Category Archives: Fun & Humor

Four Bad Ideas for CG’s Poetry Contest (and one from Fox)

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As the three of you who read my recent poem for Cystic Gal know, I’ll never make a living writing poetry.

What you may not know is that C Gal is having a poetry contest. You can enter at this site: http://patientpress.blogspot.com/

I thought I’d enter. However, when I sat down to type some “badass, burning up the page” verse, I didn’t make it much farther than the titles.

Here are the titles of the four poems I contemplated writing:

Ah, the captions that could have been

“Nice Tweets and Ass.” What’s not to love about a poem expressing the joy of Twitter and a funny donkey? That’s what I thought until I realized how it might be misinterpreted. I’m forever haunted by my caveman subconscious. Don’t you feel bad for me now? Though I must say I’m more of a donkey man. Hold it, that doesn’t sound right either? Ah, forget it.

Ah, the good old days

“Two Hot Chicks, a 12-pack of Schlitz and Fox.” I can blame my outer Neanderthal on this one. C Gal accuses me of including these subjects in most of my posts, the first two at least. Fox was the new addition and the one gent who could actually act on a this opportunity for mayhem. I liked the concept, but when I started to write it I realized it was a better fit for a porn site, not poetry. Though I must admit that Fox bowls quite well.

creative common license

Oh, no, Firestone FS507's rolling my way

“Memories of Road-Kill Stew.” A title like this wouldn’t have had a shot on C Gal’s site, which is a haven for cute animal talk and photos. This was supposed to be a loving poem about the actual stew my mama made me when I was young growing up next to a highway. There’s nothing like the smoky taste of meat that’s been curing on a roadway and tenderized by big rigs. Not sure C Gal’s judges would have appreciated it. Had I been able to serve up the actual stew, I might have changed their minds. Though it tastes nothing like chicken stew and tends to come back up the first few times you try it.

Glive it up for Glee

“Glee is very Glay.” Not that there is anything wrong with being Glay, but insulting this popular ladies show would be a quick path to the judging trash can. Better title: “Glee makes me feel happy and Glay.” That would have been a sure winner with the ladies and Madonna fans of the world. Again, nothing wrong with gloving the Material Glirl.

Fox suggested the following poem. I warn you that it’s his opinion is not mine:

Living la vida loca on the road

“Silvia Plath writes like a dude.” I can’t think of a title that would piss off female poetry judges more than this one. Hate email would’ve filled Unknown’s inbox. None of which he would read because they’d all be too long, arguing every point from every poem that Plath ever wrote, and every essay that was ever written about Plath, and why he was so wrong and misogynistic for saying so. It was a joke, ladies. College is over. Time to marry rich. – So says Fox. p.s. Someone send over another 12-pack. I just got my second wind.

Stay well.

Saturday Funhouse – CF Has Driven Me Mad

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I lost my sanity many years ago. CF ran off with it like a toddler wound up on Red Bull, clutching a stuffed animal. I’ll never see Bobo Bear again.

The heart was enlarged, Doctor

It’s feels uncomfortable knowing that I’ve gone mad. I thought it would feel like the iodine contrast they give me before a CT scan, that warm feeling that rushes through my body and makes me nauseous. But it was more like an earthquake. The ground started shaking and there was nothing I could do but hide under the table.

Here’s how I knew my marbles had rolled down a hill never to be seen again:

I’m not a Doctor, but I play one in my head. When friends and co-workers catch anything respiratory, who evaluates their treatment plan?  The conversation: What did the doctor prescribe? Albuterol?  Good. You may feel jittery. That’s normal. What else? A Z-pack? Take that with food if your stomach gets upset. Buy some probiotics, too. How often are you coughing? Productive? Temperature? Oh, that medical degree on my wall? Yeah, my daughter drew it.

Photo by Alan Light, Creative Commons License

The Man!

Hugh Hefner in the Hospital. When I get assigned a hot nurse, I actually believe I have a shot. That’s despite the fact I never shower in the hospital, my hair looks like there’s mold growing in it, I stink of man musk and I’m married. Not that I’d want to ruin my marriage, but something inside me says, “If I tried hard enough,this room could turn into the grotto at the Playboy Mansion.” Because nothing attracts nurses like hospital-patient repartee, a PICC line in the bicep, and a crushing badger-like smell. Sponge bath, anyone? Anyone?

I would love fur and a little tail

Labrador Syndrome isn’t a medical condition, but it should be. I have the nervous system of a hunting dog. I’m constantly monitoring every little signal in my body. What’s that ache? Did my lung collapse again? Am I having a heart attack? Exacerbation? Stroke? All of them at once? The irony is that I’ll probably miss the signals for one of these when it does happen. Or, one sunny day, they’ll find me on my front lawn on all fours, looking for birds. Bird, bird, where’s the bird, I’ll say, drool dangling from my chin, as the dog catcher puts the loop around my neck.

I can read my own fortune. I can stare at my sputum like I’m reading tea leaves. Thin or thick? Color: Sea Sponge Green or J. Crew Sticky-Forest Yellow? How much? What’s that speck? Blood? Is that McGriddle or sputum? In public, I have a method for running off somewhere so I can stick out my tongue and inspect the specimen, looking cross-eyed and crazy. I wonder how many drivers in front of me have ever wondered, “Why is that guy sticking his tongue out at me? WTF is he looking at? Oh, gross.”

Who has a paper clip and some ear wax?

Open Sesame.  Germs are everywhere, especially on door handles. I reach for the door in places no one else touches. Or, I use my t-shirt covered hand to open the door. But sometimes, someone has designed a door that exceeds my MacGyver-ness. I go back to Labrador mode and wait for someone to open it for me. And wag my tail when they let me in or out.

Animals talk back. I write a blog where I talk to an imaginary fox named Fox. [Message from Fox: Why do I feel like kicking your yellow-Labrador ass right now? Don’t make me show you who’s real. I invented you, Unknown. That’s right. And I can delete you at anytime.] That’s confusing. Perhaps, Fox has a point. Am I the creation, or is he?

Stay mentally well.

Why I love My Wife and Being Married

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[Apologies for last night’s post by Fox. He’s officially banned from posting again. I do not condone running over small animals for food. Let Fox buy the butchered animals at the grocery store like the rest of us.]

I realized that I have not written anything about my wife yet. I haven’t told her about this blog either. Lucy, I have some explaining to do.

Not sure what she was thinking almost 25 years ago when she started dating me. I am a day at the beach, but that day is stormy and cold and the beach is covered in broken sea shells.

Your prize is Unknown

I definitely won the love-lottery jackpot with her. She won the two-dollar scratcher ticket – the one you don’t cash in because it’s only two bucks. The CF stuff she’s had to put up with over the years – yikes. I can say she is 100 times braver and stronger than I.

One night, she stepped on a piece of glass in the garage. Blood was pouring out of her foot, Monty-Python style. She asked if I thought she had to go to the hospital. I couldn’t stop dry heaving looking at it. Yes, you’re going to the E.R., tough gal. Start hopping to the car.

Here are some reasons I love being married to my wife.

Where are my police lights?

I work for the Geek Squad. She has a Master’s degree, but anything electronic that doesn’t work comes to me. “Camera no work. Fix please,” she says like a cave girl who just discovered a broken rock. “What does ‘your computer is infected’ mean?” It’s all very cute, but I want benefits with my job and one of those cool Geek Squad VWs.

Favorite food of Nanos

She brings home the bacon. I hate grocery shopping more than bad respiratory therapists. I don’t like the crowds or germs. I buy stuff I don’t need. And, GPS navigation is needed to find food thanks to the cryptic “hints” over the aisles. I feel like I’m playing Myst II – the clues make no sense. It also reminds me of when I was single and I thought I could meet women there – I’m zero out of 53 on that one. My line, “I’m cookoo for your Coco Puffs” never really worked. Not sure why. I thought it was funny.

How much will it cost?

Confessions of projects gone well. Two years after I finish a home repair, I get some admission that it’s really nice. Two years to get that approval. It must have to make its way through certain DMV departments in her brain before it gets to her lips. “Why do we need a window over the bed?” she asked. Two years later she said: “I love leaving the window open at night and the fresh air.” What? What was that? Did you just admit it was money well spent? Come back here, you. Come back here. Don’t run away.

I love her muffins

The Muffin Inquisition. No, my recent tweets about my wife’s muffins did not contain double entendres. My daughter ate six of them while my wife was out running. Then, when she returned, I was interrogated as to how I could let that happen. My reply: Do I look like the muffin police? Strike one. “Why didn’t you put them away before you ran?” I asked. Strike two. “Will six muffins really hurt her?” Strike three. Mr. Clueless, you’re off to the jewelry store to buy something shiny.

A comedy and language god

George Carlin would be proud. If I do something “uncouth” then I am disgusting and have a bad habit. If she does something we don’t mention it, pretend it didn’t happen, or laugh that our yellow lab did it. When the lab does let one rip, I get blamed. We also use different terms – I fart; she “spoodles.” That sounds cuter, like Spoodles the Toxic Clown popped out and started shooting flowers in the air. Mine require a Hazmat team. Hers smell like Glade lemon-mango-guava morning mist gum drops dipped in lavender. You say tomato, I say rotten tomato.

I better stop digging my future hole at this point. Know that I’m the luckiest man in the world. And those who take a chance on those of us with cystic fibrosis have a strength of character no writer will ever capture with words.

Stay well.

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A Message from Vulpes vulpes

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Dear Friends,

That's Mr. Vulpes vulpes to you, pal

Unknown is taking the night off to recover from Lost and 24 being cancelled. He’s curled up in a ball sucking his thumb, watching Glee. So, he asked me to write tonight’s post. Not exactly the brightest chromosome in the cell, is he? Letting moi, a Mohito-drinking fox, write anything. However, I choose to behave for once.

Let me thank each of you for reading this blog. I know it means a lot to Unknown. And, if he were here, he’d get all teary-eyed and probably write a poem about how much it means to him, you visiting and commenting and all that.

You can thank me now for saving you from that sappy piece of shit – I mean, poetry. Did I just say “shit?” Unknown will blow a gasket. He’d write it sh** with those cute little asterisks. Not tonight, baby. Adios to half of the readers. LOL to that, Unknown.

Seriously, Unknown feels very fortunate that you choose to visit this blog. And I know he wishes you the best life has to offer and good health. Me, Foxy, I wish you’d hit a fat squirrel on the way home from the office each night. Roadkill saves me having to work so hard to feed my family. Do your part next time you see that critter crossing the road, speed up and stay off the brakes.

Second thoughts about doing that? Ask yourself, “What would Darwin do?”

Fox out.

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A Poem for Cystic Gal

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My blogging pal, the charming and talented Cystic Gal, is back in jail. Argh, *&%&**. So, I decided to deliver some cheer, arguably, by writing this poem for her. Poetry is one of her great loves in life, along with small, cute animals, buff rock stars and a special two-word saying. Here’s a poetry example she can use with her future students to show what not to do in verse. BTW, everyone can start making fun of me now.

Feel better, CG. Feel better.

Two Words Only She Can Say

When you’re feeling light blue,
fat needles jabbing, stinging you,
fuzzy baby animals failing
to drive away the hail
of cutting cold infuses,
painful, not so lovely news.
Resort to these two words
to lighten dark days,
slice the thick green haze,
and give CF two pink-polished birds.

Pitch it all away
with, “how do you say?”
two words for models
who think thin is so May
and dine on tic tacs and hay
these babes that lack back-
bone, your style and brains
or boyfriend Bret in the sack.

Pink flowers again will rain,
your mood lifted, brighter
your gentle tongue lighter
when you share a catch phrase,
plucked brows quick to raise,
from the two words you love
that fit thee like a glove.

Two words that kick and blast
relationships not meant to last.
Two words with slapping power
barbed like a leather flower.
Your two words to fend off
the nasty therapist’s cough.

Let them rip
from your lips –
two words

Suck it.

Suck it.

You’ll feel happier,
smiley, with a wit snappier,
a funny story to tell
about the nasty red face
hit by the shotgun shell
disguised as your verbal mace

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Saturday Funhouse: Rejected CF Therapy Ideas

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I Stumbled Upon a confidential CF Foundation file today. It contains ideas for potential cystic fibrosis therapies that were rejected or failed in testing. Here are a few from the dozens listed. [Warning: Adult Content, perhaps.]

Good in chocolate, too.

Tabasco Flavored Albuterol. According to the document, the heat of red peppers causes coughing, making secretions fly out. This product only reached Phase 1 testing, which lasted about 30 seconds when “volunteers started collapsing from the pain of the Tabasco” in their lungs. “Sounded great on paper,” one researcher wrote. Though the medicine was cancelled, researchers discovered it still worked great on scrambled eggs and burgers.

Cat, cat, cat, cat, cat

Jogger’s Portable Compressor. This product made it to phase-two testing. The concept was simple and designed for CFers who like to jog. A battery operated compressor in a backpack was strapped to a dog, allowing the jogger to do treatments while running. It worked out just fine in early testing until Rocket, a two-year old black lab, spotted a cat. Unfortunately, the jogger lost eight front teeth, quite painfully, the report adds, “when the nebulizer followed the dog across the lawn.” Product cancelled; dentist visited.

Add one LC Plus and you're good to go

Beer helmet and nebulizer holder. It gets tiring holding a nebulizer in your hand or teeth for hours each day. Plus it’s not easy to drink your favorite beer and type inane posts all at the same time. The answer: combine the tasks. Adding a nebulizer holder to a beer helmet allows users to inhale one drug, then take a swig of their favorite beverage – all hands free. The product was cancelled when drunk subjects nebulized beer and drank TOBI.

Don't miss

Spit the bullseye. This game-like therapy was designed to give patients incentive to cough up their secretions and spit them at a target five feet away. Points were awarded based on the accuracy of the shot. Several problems occurred during testing. First, not everyone is good at spitting. Second, it was a really unpleasant clean up job getting the junk off the wall, not to mention the carpet, furniture and curious pets. And Home Depot doesn’t make paints designed for CF. This failure killed plans for the spinning target in development.

How do I disinfect this?

Bong-shaped Nebulizers. Here’s the failed advertising copy: It’s hard to look cool when your friends come over and you have inhaled meds to do. Introducing the nebulizer that looks like a bong. Now instead of feeling uncomfortable with a PARI LC Plus hanging from your mouth, your friends will marvel at your amazing ability to smoke weed continuously for an hour or more at a time. Who’s the Ganja King or Queen now, pal? Share a hit with them. Then wait until they get that albuterol buzz going, complaining that they feel wound up not down. “Who sold you this crap,” they’ll ask. Smile and say, “this is pharmacy grade stuff, man. Pass the chips, I’m starving.”

Stay well.

Not So Deep Thought of the Day – Who Burned the Chicken?

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I mentioned in a recent post that I love the concept of fear.less Magazine.

Scary

I started laughing today because it hit me that I will never make the electronic pages of fear.less. Never because I fear everything. Everything infinity. I win.

In fact, I started making a list of my fears for this post and had to stop because I started getting scared. I reached for my little fear-killer, Xanax, to calm my frayed nerves. Then @cysticgal tweeted me to let me know that I’d once again managed to included women and alcohol in a post. I felt better and strangely proud because, yes, I can write about subjects I know nothing about.

So, today I decided to start my own anti-fear.less magazine called fear.ful Magazine.

For about five minutes I thought it was a good idea. I even started drafting ideas for it, a table of contents and the cover art.

Here’s my idea for the fear.ful cover:

I’m standing on the roof of a two-story hospital, which is scarier than a 10 or 15-story hospital because I might survive the fall. I’m dressed in a burning chicken suit surrounded by door handles, chest tubes, split infinitives and respiratory therapists – a scary face is painted on the paper bag over my chicken head. An angry doctor is ready to push me off the edge. No need to cast an actor for that role, as I can pull a few from my past to give me a bump. A dozen Cirque du Soleil clowns wait below to catch me with a large paper net doused in gasoline.

All of that sounded great until I became afraid fear.ful would be a huge fail.ure. I’d lose my money, get sued by lawyers and end up in an alley nebulizing rat.

So, I popped another fear killer, kicked back and read some Charles Bukowski, avoiding sleep, fearful of the nightmares that would come from writing this post.

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Why I Love Visiting the Emergency Room

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[Disclaimer: Adult content. Do not attempt anything mentioned here. You’ll only get arrested,]

Do you have a reservation, sir?

I almost had to visit the ER visit last week due to stomach problems. I hate going to the ER so much, I gutted it out, pun intended.

Here are my favorite things about the ER:

I’m really here to rob you. I must be the only one who enters with a mask on. That’s the look I get from admissions, to the nurse who takes my vitals, to the first doctor I see two hours later. And to tell you the truth, I’ve never see anyone else show up with a mask on. No wonder they’re afraid of me. “Everyone raise your hands. This is a robbery. Toss your pulseox, heart monitor, and X-ray machine on this dolly. I can do all of this at home, people.”

Not like it was years ago, honey.

For VIP service. Look, let’s face it, the ER isn’t the Brown Derby. There’s no tipping the nurses to get served faster. But there are a couple of methods to reduce your exile in waiting room hell. First, always mention your chest and heart. I don’t care if you only broke your toe, say: “I’m having chest pains and can’t breathe. Oh, and by the way, could you X-ray this swollen toe while I’m here?” Second, if you’re coughing up blood, don’t be shy about it. Either bring a white towel with CSI blood evidence all over it or let a good cough splatter hit your shirt like you’re a drunk. They’ll take you right to your table. Don’t forget to tip.

CF is slang for Genetic Lotto Winner. Oh, how I love to hear, “you’re really lucky” referring to how long I’ve lived with CF. Yeah, I’d agree with you most days, but I’m not feeling so lucky right now with this collapsed lung and upcoming week “tubed” to a plastic suction box. Or, I’m not really connecting coughing up blood and luck, doc? Does the first person tonight with hemoptysis win a chicken dinner or something?” Then I’d feel lucky. Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

Appearing at Midnight, the Unknown Cystic

There’s a reason they put walls around toilets. Lying on a gurney for four hours in the hallway with staff members discussing my medical history is the equivalent of sitting on a toilet taking a dump in the middle of a mall – the same number of people walk by staring at you. That’s how much I hate the lack of privacy. “Where’s the damn toilet paper? Hey, you, buddy, standing by Victoria’s Secret. Toss me that catalog.” Welcome to my nightmare.

Shake this. I’m wearing a mask. I have cystic fibrosis. And you want to shake my hand, doctor? Please, why don’t you just let me lick your palm like your black lab does after you’ve eaten a slab of BBQ ribs. Better yet, after you’ve wiped it on every other patient and the floor. Just for kicks, how about giving me something I didn’t come in for – like the “hoof and ass” rash the guy in stall four has. In a fake British accent, Thank you, sir, may I have another, please.

What happens in the ER . . .

We’re on Las Vegas time. Just like Vegas casinos, time doesn’t exist in an ER. Gamble as long you like. In fact, ERs could learn something from Vegas. First, cocktail waitresses with real cocktails would be great. And blackjack tables would be a nice time-killer. For once I wouldn’t mind the two-hour minimum to see a doctor. I’d say, “not right now, doc, I’m down five hundred and Dealer Mikey here just gave me a colonoscopy when he drew a blackjack to my 20. On your way out, doc, let Nurse Ratched know I need another Martini. Shaken, not stirred. Thanks, doc.”

Be well.

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@onlyz’s Fun Friday – Five Fun Pranks To Play at the Hospital

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[Disclaimer: Each of these pranks has the potential to go drastically wrong and harm people, including you. Please remember that this an entertainment site and it is strongly recommended that you do not follow anything that is written or said here.  You may end up in a car trunk with hospital workers debating how they’re going to chop you up. It could happen. Don’t say you weren’t warned when you’re searching around in the dark for crowbar to defend yourself.]

[Disclaimer #2: THIS POST IS VERY ADULT, or childish, and you should skip it if this isn’t your cup of tea. So, perhaps, you may want to return to something not written by an insane person who is tired of quarterly hospital stays.]

Prank You Very Much

Ah, there’s nothing like 30 or more hospital stays to bring out the humor. So, today on @onlyz’s Fun Friday, I celebrate that joy and happiness with five fun pranks to play while enjoying your vacation at the hospital.

This can't be good

  1. What does the color of your sputum say about you? This is an easy one to start your life of hospital pranks. You’ll need an extra sputum jar. Take some food coloring and put a little in your next sputum sample. You’ll have the nurse looking at it like an engagement ring from a rock star as she walks headfirst into the door.
  2. Privacy Please. When you absolutely need to be left alone for that conference call or quiet moment with your spouse, putting a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door is about as effective as inserting your own PICC line. Here’s a sign that will make anyone check their courage meter before coming in: If the van’s a rocking, don’t come knocking – massage therapy session in progress. For added authenticity and  confusion, print it on paper with the hospital logo.

    Hello? Anyone there?

  3. Big Brother Is Watching. Place a fake security camera in your room (available on eBay). When someone notices, and they will notice, say “yeah, I thought it was strange when they installed it. Who do you think is watching?” Then stand up and pretend to look in it, making crazy faces and acting like a monkey. Finish by mooning the camera. “Let them tape that bitchin’ backside,” you say laughing.
  4. Pump yourself up for the big game. Sometimes its hard to take the sixth blood draw from the guy whose piece of fruit in phlebotomy class couldn’t scream every time he stuck it with a practice draw.  My suggestion: have a football helmet next to your bed and every time someone comes to stick you, put in on, do a motivational pump me up dance and cheer: “I’m ready – BRING IT ON!” For extra effect, spike a football after they’re done.

    Have you been a bad boy in the hospital?

  5. I hearted stewardesses. Nothing says party and drunken flight attendants like empty mini-bar alcohol bottles lying around. You won’t believe the doctor’s face when he sees the bottles, United Airlines flight attendant blazer, lacy undergarments and lipstick marks on your sheets from the previous night’s romp. If the doc puts up a fuss and lectures you, it’s time to pull out the greatest excuse known to us CFers. “Doc, I have cystic fibrosis. What did you expect me to do, say no?” Likely, you’ll get a wink and an approving “don’t let me catch you doing that again” look. Offer to show him the video when he’s cowboy enough watch it.
  6. I.V. Hell. This one is a classic, needs to be done early in your stay, and works best with residents. And you’ll need the help of a nurse. Have the nurse dress your neck like there’s an IV inserted in your jugular vein. When the doctor comes in and says, WTF, keep a straight face and say: “Yeah, I was surprised, too, but they said it was there or [point to your private area]. Not much of a choice now was it, Doc?”

    It's hard to find ruby slippers in an 11

  7. The Wizard of Oz. This trick will require some money and a trip to the costume store, but it’s well worth the investment. Each day you’re in, wear a different Wizard of Oz costume. Think of the fun you’ll have growling at people as the Friendly Lion, and making a hay trail as the Scarecrow. When you’re the Tin Man, here’s your line: “I hope you brought a strong needle today, babe, cause I’m 100 percent pure tin made in OZ.” Always wear the Dorothy costume on the final day, as nothing brings about a psych consult like cross dressing in Oz costumes. Also, don’t forget the stuffed Toto for that added detail.

BTW, @onlyz can’t count. Have a good weekend.


Fox Ventures Out for a Day Trip

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Fox is a trickster

Fox jumped out of my computer today and landed on my desk, sending papers and books everywhere. Then he sat and stared at me with his fox eyes, making it hard to concentrate on my work. Finally he spoke and told me he had a gift, but I didn’t see a package.

Everything went black for a second. Then I had a vision:

My tweeps and I were in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on a fast-moving yacht.

Dragging in the water behind the boat was what looked to be a giant green Michelin Man, but it was really cystic fibrosis. Sharks were tearing pieces off its body as it bounced up and down on the water. It was still alive, but clearly suffering, and had seen better days before it had become a toy for the sharks.

@CysticGal walked up to me holding a paint brush. “I’m painting the yacht purple,” she said.

“What happened to pink?” I asked.

“Purple is the new pink, dummy,” she said.

She looked fantastic in a sharp-looking Calvin Klein boating outfit and Jimmy Choo deck shoes. She walked away and splattered purple paint all over the deck. Magically, each splotch transformed into a perfectly shaped flower.

“Hey, Ronnie,” I said as @runsickboyrun and Mandi jogged past me. I did a double-take because Mandi was having a hard time keeping up with Ronnie, who looked supercharged. Their video crew couldn’t keep up and tumbled over the side of boat.

A camera appeared in my face with @onlyz peering over the top. “Cheers, mate. Glad you finally woke up. Thought you was a right bang pludge wonk there.” I had no idea what he said, having left my British English/Real English dictionary at home.

He snapped another three photos, as @CFFatboy, dressed in his tattered college alumni shirt, stuck two fingers behind my bagged head, rabbit style. He had a protein shake in the other hand, but looked like he’d exceeded his weight goal by a few dozen pounds.

“You still need to drink that stuff?” I asked.

“Hard habit to break,” he replied. “Benching a ton these days. Loving that.”

Looked like he weighed a ton judging by his torn clothes, kind of like the Hulk – if the Hulk had a Florida tan and wasn’t green.

I went to the upper deck, passing @rlcarroll working on his iPad, drinking an Old Milwaukee. “You were right, Unknown, this beer is good and my iPad does rock. Who’s Laughing Out Loud now, B-atch,” RL boasted. I thought about kicking the iPad out of his hands into the water, but I saw his sunburn and decided silence is golden.

Tasty goodness in a bottle

A woman with her back to me was loading a large surface-to-air missile launcher. I’d never met her, but I knew who she was.

“Finally, we meet” she said. “You ever going to take that bag off your head?”

“When I can afford plastic surgery,” I replied.

She smiled. I looked at her eyes, happy to finally meet her, and knew today was important to her.  “Will that be enough?”

“Oh, my toy?” she asked, holding up the imposing weapon. “I’m ending this madness now.”

With that she walked down to the back of the boat, passing @seanset, @cfstinabug, @CF_gurl, @Nanosmakemepuke and my other Twitter pals, who were all dressed in formal wear. @CysticGal had changed outfits, too, Vera Wang spring collection, and had some rock star I couldn’t place next to her. She was happy because she set the drink theme as “M,” as she loves alliteration. Everyone drank mohitos, martinis and margaritas.

My newly met friend and her large weapon stood at the back of the boat, CF dragging and bouncing in the water, eyeballing us, fight and anger still in its eyes. But it knew what was about to happen. The hunt was over.

She raised the large MRP weapon of destruction to her shoulder and sighted it squarely at the monster, whispering something to herself, adjusting to the motion of the sea and the monster. Up and down the boat rode the waves until a large crack broke the silence, a trail of flame and smoke followed the shell to its target.

Pieces of CF flew everywhere, landing in the water. @onlyz detached the dangling rope. “Well, that happened,” he said, wiping his wet hands on my bag, making it stick to my head.

We left CF behind, the sharks cleaning up the bloody mess until there was nothing left.

Everyone raised their glasses, toasted, sipped, and was quiet. Warriors lost filled our hearts and minds, as we knew it was time to head to port.

The vision ended there and I was left to wonder when Fox would return and send me back to the yacht. The best was yet to come.

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