14 June 2017
And here comes the Spiglet, who also needs iodine, but also, like people, do not produce their own vitamin C. That means, by the Ghost of Davey Jones Locker release the kraken, they can get scurvy. Yar!
Just want you to know, Patient Reader, The Fox has been through a lot this year.
I know, boohoo shut the fuck up you big bebbey.
It’s true. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. I should kneel . . . nay; genuflect!
Braise Cheeses, and be grateful for those austere memories you DO have. Hmmm.
Fuck you, you Fucking Fuck, you. This is my muh’fuckin blog. You don’t like what you read here, you piece of shit? Get the fuck out. Cry about it to your friends. Maybe they will have the balls to read on, ya fucking twats . . . Start your own blog and say the things that you wish I would say. I shudder at the thought, you Fuck Sticks; Dick-squeezes, Squeezers of Dicks.
Except for you of course, Patient Reader. Everyone knows you know what it’s like to feel heartbreak. Why, I ask the Is, do we all have to feel the pain?
And since the Is knows I sense the answers, and since the Is knows we all suffer, how can one’s own heart not feel a missing ventricle; an itching ex-presence that, like everything else close to the heart, scuttles to unreachability under this or that rock. The detritus of trying too hard or too little. Never enough or never just right. Never the right time of life, or time, or life. Too much over too little and too little for everything you’ve got. What price, peace of mind? Take a Piece of my Mind! If it’s not too dear. We shall scrimp and save.
My mind is reeling. They Who Reel It Know Why.
I'm exhausted. Getting over the last few hiccups of the mania. Thank nataS for Seroquel, pro re nata . . . Couldn’t-a dunn it without you. Sandman’s first name is Seroquel.
Gotta tell you my thoughts about iodine. I; atomic number 50; its attraction toward the thyroid gland (a radioactive isotope of iodine is used in the treatment of thyroid cancers), and sadly, or happily, over 2 billion people worldwide are iodine deficient. And don’t have to be. A certain intellectual development disability presents, blindness in children is almost certain, and it’s 100% preventable.
DeBeers will steal Africa's resources, but to save 50,000 Ibo lives, no one flies in iodized salt.
Good job, guys. Glad y’all have this handled.
I think about all of the elements, periodically. Sometimes I’ll lay them all out on my table, and look at the first two. H and He. How fusing the first creates the second, and the light from our little white star.
Whew! That Fugger looks hot, today!
The heat we feel on our face as we point it toward Sol, is the energy released in that nuclear fusion. The photons gleaming off the chrome on that Cadillac made a 30,000-year journey from the core of our sun to the surface, and then another 8+ minutes from there to here this, a single Astronomical Unit.
Someone mentioned iodine. I tried an historian approach; a documentarian rather than trying to write satyr. Ahem . . . Satire.
Everyone knows there is a pan-demic of poorly written literature horning in on perfectly good humor, but it’s not just up to me to correct. C’mon, man! We all must stick together like week-old jockstraps in August.
We must stand together and fix this and get over to the rest of our lives, or this will be the rest of our lives. It behooves us to confront the Troll ‘Neath Yon Bridge. It really gets my goat.
Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to shoot congress?
Idiots. I don’t care if they were Republicans or not; you don’t get to hurt people! Why won’t you just get that, people?
A gunman. Shooter. NRA noticeably absent . . .
They were all trying to run for cover, but couldn’t see because the irony was too thick.
It’s our fault, ladies and gentlemen. Democracy is the worst form of government. After all the others.
Don’t get mad at me. Look it up.
Now . . .
18 June 2017
Hello there, Patient Reader. Welcome back; always good to see you.
In these Winding-Down Days, these scant and precious hours of almost being at my baseline are working their magic. Magic.
Ugh. I want so badly to jump back in to ripping the political scene . . . I mean, jebus, look at all the shit flying about around the world. Mostly because our President runs the country like he ran his businesses: Into the Ground.
A dude who went to a military academy, and he doesn’t know you don’t do a ten-year-old’s peepee dance while the National Anthem is playing. I mean . . . what the fuck? Yeah, this is the America for which my old man waded through Agent Orange.
Agent Orange. Maybe that’s Moscow’s handle for Trump.
But I don’t want to drone on about that sort of thing. People suck, and some suck harder than others.
So, Politics is out. As is Religion . . . for now . . . can you believe what a long break I have given the Mormons and the other Xians? and what does that leave? Everything else, of course!
Been listening to some music. Old school. The Alan Parsons Project.
Little River Band.
a band named after a dildo.
Can’t go wrong. My Old School.
Arvo Part’s tintinnabuli has been a fascinating listen. I particularly enjoy Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten. The glockenspiel and cellos, they haunt me.
Not the piano and sax of The Year of the Cat, say, but c’mon . . . this is an Estonian who grew up in a Soviet-bloc country.
I’ve listened to some Al Stewart, speaking of The Year of the Cat, but strangely not that song. Midnight Rocks, Time Passages, and Song on the Radio.
Don’t Answer Me, by the Alan Parsons Project, has a similar sax-and-piano collaboration. But I bring up only music from the ‘70's and 80’s.
In a post, post-posting that I took down because it was ugly, mean, and passive-aggressive to the point where I regressed into That Guy. Hasn’t been seen in years. Whereas I should have been sticking to the music instead of what I did instead.
And now it’s 19 June, and I still haven’t said what needs saying. Self-censorship? Is that what’s happening? Patient Reader, that’s probably the biggest problem when some folks know the True Identity of The Cunning Fennec Fox. ‘was that about me? that Sunna Vabitch Fox . . . asshole . . .’
I know, Patient Reader, Right the fuck? Really, right now? I must self-censor? here’s the problem: There are people whose feelings I don’t want to hurt.
Crazy, right? The Fox has actual concerns about the consequences of the things he says? Ohmigod! But only when it comes to persons. Remember, Patient Reader: People Suck. Pick a handful of persons and stick close.
I have things to say, so Fuck that, Patient Reader! The scumbags out there who have no idea what they do as they wander through their shit-stained lives thinking that moving ideas from here to there for eight hours a day makes them worth a fuck? That they come home from these places and smack a bitch or kick a kid or drown a bag o’ kittens . . . or put cigarettes out on that 14-year-old Korean boy duct-taped up in the closet, you sick fuck.
Or they vote against the American people. Republicans who vote RED because ObamaCare sucks. Thank their filthy Bubba God that they’ll still have the Affordable Care Act when they repeal ObamaCare. Geniuses.
Do I give enough of a furry fist-fuck to self-censor around the lowest common denominator of stupidity among these bipedal, carbon-based life forms? Nah.
Do I give a fuzzy ratzass if I offend people who murder the children of others so we can pay Texaco for keeping my Suburban’s gas bill less than $4 a gallon? They’re just kids, people! They’re noisy and sticky. Republicans don’t mind, though. They just hand them off to the nanny/servant side-piece, right? I know how you Repubs work; you don’t use bookmarks because you prefer your pages bent over.
And I don’t even have a Suburban!
I could drive somewhere nearby . . . say, The Beanery, to meet an old friend, but I could walk to there from here, too.
Depending on the friend, might go ten, twelve blocks, to see them.
I want to say a friend is now back to square one. He doesn’t know what love really is. I mean really really know. And he isn’t angry or bitter when he says it. It’s fully understood.
He’s relieved, in a way; the inability to disappoint in yet another way would be too much to bear.
Names don’t matter, though. Do they? I mean, they certainly don’t matter when I write about Shmarla and Shmanielle and well . . . you know so many others.
Yet there are names that no one gets to know. The names of those closest to me. Those names are mine.
“But jesus, Mr. Fox,” (or Mr. F, for nostalgia’s sake . . . wee Britain, and all) I can hear some of you idiot fucks out there thinking. “You tell us everything else, and we don’t know who you are, anyway . . .” and blah blah FUCKING blah . . . jebus the Heist. You guys are right! I should really . . . oh, I dunno . . . hmmm . . . tell you to go fuck yourselves? Sure, you superficial weasel Banker Barons and Big Pharma whores and Real Estate cocksuckers. You POS fascists out there who profit from the violence toward one and from and by your own selves, you nationalist-socialist goose-stepping skinhead racist punk motherfuck- . . . bitches . . . Go. Fuck. Thyself.
Except for you, Patient Reader. Everyone knows that y’all think Trump, et al, are, well, a basket of deplorables.
Everyone knows that you all, in your infinite detection of bullshit, you have the uncanny ability to understand that even Foxes have borders, and the things we hold most important, the Cared-Abouts in our lives, well . . . sometimes they can be ours, even while they’re not. And you know that i would rather lose a limb than have anyone be censored for any reason. Especially me.
It will happen, self-censorship, from time to time, but only when it helps another. And it's not like you're going to miss something you never saw in the first place, right?
Anyway, Patient Reader. It’s time to sign off.
Until next time, I remain your faithful,
Cunning Fennec Fox
There’s a light in a room full of words for which she missed;