Werefox Vaquero--Bubba Cheese--repurchase

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--Bubba Cheese--repurchase"
   
   Phil Diamond had scooted the super-charged 6-cylinder Buick to Oregon, transcending his original outline.  Heck, he never used an outline--needed not a blueprint for existence; however, he enjoyed his Bill of Rights.  5th Amendment, ability to be silent.  Of course, Freedom of Religion, yet unlike a church leader, Phil Diamond didn't steal your money, it could be argued against them at times; still, he was a vacuum when it came to Gin Rummy.  Phil Diamond had his 1st Amendment stepped on, law enforcement put vocabulary, illegally, upon his 5th; moreover, illegal search and seizure--it went on and on.  He ultimately realized when his contentious step-father took out a contract on him, fueled by an officer of the court and phony finances.  What, people don't want to destroy the lives of others?  It's all a movie?  Tell that to murdered myriads living in silence.
   On the rocky shore, waves brought in by a waxing Moon, crashing, yet symmetrically, in an artistic sense, upon the pebbled beach, and Phil Diamond, on the run, witnessing an Orca angelically expose its behemoth shine upon Terra's shore, the two mammals eye to eye, as if a reflection of sleek purpose and awesome might, forged by the life of flowing water.  The Orca smiled and kissed him, going back into its kingdom.  Phil cranked up a cherry cigar, knowing God has a sense of humor, showing him like this, not a crude nasty God, unless you are out to damage decency.
   Phil Diamond knew the Jew always says to the Christian, as if salvation was born with the chosen:  "Make sure your sister washes her hands before making a visit."
   Phil Diamond smiled skywards, knowing he was only guilty of having a tame imagination, knowing those in pernicious pursuit constantly crave strange, in the flesh, as if having no innate treasure, or so they discarded their internal purpose.
   Phil Diamond got back in the Buick.  Motored off to a surf shop.  He would gel with the locals.  The West seemed pretty free.  Pretty American Free.  

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