Ninjas, Lemons, Lawsuits, Breasts, Congress, Fonda and the Cunning Fennec Fox

31 July 2014

0750 hrs

Warning:  This Post Contains Images of an Adult Nature . . . You Have Been Warned, according to my Lawyers . . .

Good Morning, Patient Reader . . .

(c)  Properfessor

(c)  Properfessor

(c)  Properfessor

            As you can see, Properfessor has been at it again.  Camera-crazy emmeffer that he is.  Oh, well.  What can you do?  He fancies himself an artist.

            So what has the Fox been up to since the last post?  Hoping you all have enjoyed the response to the movie, “Transgeneration” that I turned in as an assignment, as well as posted up to CFF for your perusal.  I have received positive feedback on it, and for that I am truly appreciative.  I knew I could count on the erudition of you fellow CFFers and Patient Readers out there.  You fuckers kick ASS.

            Things on the Shmarla front are going swimmingly.

(c)  Properfessor

            She has an engagement that takes up most of this weekend in a city two or so hours away, but at the close of each day she is driving back to me.  This is how much we miss one another when we are apart.  

Unfortunately, she is going home for xmas break, 

and I won’t see her at all during that whole boring time off.  Can you believe that shit?  What’s a Ninja to do?

            I suppose we are just going to have to squeeze every drop of juice from the lemon while we can; 

make hay, as they say, as the sun shines.  I think we’ll find plenty to do.

  She’s such a fun person to be around; we laugh straight from the belly as we joke around and keep each other happy (er?)  There is nothing better than being with someone who is not totally fucking insane and wants nothing but the best for the other . . . and tries to be just that.  She really is one-in-7-billion . . .

            So how ‘bout that Ebola?  Holy shit, as it were.  Sub-Saharan West Africa just can’t catch a break, huh?  Guinea, Liberia, Sierra Leone . . . these guys are having a bitch of a time.  Ethiopia, Nigeria, and Kenya are all adjusting flight schedules to prevent the disease from crossing their borders.  Great Britain is worried because of the amount of flights and other travel coming into the country. 

            Speaking of Nigeria . . . fucking Boko Haram . . . 

they’re sending in suicide bombers to university to create havoc and mayhem and Murder Death Kills.

            A new twist: female suicide bombers, one of which was caught before she could self-detonate.  She was ten years old.  I wonder if any of these poor girls were the ones kidnapped from that girls’ school back in April.

  

            Wouldn’t that just be so . . . Human Nature?

            Watch out Tor users!  

The Man is coming after your ass.  Sure, get the child porn propagators; that’s obviously fine with me.  OK, go after the ones using the internet to move guns and drugs . . . ok . . .

            But the majority of Tor users are just normal, everyday cats who just don’t want Big Brother poking into our constitutional right to privacy.  I mean . . . c’mon.

            And for all of you sorry motherfuckers out there who are so quick to say that we shouldn’t worry if we have nothing to hide, well . . . line up over here and give me your user names and passwords.  You ignorant bastards.  Except of you, of course, Patriotic and Patient Reader.

           

            Congress, well, the House, decided that lawsuits can go forward against President Obama because he, “allegedly exceeded his constitutional powers . . . on numerous occasions in order to bypass Congress by issuing executive orders . . .”

            Jebus Harold Schmitty on a Rubber Fucking Crutch . . . does anyone remember W and how he fucked the country by doing the exact same thing?  Difference is, Pres. Obama is at least trying to help the majority of the country by getting them affordable health care.  Do I even need to get into what W did to our Constitutional Rights?  C’mon you fucking Repubs.  Grow the fuck up.  Go back to denigrating women while you abuse those duct-taped 14 year old Korean boys you have stashed in your makeshift Georgetown dungeons.  You silly bastards.  

            Leave the American People to Live Free or Die.  Quit spending tax-payer dollars trying to figure out why you all are so unpopular; why y’all lost the White House two terms in a row.  Just look in the mirror and watch yourselves twist your mustaches (no offense, Palin) 

as you plot your Dr. Evil Preparation H plots which are, on the “hole,” completely biased and ineffectual against the Middle Class, which you are so hell-bent on trying to destroy.  You miserable sunsabidges.

            OK, time now for a BP check . . . talking to these pedantic idiot Repubs is like watching shit dry . . . ok, it is watching shit dry . . . so I guess it is time to post Fonda and the Cunning Fennec Fox, Part III.  Shall I do this very thing?  Splendid!  Here you go, and enjoy . . .
Fonda and the Cunning Fennec Fox 

III

18 April 2014

0738 hrs

More Fonda for you, Patient Reader.

            This is an exhausting story to tell, and I hope it doesn't bore you.  If it does, well, you know how to quit the page.

            For those of you who have given positive feedback, read on.  There will only be one or two more parts to the story.  Continue to be Patient, Reader, and let's all try to be kind to one another.

            For those of you who miss the Wrath of the Fox, my Easter rant is soon in coming.  

       Shall I press on?  Splendid!

            Children’s hospitals have the best toys.  One of the toys Fonda checked out regularly was the Nintendo game console.  Yes, that is how old how I am. 

            The only game she checked out for us was Jeopardy!  I don’t refuse challenges when it comes to trivia games.  I am a wealth of unnecessary and useless information.  I know almost everything there is to know about nothing, and for some reason, I take great pride in it.

            I never lost, and Fonda never backed down.  I never threw a game, knowing full well it would have forever gone unforgiven. 

            Amanda, the roommate, was in end-stage CF.  Lips blue from cyanosis; her face partially obscured by an O2 nasal cannula that barely delivered too little of the precious gas.  Her cells starved, burning themselves up as they struggled to live.  Amanda was twenty.

            Fonda never allowed Amanda to see how much she terrified her.  Terrified of that unholy blackened creature that crouched on Amanda’s chest as she slept.

            
            Fonda faced each day with positivity; a defiance so natural that my admiration for her surprised me.  I am never surprised. 

            Fonda travelled back and forth from a little town on the Alabama/Mississippi border, though she hailed from Fort Wayne, Indiana. 

            She would get her respiratory therapy, her meds, and her Jeopardy! fix each night for one week a month, then she’d be off to that little town where she lived. 

            She had a mischievousness that she played close to the vest.  It manifested in her wry humor which I got immediately as it went unnoticed by the others in the room. 

            Fonda and her straight, white teeth framed by her crooked grin.

            Fonda with her delicate heart under the pane of bullet-proof glass; a treasure as seen and untouched as a museum piece, beautiful and unreachable, pinned to her.  As is the case of most of us, others were allowed in so far; her line of demarcation indicated by red velvet rope while mine, in sharp contrast, might as well be a moat filled with gators or a police line do-not-cross strip of yellow tape.

            Perched over a strong chin were her lips, red as wine from a new vine; red as blood.  Red as lips can be not yet touched by cyanosis. 

            But her eyes, those blue, blue eyes.  Cerulean at times; periwinkle; desert horizon; cornflower.  Her mood dictated the chameleon colors that shared the same spectrum of light  as sapphires, lapis lazuli . . . sodalite.  Turquoise and the sea. 

            These colors bled into my own heart, melting the glacial ice into pools pink and warm, and I felt as Odysseus; lashed to the mast, fighting and failing against this madness.  This, the insurmountable power of her blue eye’s siren song. 

            I saw her love me in those eyes, telling myself that I was imagining the whole thing.  Everyone who says they love me go away.  They would give to me all the love I needed before they lost the will to live.  The abyss of my own heart was the oubliette into which they poured themselves; my dark devouring was the abattoir into which they led their flocking desires willingly.

            No one loves me and lives through it.  Why couldn’t Fonda see this?

            And for all of that, when caught in the trap of her eyes, as my heart fluttered as the wounded bird, all I wanted to do was lie down and die the slow, soft death, bathed in the severe blue of that desert’s Sheltering Sky.

            Fonda was diagnosed with CF many years earlier, but only after her older sister died from it.  The IS and her cruelty in waiting for Fonda to be a toddler before her sister suffocated on the ventilator.  Nature, ever the viper as a cruel god is, bit this family twice.

            Her parents, still in love, were no longer capable of looking into one another’s eyes.  They glanced at one another across the vast ocean of the breakfast table, each recognizing the other as their babies’ murderer.  They would look away when caught by the other’s glance; neither remembering the exact hue of the other’s eyes.

            I can imagine they eschewed the mirror for the same terrible reasons.

            These Soulmates, these Forever Loves, divorced when Fonda was a child, and her father drank himself to death.

            “How can you see your partner every day,” Fonda asked, “at the store, or in church . . .  and even begin to live knowing that you would never be together again?”

            And there was I, Jeopardy! master, with nothing even resembling an answer.

End of Part III