Werefox Vaquero--cotton candy with teeth, mind ya

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--cotton candy with teeth, mind ya"
  
   Sausage Man was like:  "You shouldn't drink while taking your medication."
   Farmer Fred, the noodle-ishish tribesman related to Marco Polo's Uncle retorted:  "You so bright dat ur mama dubbed ya sun, feller."
   All in all--it was another quintessential moment for high comedy at the local tavern, where the pastor would sit in the corner; however, not having Shane's mindset, yet mentally groping women, curious as to the color of their underwear, and if it was fabricated from cotton, silk, or even boxer shorts, hoping to seduce them into visiting his homemade tabernacle and get a closer gander at them goodies.  His idol was Boss Hog--them damn Dukes, so knew:  Rosco Purvis Coltrane.  
   Max heard it all, and Junkyard kept wagging.  Like cotton candy with teeth, yet he had no stick up his buttocks, unlike the pretentious pie-holes unable to eat kosher, for they're allergic to the super-induced reality of being a halfway decent human being, and his physician tells him he's allergic to peanuts so that the Doctor named Pepper can thieve away his stash of M & M's.
   Max put his beer glass on the ground, and Junkyard got more than mere backwash.  After a quick lick till guzzle, the poodle let out an obnoxious belch; next, laughed with some slobber to follow, rolled around on the floor, and followed the show with a yellow urination.
   Farmer Fred came over to scold the twosome, voicing:  "Dat sum bitch dog just pissed on de floor, boy!"
   Max looked up, and not being condescending, nor supercilious, explained:  "Sir--the dog, save me--is the only one in here with any class.  Now go say bye bye, and get some cream for your wife's non-yummy yeast infection."
   Farmer Fred with:  "Gonna tell the pastor, boy."
   Max grinned:  "The pervert with a pint of extra-creamy mayonnaise perpetually painted inside his pants?  Well, I'd go to hell like you want me to, but they kicked me out for selling ice cream--see ya."
   Max got up, and Junkyard followed him outta there, yet not before releasing his anal glands, and blowing sour wind in the direction of an assortment of delinquent douchebags.

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.