Category Archives: Fun & Humor

Message from Fox – I’m Pissed

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Dear Readers,

Fox here. And I’m a bit irritated with my yellow labrador of a creation, Unknown. Here’s what went down.

Are my eyes dilated? Ginger, help. I can't get up.

I’m standing by the poolside of my buddy’s Malibu Mansion tonight and feeling good about life again. Ginger, god bless her nursing heart, has just given me my fifth dose of poison dart frog. We’ll all laughing because my fur is standing on end and I look like I stuck my paw in a wall socket.

Not to mention that I’m wearing Ginger’s panties, which say “I love foxes” on them. They feel comfy, but they’re riding up my ass, but I can’t do anything about it because my paws aren’t listening to me and because they’re paws. Nobody’s lending a hand, they’re just snapping pictures and laughing.

So, I’m pretty messed up. I have to use Unknown’s Xopenex just to breathe again. My tail is stiff as a rock and I’m knocking glasses in the pool every time I spin around. The pool is where we have that damn ER doc that made Unknown wait six hours. Couple of my pals, Badger and Skunk, have tied him up and are dipping the dope upside down over and over. Six hours is the goal. After that we’ll give him the bill and kick his ass out of here.

Great times, right?

Yeah, that’s what I thought. That’s until Bambi comes strolling out with her MacBook Pro open. She’s screaming something in French or French-like, but I can’t tell her to speak English because the dart frog has paralzyzed my vocal cords. So, she holds the screen up for me to read.

Holy $$*#*#*$. What has Unknown done now? Unknown has gone and written the post of the century for total wimpiness. WTF is he doing to my blog. I’m pissed. I can’t speak, and trying to type with paws ain’t exactly easy when ya got all your faculties in place, which I clearly don’t.

The gang can see I’m upset. Ginger loses her mind when my eyes start cartooning out of my head. She knocks me down on the mat and goes all Pulp Fiction on me with a syringe the size of an Old Milwaukee bottle right to my fox heart. I spring to life and feel like I just traveled through a worm hole to reality with that ER doc screaming every time they let him up for air. Skunk gives him a blast of bad air, which ends the party on the spot because we gotta evacuate.

Here I am in action. Photo by Neil Phillips. Creative Commons.

Now it’s 12:30 at night and I have to apologize to all my readers for Unknown. I’ve put him back in his kennel. How’s he expect to fight this f’ing disease if he’s going to cry like a baby. He better dig deep and stop the whining or an ass-kicking the size of the moon is coming his way.

I’m sending him off to my pal @onlyz for a few days of Camp Onlyz’s Grow a Pair, where they’re going to surgically repair the two chicken nuggets he’s sporting. He’ll come back a a rabid Akita.

And I say this to cystic fibrosis for the number you’ve done on my pal Unknown this week, one day I’m going to catch you. And when I do, I going to hurt you, and then I’m going to hurt you again. Then me and my pals are going to reenact the final scene of Braveheart, the one with the creepy tools and slab. Except it won’t be Mel Gibson screaming “freedom” this time.

CF, you’re going to wish you never existed.

I may be a fox, but I stand up for my friends.

Fox out.

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles – Hospital Time

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Handsome and curious looking for . . .

Unknown is tired after his jail time this week, screaming for the Lakers tonight with his daughter, and no McGriddles in the last three days.

He asked me, humble Fox, to post in his absence. I’m feeling pretty tired too after my quick jaunt to Vegas last night with a couple of gal-pal nurses. Rum Jungle was rocking. I got thrown out again, but that’s not unusual. What can I say? It’s my nature to cause trouble.

Tonight, I’m going to share a few photos from my vacation. There should be more, but Unknown panicked and forgot to grab a fresh camera battery before leaving the casa. Slim photo pickings thanks to that boneheaded error.

The photo below is the first room Unknown stayed in – for 45 minutes. Then he cried like a little lab pup about chest pain and they took him straight to a lower grade room. Learn from Foxy on this one, folks, never talk your way out of an upgrade. They’ll snatch it from you if you do.

Now this is a room for a hospital party!

Here’s the hole they sent Unknown to after he complained.

Welcome to the garden view, Mr. Unknown

Remember when they strapped Unknown to a table and scanned his heart? This is the badboy itself. Those are the two blue straps they used. 20 minutes of hell for Unknown. 20 minutes of napping for me.

Don't move or you'll have to repeat the test

Someone thought it would be funny to erase the hospital information board below. I am Fox, after all. Everything worked out great and the nurse thought it was cute until she read “patient goals.” The smile fell off her face. Ouch, you nasty boy.

Fox out. Picture below. WARNING: Adult language

You got in trouble, you got in trouble. Ha, ha, ha.

Fox Takes Over for the Night

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I am famous, people.

The famous Fox rocks!

I, humble Fox, King of the Vulpes vulpes, received the accolades I am due in @CFFatboy’s blog extraordinaire. Here’s the link so you can read all about me.

The Most Upbeat Article You’ll Read Here. Ever.

I’m honored. Anytime someone stays up until 1:30 in the morning writing about you, with a hot fox named Beautiful at his side, well, how nice is that? Thanks, CF Fatboy, you’re a stand-up guy kicking CF’s green ass. May you live a long life and write about me a dozen more times. I’ll send you some adventures that Unknown is afraid to add to the blog.

Remember, I created Unknown. He sprang from my animal imagination one day while I was taking a beer piss. What a puss I invented, too. Never look up to a cartoon character, my blogging friends, especially one who is a complete fool.

Speaking of her highness, let’s see what unwound in Unknown’s imaginary world today.

First, this is how normal people look to Doctors: Picture a 24-piece Dora the Explorer puzzle:

Easy to solve

This is how Unknown looks to doctors: Picture a 5,000-piece puzzle of a tiger.

It may bite you.

Now you know why doctors start backing out of the hospital room when Unknown starts talking. Here is what the doctor thinks when Unknown speaks: Too confusing. Where does this piece fit? Is this a piece from a different puzzle? Holy crap, there are a lot of pieces. I’ll start with the sides. Oh, screw it. I didn’t go to medical school to solve complicated puzzles like this nut job. I see the world in black and white, as in my black Porsche 911, and my model girlfriend’s white bikini filled with her 100K chest and hips.

I am Fox, hear me growl.

So, some good news. Unknown’s Labrador heart ain’t too bad. He passed the dart frog test. Though he can’t figure how, as he guesses a missing beat every two seconds counts for passing. Jerky Unknown, you lived through it. That’s a passing grade. Get back in the F’ing casino – you got a movie to finish.

Here’s why Unknown ain’t talking tonight. The cardio docs came by and gave him the green light and told him to stop eating chocolate, which makes no sense whatsoever cause he’s been eating chocolate for many months without problems. They played the “blame it on M&M’s” card. But that’s not why he’s pissed.

He’s upset because the cardio docs didn’t fill out their damn report and now he has to stay in the hospital one more night because the main doc won’t kick him lose without their kiss of approval. When doctors own a hospital, don’t expect an early release. There are yacht payments to be made.

Unknown is a sucker on a stick. I would have ripped out the I.V., crapped on the floor and scampered out of there with August and Tiffany at my side, and a few shots of that poison frog they shot him up with yesterday.  Here’s your report, doc, I’d say as I flip him the paw. I’ll email you photos of tonight’s Rum Jungle party in Veg-ass.

Something funny did happen today. The nurse came by and said the pharmacy wanted to know if Unknown had a Symbicort with him or had it gone back by carrier pigeon?

This is two days after he checked into this hotel of hell. Two days. Was he supposed to call in his order for a Symbicort ahead of time, like a chicken fajita at Baja Fresh?

So, the nurse had to take Unknown’s contraband Symbicort to the Rx and they had to place a little sticker on it: Approved by someone who didn’t read a printed list two days ago. What about the other five meds Unknown hid in his carry-on bag?  When do the federales break down the door and bust his chicken ass?  Let’s see you serve a “nickel” in a real prison, pretty boy.  You’ll be begging like a chocolate Labrador pup to return to the hospital and your private “isolation” room.

Last of all, why are the light switches in the hospital room painted red? Shouldn’t a red switch always blow something up? “Pop,” on come the lights. Where’s the fun in that?  Now if it caused Unknown’s bed to blast up to the ceiling, well, that would be a good reason to paint a switch red. Eat acoustic tile, UC.

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Day Two in Jail – Torture Tests

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Day 2 in Lock up, Lock down, Lock Sideways – it’s all a matter of perspective

I woke up on the wrong side of my plastic bed this morning. Reality smacked me with where I was and why I’m here. I can serve the “nickel” of the normal CF prison sentence. This stay has rattled my nerves and tested me. Escape plans fill my mind.

I swear I heard Fox partying in the hallway last night. I have never slept in a noisier hospital wing than the one I am in now. Loud talkers on a cell phone can’t match these people for volume. I miss the quiet floor I usually stay on.

Yesterday’s nurse princess transformed into a nasty, bossy four-foot troll who woke me up for blood pressure around dawn.  No sweet kisses on the forehead here to awaken me from my slumber. Just a nasty lady mustache atop grinning wart lips. 

Hospital communication breakdowns are my favorite. I give them a printed list of my meds but somehow they find a way to f**k it up. They cannot process the fact I take two nebs of hypertonic saline in the morning and two in the evening. They write down what they think it should be. READ THE LIST, people. I will be placing a special note on future lists: “Yo, it’s two, I repeat two HTS in the morning and two in the evening. That’s not a typo.”

Then there is the “surprise test of the day.” Today, I wasn’t supposed to eat breakfast, yet breakfast showed up. Luckily, I had treatments to do and didn’t eat it right away. The nurse stopped me in time. What if I had eaten it and couldn’t complete the tests? There’s another day in the hospital and another 10K all because of a three-dollar breakfast being delivered by accident.

It’s getting harder to hide CF from my managers at work. It was easier to do it years ago when I only went in once a year or every 18 months and I could depend on having a new boss every year. Now, it’s tightrope walking and juggling at the same time. It’s getting technically more difficult to hide the truth. I’m not sure how much longer I can do it. I want to work as long as I can, but CF is screwing with that plan.

Tests, tests, and more tests

My insurance company will look for ways to get rid of me after today. These doctors love tests. And they delivered big time with that love today.

First up was what I call the Survivor test. They injected radioactive Thallium into me, then strapped me to a table so I couldn’t move. Three large boxes circled me, taking images of my Labrador heart. It seems strange to say 20 minutes being immobilized feels like a long time, but it does and did. Holy crap. I have new respect for Survivor games where they have to stand on a stick for 6 hours. The tech made it a constant point to tell me not to move. I didn’t and couldn’t thanks to his strap-down job.  

From there I went for the poison dart frog venom test. In this one, they placed me on a table and the same guy who shot me up with radioactive material 30 minutes earlier, dosed me with what must have been poison. All of a sudden it felt like I had just chased Fox out of a downtown L.A. bar and down the block. My chest tightened and I couldn’t breathe. SOB. SOB. SOB. Alert. Alert. Dying here. Shoot the f’ing frog that humped me, damn it.

The techs acted like it was normal to feel like you just ate bad blowfish. FU. Normal this, dudes. The bad guy just poisoned me like James Bond in Casino Royale.  But I don’t have an Aston Martin with a drug kit in it. Why are you standing there? Give me the antidote. I’ll tell you what I did with the “Nurse, Nurse, Nurse” guy from last night. He’s duct taped to a gurney on the top floor of the parking garage. Antidote, please.

It’s no wonder I have a splitting headache tonight. It took me 10 minutes to come down off of that joy ride to heart stretching heaven.

From there, I enjoyed the Fast Pass to my 50-minute echo test.  The three guys working it were cool and Fox had some x-rated guy conversations with them, but it was still painful.

Lunch came after the tests, which was a cheeseburger and fries with three ketchups and no salt. I get the no salt part. I’m in the heart ward. But three ketchups for all of that food? Are you kidding me? Who do I kill?

I got to repeat the Survivor test after lunch. It was just as fun as the first time. Try it yourself sometime. Lie on your bed, with arms at your side, hand clasped over your groin, and don’t move. 20 minutes. Start now.

The rest of the day I worked, barely.  But I did eat more M&Ms in one sitting than I’ve ever eaten in my life. They’re monitoring my heart – WTF. Let it race.

Stay well.

Fox’s day in hell.

I thought it was a dude that woke Unknown for blood pressure. It was the lady stache that fooled me. I’ve woken up next to a few whiskers in my day, but this one was thick, black and greasy. I jumped on top of the TV and waited until she dragged her club foot out the door.

I partied hard last night with the nurses. Loud, lively honey babes charmed by moi. Bambi and Ginger helped me tape up the dude next door who couldn’t master the call button. We laughed our asses off to his duct taped, muffled “nurse” yelps. Press the button next time, dude. Press the button.

The docs punished Unknown for “chest pain” today with more chest pain. Whatever they shot into him is something I want a bottle of. That looked like 10 minutes of rollercoasting while drunk on Gin Ball Twisters fun to me. Gotta get me some of that stuff for tonight’s g-string martini “fiesta of love.”

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Day 1 in Jail and Fox Looks at the Sun

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I’m in jail.

I had a choice: Spend a few days driving back and forth for outpatient tests or go to jail and get them done there.  I turned myself in. And what a fun first day it’s been.

The day started with a tease. They brought me to a room in the new hospital wing. Excited, I was. Alas, reality crushed that dream hard and fast when they realized I needed telemetry.

“Don’t unpack,” the nurse said.

There was a silver lining. The nurse usually worked on the intensive care floor, so when she asked if I wanted her to start an IV before I transferred, I almost got down on my knees and kissed her feet.  Yes, please.  Start away, O wonderful IV Goddess. Stick me, stick me good.

She aced the IV insertion, of course, like nurses from that floor do. No tapping veins or doing rain dances to summon a vein or calling another nurse to do it after you’ve screwed the pooch three times. Bingo, bango, bongo, she was in and blood was coloring the towel placed on my knee bright red. Afterwards, I almost wanted to see if she could do it blindfolded. I bet she could have.

As this nurse doesn’t deal with CF patients, she cracked me up when she told me meds from home would have to return home. Yeah, sure thing, babe. I’ll get right on that.  Where’s my carrier pigeon? I hope it can carry a large bottle of enzymes, two packs of the xopenex dosage they don’t stock here, and the myriad of other meds I brought. Welcome to CF World, Ms Nurse; it’s different from any other world you’ve ever been to. We have our own rule book and it’s 9,023 pages long. Rule #5,879: Always bring back-up meds.

I got to the “heart” floor and was joined to a heart monitor.  Now they can watch every beat and “misbeat” while I’m in my room working.  How exciting that job must be. One lead was off for an hour and no one broke down my door to see if I was still alive, so someone’s not paying close attention. At some point, I’m going to switch all the leads just to see if they notice. That’s on tomorrow’s agenda.

The RT came along with her high dose of Xopenex that makes my heart race. I was prepared for her. I had my low dose in my pocket ready for the switch. I excused myself to wash my hands, placed her dose in my pocket and then pulled out the low dose. That’s how the magic works, my friends. No conflict or arguments about it with the RT or doc, just smiles and fun. Suckers.  You didn’t even know there was a magic show going on, did you, people? 

The guy in the room next to mine must still ride a horse and buggy to work and write with a quill and ink. He kept yelling “Nurse, Nurse, Nurse.” I’m thinking, did they not show you the big red button on the remote for calling the nurse?  The same remote that you’re using to change the channels of the blaring TV in your room? He must of screamed it a dozen times. This is why some people get a pillow placed over their face Godfather-style in the middle of the night. Holy cow.  Somebody tell that guy what century he’s living in.

Many thanks to everyone for the kind thoughts and messages. They make a difference. When I wrote that CF drove me crazy, I wasn’t making it up was I?  You won’t see the CF Foundation posting any videos of me on their web site. No, I’m the poster child of what you don’t want to do when you have CF. Someone has to set the bar low. Happy to do the job.

Stay well.

The real truth from Fox.

There’s one part of the adventure Unknown left out. When they brought him to the Heart wing, his heart almost fell out of his pants. The most smoking hot of hot nurses got assigned to him. His worst fear. We’re talking stripper hot with long brown hair and green eyes. A nine out of ten, like looking at the sun.

Unknown’s a gentleman and averted his eyes. Not me. I’m a fox. I looked and my eyes burned. But it was worth the blindness.

I prompted Unknown to suggest they bring a pole into his room to see her moves, or just drop a couple dollar bills on the floor to see what might unfold. No luck. This Unknown is the wuss of all wusses. I’m stuck here because his little hearty heart did go pitter patter a little bit funny. No one hooked old Fox up to a monitor when this nurse walked in, but they should have. I’m still dazed by what I saw.

The other terrible part of this current adventure is that there is no beer to be found.  None, not a drop. A little AC/DC playing, some beer and tonight’s post would have had a much different tone. Unknown would have titled it “A letter to my wife: I’m so sorry for what I did in the hospital.” 

This is when I need to be hanging with Tiger, not Chicken Boy.

Someone send a six-pack, a boom box, and a stack of dollar bills. This party needs a jump start.

Fox out.

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles – Tri-Tip Sandwiches and Ice Mural

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Hello,

Fox here. Unknown banned me from posting. But the Lakers won, and now Unknown’s passed out on the floor after drinking a sixer of Old Milwaukee and two Caramel Frappés. So, I’m back.

As insurance, I just took some David Hasselhoff-style blackmail photos of Unknown to make sure I return again.

Tonight’s a good night to share one of my favorite places to eat in Los Angeles on weekends. You won’t find this carnivore’s paradise in Zagat’s or any tour guide. It’s a local’s-only place in the San Fernando Valley called Jim’s Market.

Hunting made easy

You don’t actually eat at the market. They sell the meat to the catering guys, who cook it up in the parking lot using the bad-ass BBQ you see to the left in the photo above and in the photo below. They serve the food from a catering truck.

I have one of these on order for my Midsummer Nights's Eve party

The wheel on the BBQ lowers the meat to the charcoals for the perfect level of heat.

I order the tri-tip sandwich, which is smoky, tender and tastes nothing like raw squirrel. No need to hunt when you have cash.

It’s all good. Sitting in the sun, drinking Schlitz, eating cow on a bun.

And, when you’re kicking it, there’s even some urban artwork to contemplate.

Ice House mural of the good old days

From a distance, it looks pretty nice – ice truck delivers ice to kids. Kids play with ice. But when you look closer, things get spooky.

Is that really ice?

I look at this mural and think WTF is going on here? I almost don’t want to ask. A twisted game of something?

What’s up with the boy in brown pants?  It’s ice, you dunce, not a Popsicle. Who peacocks to eat an ice cube?

I’m not sure what the leprechaun in the straw hat is feeding the dog, but I’m thinking you make it with chemicals and serve 5 to 7 years in prison for selling it. The eyes on the pup are a dead giveaway – dilated cartoon eyes whacked out on meth.

In 5 minutes, this dog will go postal

See what I mean? It’s best not to ask questions. It’s freaky. But the meat at Jim’s makes up for it.

So, if you’re around on the weekends, stop by. I’m the only fox eating there. We’ll kick back and discuss life, beer and ice.

Fox out.

61-second Rant: McDonald’s Caramel Frappé

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Every day I order my McGriddle, I am bedazzled by posters of the car-a-mel frappé, with its drizzled caramel and brain-tissue-like mound of whipped cream. I sit idling in the drive thru in awe, wondering who needs something like this to get going in the morning. Willy Wonka?

McDairy Queen? Photo rights are mine.

Caramel frappé images haunt me in my sleep.

At what point did morning coffee morph into morning dessert? My grandfather, who drank Folgers from a Mr. Coffee machine every day, wouldn’t have put anything called frappé near his lips. He didn’t need a dessert to get rolling in the morning. He drank real coffee, not a Dairy Queen treat disguised as coffee.

I feel bad for anyone who has a weight problem when I see products and advertising like this. The subliminal and overt messages can crush anyone’s willpower over time.  The caramel frappé exemplifies the excessive and unnecessary caloric intake that has infected our food supply.

Science tells us that we eat dessert last because that’s how out taste buds work. We eat meat, broccoli, and potatoes first for a reason. Sweet foods come second when our taste buds need a jolt to get excited enough to eat more food. Problems develop when dessert becomes our main course three times a day.

We will never cure our healthcare challenges until we say no to caramel frappés and other common foods pumped up by sugar steroids. I’m not suggesting we close the McD’s and Dairy Queens of the world. I love cherry Dilly Bars like my yellow lab loves carrots. I’m asking that we draw a line in the sand of our food supply. Leave the sweets to DQ and the Big Macs to McDonalds; keep coffee black, and whipped cream and caramel on sundaes.

And never mess with the McGriddle.

Stay well.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Saturday Funhouse – Four Things You Didn’t Know About CF

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Win one for Unknown

@seanset requested a Saturday Funhouse post today. So, as it’s Saturday, its seems like his timing is on the mark. Plus, next Saturday’s post will be a recap of Team USA’s thrilling 2-0 World Cup victory over England. Go Red, White and Blue.

Let’s get started.

The Internet provides a great deal of information on cystic fibrosis. You name it, we discuss it. However, some facts get lost in the sticky web of the Internet. So, I cracked open the archives of Cysticpedia today and dug up the following facts about CF that many may have missed. All true, BTW.

75 cents per load

Vest invented by a mom? One Saturday morning, Mrs. Jones of West Palm Beach FL found her young son, little Unknown, sitting atop her old, out-of-balance, vibrating Kenmore washing machine. Cute, she thought, until she noticed the secretions everywhere. She told friends the story at a dinner party that night. One of the dinner guests was the engineer who went on to invent the Vest. Coincidence? To this day, grown Unknown prefers the unbalanced, bouncing washer. True.

We have alien DNA. If you know the story of Superman, then you know he has super powers on Earth. We CFers are aliens on Earth, too, but our powers are neutralized here. However, on our home planet, only people with our unique combination of DNA are super and can fly. And our mucus is a weapon that can eat through steel and take down super villains. Oh, and we live to be 1,000 years old and never get sick. Where’s the ship that takes me home? Hello, Cyslandia? Can you read me? Beam me up, please.

Just like the candy ones I used to smoke. My parents let me smoke candy cigarettes when I was growing up. Now you know what I was up against, don’t you? Which is why I was dumbfounded to discover this controversial new invention scientists are working on. It’s an eFlow-like nebulizer that looks exactly like a cigarette. This way we can do our treatments in the car and look just like smokers on a commute. It also helps us explain our coughing at work. “Maybe you should give up the smoking,” our co-workers will say on their way to lunch, as we stand outside the building smoking our TOBI Lights. “Yeah, kiss my ass. I’ll live to be 95 because of these,” we’ll shoot back, smiling, knowing the truth. At least people will stop thinking they can catch something from us.

Evil spirits begone

Blow this. Some demented MoFo invented the Flutter a few hundred years ago as a device to cure witches and those possessed by evil spirits. When anyone was suspected of being possessed by an demon, they were forced to sit and blow the evil out. It lost its popularity because it was a terrible spectator sport watching someone’s face turn red and puffy until they passed out. Instead, torturers turned to drowning witches and those possessed, as it provided the excitement the crowds desired. And it sold more cotton candy and rats dipped in chocolate. Still, the torture lives on in my house every day. “Out with ya, Green Demon from Hell.”

There you go @seanset. Just for you.

Stay well.

The Post I Could Not Write Today

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The daughter of my friend @seanset joined Twitter today. This situation, in my warped mind, opened the door for all kinds of fun and pranks at his expense. Oh, what I had planned. The title of tonight’s blog was going to be “Five Tweets @Seanset never wants to see from his daughter.”

I can say that they were quite silly and would have sent @seanset reaching for a pint or two. But something funny happened on the way to that post. It hit me that here was his daughter, 19 years old, enjoying Twitter with her father. I wasn’t speaking to my father when I was that age, and haven’t since. And I thought of all of his tweets about his three daughters, the love he’s displayed for them, and the photos he’s shared. The miles he and his wife have logged taking care of them.

And I couldn’t do it. I have too much respect for this man who lives an ocean away.

One day, I’m going to walk into a pub in England, place a few pounds on the bar and buy him and my other English friend @onlyz the drinks of their choosing. I might even watch some cricket with them. Okay, maybe the cricket part is a stretch. I’ll watch soccer. You don’t need a 500-page rule book to understand it.

I also know that his daughter’s real tweets will get him in the long run anyway. That’s what daughters do. I just have to be patient and pick my moments.

I will share one fake tweet from his daughter. It’s the one that would shock him the most.

Dad, eloped with @unknowncystic. Made huge mistake. Send plane ticket. Bag on his head for a reason. Fugly. Talks to invisible fox. #ohshite

Stay well.