bucko.  Wondering if an American Car Company will ever forge a Phoenix.  It kind of all goes well with Easter.  We even got a bunny in there.  Eggs too.  His Uncle bought him golf clubs every year for the holiday.  Pleasant times.  Good reflection.  Bubba Cheese was back--in a way; specifically, in a crazy American gumshoe way.   

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.