Tag Archives: Fun

I Want To Be Jack Nicholson

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Visit to the optometrist

The eye doctor told me I needed new reading and distance glasses. I thought I’d have to buy two separate pairs, but she told me I could get one pair with “progressive” lenses that covered all distances. Sounded great. Not sure how the magic works, but I love saving money.

Here I am wearing the glasses in question. Finally, no bag over my head, though I'd look better with one on.

To prevent a fashion faux pas, I brought my wife. And after trying on a dozen styles, she helped me choose a pair of tortoise-shell Nike glasses with a green inner frame, which was a hip, youthful touch. They seemed okay, but I didn’t have lenses in them so I couldn’t get a clear image of how I looked. But my wife told me they looked good.

After the frame was picked, the sales guy tried to sell me every 80 dollar add-on I didn’t need. I gave in for the glare protection because that feature might help at night. Even with insurance I got pounded for over 250 dollars.

A week passed and I picked up my glasses. Looking in the mirror with them on, two things happened. First, I realized that I looked like Robert De Niro at the end of Casino when he wore huge old-guy glasses. Second, I couldn’t see clearly because of the progressive lenses, which require you to look out of certain parts of the lens to see close up, medium or far distances. Oh, #!$* me.

The sales guy told me not to worry because it takes a week to get comfortable using them, but not to walk down stairs or drive with them yet. What the? Do I have to visit a mall parking lot like I did at age 15 and learn to drive again in these things? Are you kidding me? How did I go to eyeglass hell and not know it?

I was pretty upset at that point. I looked 80-years-old and couldn’t see well (that is probably how I’ll be at that age if, by some miracle, I outfox CF). Yet, the coup de grâce was still on the way. When I got home, I asked my wife if she thought the glasses looked good on me. She shrugged her shoulders and said something like “I thought they did.” Oh, being married some days. Argh, argh, argh. You thought they did? Past tense? What about now, at this moment?

The real blow to the head came when I tried to use them while doing computer work. Impossible, as they had no sweet spot that allowed me to focus clearly on the computer monitor. I could eek out a “less-blurry” image if I tilted my head sideways at just the right distance, and held one leg in the air, but I wouldn’t be able to maintain that pose for the 10 to 12 hours I spend looking at three monitors.

Give me a new pair and I'll let you live. Maybe.

I hate situations like this where I feel like I got hosed. I wish I were Jack Nicholson with his unlimited funds and volcano temper and I could stand in the middle of the optometrist’s office, with the joker who sold them to me sitting there, and the doctor who told me progressive lens were the way to go looking on, and throw the new eyeglasses to the ground, then jump on them until they became a mass of pulverized Nike plastic.

I’d calmly say: “Now how about selling me a pair of glasses I can see out of and use for work without tilting my head like a curious dog waiting for a treat – a pair that doesn’t make me look like I accidently walked out of the nursing home during a game of bingo and can’t find my walker or my way back?”

Is there anyone here who can do that? Is there anyone here who knows what the *$&# they’re doing?

Of course I’d take a 9-iron to the racks of crappy glasses on the walls, destroying them all. Then I’d drop my credit card on the counter and say, “I didn’t see anything I liked today. Call me when your new inventory arrives.”

Oh, how I wish I could do that. Instead, I have to go back and see how much it’s going to cost me to get new ones. I can’t wait to take it in the shorts – again.

I’m living proof some of us don’t get smarter as we grow older. We just get fuglier.

Stay well.

Saturday Funhouse – My Ideal Hospital Room

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[Adult language]

My good pal @seanset, http://seanset.posterous.com/, wrote a comment here moaning and groaning about me not writing a Saturday Funhouse for awhile. How the hell did that happen?  Thanks, mate, for reminding me. Here you go. This one’s for you. And yes, I know it’s Sunday Funhouse where you live.

My Ideal Hospital Room

No jumpers, please. The first thing I’d add to my room is a balcony. I’d like fresh air each day without having to gear up with a mask and gloves and endure the fearful looks from people in the elevator (yes, idiot person who moved to the back, as if that will really help, I have the Bubonic plague, but they let me roam the hospital to drive up revenues with fresh patients).

Each morning I want to pop out of bed, I.V in tow, and take three steps to the great outdoors, yelling: Hello, World, I’m still here, ha ha ha ha ha ha, the joke’s on you.

Imagine cooking outside your hospital room. Rocking. How do you like your steak cooked, Fox?

How nice would it be to sit on the balcony in the morning reading while doing treatments? I could wave to my fellow CFers on their balconies. We could have a contest to see who could make the funniest voice with the vest turned to max. Then we could see who could spit farther, which might be the reason they don’t have hospital balconies in the first place. Not exactly the image the hospital wants to promote with a bunch of us sitting in our underwear spitting on the roof or gardens below.

Imagine people driving up to the hospital watching patients on the balconies doing nebs. Might be too much for them to take. Not us, cause we’ve been to places no one should have to go. So there. Roll up your windows when you drive by, people. BTW, I’d hang some laundry on the railing just to give it that old apartment-building look. And I want the BBQ in the picture.

You can’t make me go in there. I don’t take showers in the hospital. I look at that dark, nasty chamber and connect it to the thought of how lazy the cleaning staff can be. You’d need a team of football players to force me in there (or two drunk Victoria’s Secret supermodels). The shower is bacteria heaven.

Let's torch some bacteria, friends.

I read that some gas stations, or petrol stations in England (you’re welcome for that translation, Sean), have self-cleaning bathrooms. Perfect. That’s how I want my hospital bathroom to work. I want to be able to press a button and watch the entire bathroom sprayed down in bleach. Then I want flames to light it up like the “Backdraft” tour at Universal Studios, killing everything the bleach missed.

Finally, I want test swabs done to make sure nothing is living in there that I don’t want living in me. After all of that, I’ll take my shower with confidence. Girls, show me that pose from page 27 again.

Trying living in the Material Girl’s laundry basket: I want a room bigger than Madonna’s smallest walk-in closet. It’s amazing what a difference an extra 20 square-feet makes when it comes to your mood and health, and where you put all of your shoes if you’re a woman. How about designing a CF room that doesn’t make me feel like a caged animal gone mad during two weeks in the hole?

Come on, hospital bed, let’s do the wave. Have you ever awakened covered in sweat because of the plastic hospital mattress? Plastic doesn’t make the best material for temperature control. However, and this is true, when I was 16 I got a waterbed. And it rocked – and rolled. It was AWESOME to sleep on. It had a plastic mattress with temperature control and heated water. That was the trick. In Winter I was warm and cozy and could sleep with only the top sheet of my Spiderman bedding.

Now this is a waterbed fit for a hospital

Now as there are a ton of needles in hospitals, waterbeds may not be the best idea. Can you imagine pressing the “I want my nurse now“ button and saying, “my water bed just popped. Oh, and can you bring in some towels and fresh scrubs because my wife and I are soaking wet.”

Let’s hang in Unknown’s room. I cannot tell you how many times I have come close to going “rock star” on the crappy TV with no good channels and fuzzy reception. I came this close to ripping it off the bracket at Cedars-Sinai once and tossing it out the window. Had I been a rock star, they would have just billed me. If I had done it, I would have been fighting back the cons in the L.A. Jail. So, for us time-share hospital patients, let’s load up the room with the finest entertainment center available.

I want a 52-inch HD, 3D flatscreen with every f***ing channel in the world. That’s right, in the world. I’ll even watch those crazy-ass soap operas from Brazil. I won’t understand what they’re saying, and won’t care because everyone looks tan and pretty.

I should have taken a photo of the remote last time I was in. Here's one that looks and functions just like it.

Don’t forget the sound system. I need to block out anyone yelling “nurse, nurse” from the other room. I want people to think there’s an earthquake and it sounds a lot like the battle scene in Avatar.

Lastly, give me a remote control that selects channels up and down and that doesn’t make me want to inject Drano in my IV because I just passed the channel I wanted and now I have to go through 20 crappy channels to get back to the one I passed. Whew, that’s a mouthful.

To the joker who invented that piece of shit remote, I’m still looking for you and will one day take the reverse gear out of your car. They’ll be no backing up for you after that.

Some of us work for a living. I’ve said this many times – give me a desk and chair. I work when I’m in the hospital. This ain’t no holiday, people. I have a family to feed and insurance to keep. Help me keep it, hospital room designers. That way I can come back and use my insurance again, as opposed to doing my IVs while pushing a shopping cart on the streets of downtown Los Angeles.

Design a desk and have it pull out of the wall like a Murphy Bed or something. Get with the program of the digital world we live in – the one that doesn’t go away just because you’re in the hospital.

Here’s one from Fox: Thanks, Unknown, for giving me one, you generous bastard. Fox here. Look, my fox friends, nurses have heard every line you’ll ever come up with. There is nothing you can say with your golden tongue that is going to catch one of these intelligent, caring women. Even though they wear pajamas to work, which is cool, you have zero chance of getting them to change into something more comfortable – they’re already comfortable in their nurse PJ’s and Crocs. So, you have to trick them in a different, more subtle way.

This is what I look like without the bag over my head

The water bed is a great first step. Nurses love water beds and will want to test it. When she gets on, bump up the wave action and wait for the fun to begin. You say: “Look who fell into my arms. Que romantico. My name is Fox, and I come from an exotic land called Brazil. I will kiss you now.”

Second, and this is the bait of all bait, put a stripper pole in your room. Always say it’s for exercise and the docs won’t barf all over the idea. When the doc is gone, the patient will play. No nurse can resist a pole in the room (except the one in Louisiana who’s going to write Unknown a nasty comment for this post).

Now gents,  you have to stay cool and subtle and say it like this: “What’s a little spin around the pole going to hurt? It’s a great way to get over the barf storm Mr. Wilson just coughed up all over his room?” Be encouraging. “There you go. That’s it. I’ll just be sitting here reading on my iPad. You go ahead and get crazy. Oh, yeah. Wait, let me crank the AC/DC on this awesome sound system. That’s it. Did they teach you that in college.” [the rest of Fox’s post was censored because, well, you can only imagine what happened next – out came the beer and dollar bills. Then all hell broke loose when the nurse twins came in. Oh, my, Fox. What am I going to do with you?]

Last words . . .

I’ll be playing the lottery tonight, hoping I win big and can have my hospital build a wing just for us. We’ll party like it’s our last and live the rock star lifestyle with IV’s in our arms, a neb in our mouths and a cold beer in our hand. It will be the hospital of choice for those of us who value partying. Let’s drink shots from our Flutters. What the worst that can happen? We’re in the hospital, damn it. Code Yellow, drunk fox peeing off the balcony again.

Live the high-rise life.

I Heart My iPad

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After three months of torturing myself about whether to buy an iPad – tweeting my agony to my friends – I purchased one. And it’s better than I ever expected. It’s a game changer when it comes to how we use computers.

Now I can wear an electronic bag over my ugly face

The iPad transforms the Internet experience into a book you hold in your hands while sitting in your most comfortable easy chair, or on the couch, or outdoors at night in a hammock. Its ergonomics when reading Internet articles and digital books blow away a laptop’s weight, size and physical design.

I can place the iPad in more positions due to its design than I can a laptop. And it boots up in an instant, which is a nice bonus when you want to check something quickly, like Twitter, your email or a web site. (Why can’t desktop PCs and laptops boot up like this?)

Then there is the bonus of all bonuses for me: reading digital books.

I don’t like the feel of rough paper e.g. grocery bags. If I were a captured spy, wrap me in a few Von’s paper grocery bags and all the Agency’s secrets will be spilled. I’ll talk, just don’t rub that paper bag on my chest again. I have never liked the feel of book paper either, or holding a book and trying to get comfortable with it for a long period of time.

Reading books on the iPad is my dream. I can read an iPad one-handed by propping it against something. I can read while eating without pages flipping over. I can read while using two hands to do my flutter. I love the (almost) hands-free reading. I only have to tap the screen to turn the page. And they turn fast.

A blog post within a blog post

When I go to jail next time, my iPad will make the terrible experience of being locked up better. I won’t have to sit in a crappy hospital chair with my knees hitting the bed’s framework, my laptop sitting on the bed. I will be able to kick back on the crappy plastic bed and tweet and read blogs and books, and watch movies streamed from Netflix – all with one device – awesome.

I waited three months to buy an iPad because I wanted to teach my daughter a lesson about not getting caught up in the hype of being the first to own new gadgets. (Now the lesson is to wait at least three months before getting caught up in the hype.) However, I did research it and talk to friends before buying it.

And with those conversations in mind and some hands-on time with it, I knew my daughter and I would get a lot of use out of it for a long time. I did resort to using the “Life is short because I have CF” excuse to help make the decision – just a tiny bit.

Other than fingerprints, which are annoying, my daughter stealing it and some software quirks, there is little downside.

I expect that one day in the future, my daughter will leave for school, but she won’t have a backpack full of heavy books hanging from her shoulders. She will have an iPad or other tablet computer in her hand. And it will contain all of her school books, notes, dreams, pictures of her parents, dogs and friends. And every book she has ever read.

I’ll stand by the door watching her skip down the walkway, love in my heart, thankful there won’t be chiropractor bills coming in a few years from her lugging 50 pounds of books each day. How nice that will be. And I’ll watch as the happy trees shake their leaves and wave and say to her, thank you, little girl, thank you. Have a great day at school with your paperless device thingy.

What a wonderful world it will be.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles: Malibu

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Fox here.

I have some very hip friends in Malibu who invited me over for a Fourth of July BBQ. Here are a few pictures of the day.

For those of you who think California is warm in the Summer, it’s not. Well, it is and it isn’t. The day I went to Malibu was a “it isn’t” day. I froze my tail off. You can see from the pictures that it looks like a winter day. However, it’s July.

Some of the warmest beach days I’ve enjoyed in Los Angeles have been in October and November. Go figure.

Clouds fill the sky and turn the day gray

In the picture above, notice the rocks. The beach in this location washed away. The rocks protect the houses and will help bring the beach back – they hope.

The view of the south shows the bluff and Zuma beach to the left

The water was freezing cold to humans. My chocolate lab pal had no trouble with his oily coat.

Lunch for a Fox

There’s nothing I love more than free food and beer. My friends provided the beer and I caught the food. I ate three of these seagulls. They’re quite tasty with a rum marinade and Cajun seasoning.

Who got crazy with a paint brush?

The lifeguard shacks in L.A were getting run down. Kudos to the people who gave them a bold makeover.

Let's roll on down to the surf shack, dude!

Now this mailbox tells me someone with imagination and a love for life and the beach lives here. Nice choice, Malibu person I don’t know.

Living on a hillside overlooking the ocean is the high life. Reminds me of someone I know in England.

Here’s a shot of the hillside and some homes. There are a few gems up there I would like to make my habitat.

At night, the dolphins return to the ocean

Even the gas stations in Malibu sport artwork with an ocean theme. The Chevron near my house has a bus bench with graffiti on it, not spitting dolphins.

That’s a quick look at Malibu.

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles – Theatricum Botanicum

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Handsome me hunting in the theater's garden

Fox here.

A magical outdoor theater hides in the hills of Los Angeles. Though well-cloaked by the woods of Topanga Canyon, and unknown to many who live in L.A, Theatricum Botanicum thrives as a gem of artistic freedom and expression.

This outdoor theater hosts outstanding plays and music in the summer and fall. The area where it’s located is home to artists, writers and other successful L.A. humans. Foxes like me live throughout the surrounding hills, along with other mythical creatures who show up at night.

Here’s the web link.  http://www.theatricum.com/

I recently grabbed UC and his family and treated them to a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. For a few hours, cystic fibrosis and the challenges of life faded away, and fun and mirth was had by all.

Thank you, Mr. Will Geer and Family. Thank you for maintaining this wonderful place and for sharing great art.

(CG, I hope to see you here one day with that crazy cat of yours. It’s your kind of place.)

Here are some photos from the day.

The year was 1973 and Theatricum started rolling. It gets better each year.

Buried deep in the woods, T.B. is a must see in L.A.

Strange creatures live here and hide themselves in plain sight during the day. At night, this gas meter man comes to life and roams the canyon, hissing and smelling of rotten eggs.

While you're sleeping, I'll be standing outside your house measuring your gas usage

Here is the man who started it all.

The great man himself. AKA Grandpa Walton. At night, he comes to life and tells great stories to the wildlife.

Theatricum has introduced thousands of kids across L.A. to live theater. They give back to the community. Here’s a small performing area for kids to practice. It includes this cool bridge.

A wood bridge in a smaller theater for kids

Botanicum refers to the nature that surrounds the place, including the special garden where the bust of Will Geer and other native plants live.

Arrive early and you can picnic in the garden or other hidden nooks.

All kinds of amusing and interesting things hide in plain sight here and fill one’s imagination and heart. Where does this staircase go? No one knows because all who have gone up it have never been seen again.

Do I hear Led Zeppelin playing?

Here’s the stage in all of its glory. I would have loved to show you the actors on stage, but they frown on that. Plus, I drop the camera a lot trying to hold it my paws. My pal, Josh, tells me it has something to do with me not having opposable thumbs. At least my middle one still works.

All actors are invisible to the camera lens. That's how magical they are.

Here’s where the forest creatures hide during the day. Notice that there is no door.

Only at night does a door appear. They say those who see look too closely at the creatures become a creature

What exists at the top of the hill is unknown. Clearly, this is a sign a fox can ignore. And I did. However, I cannot speak of what I saw.

You do not want to know what's up here. Trust me, I'm a fox.

That was my adventure in Los Angeles. If you live here or are visiting, Theatricum offers the finest entertainment and acting. Not only that, your worries and troubles will gently be absorbed by the surrounding nature and the wonderful performance. You’ll leave smiling and relaxed.

Fox out.

The Who’s Roger Daltrey Microphoned Me – A Fox Tell-all

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[Not a post for a kit]

I'm never going back again. Creative Commons, Ulybug

It’s Saturday night. I’m having a shit time at the Hard Rock in Vegas, and down over 200K. The dealer’s treating himself to 21’s like Ginger’s been treating herself to hotel shampoos, soaps and robes – one for me, none for you, Fox.

Dealer Jack from Montana is beating the crap out of me with every faceless card in the shoe, 3’s, 6’s 2’s. I’m thinking, you better, you better not bet, Fox.

I sign for 100K in chips. I’m feeling angry. Ginger’s counting cards in her crazy nurse way, whispering 100ml, 5cc, 50mg. WTF? How does she do it? I don’t know.

Dealer man thinks she’s nuts, not the PhD she really is. But her method works. She’s up 70 or 80K, which only makes it worse that my lucky lady is showing me up. I know she’s smarter than I am, but don’t Einstein me in public, Kid. The real me is sensitive.

It’s another tricky day all the way around – my fox ego pounded and dying on the floor. I’ve had enough.

Who's next for a beating?

But guess who sits down at my high-roller’s table? Baba O’Riley himself, the thunder-god of Rock n Roll, Roger Daltrey. My pal CG would have jumped him right there cause she hearts aging rockers; and Unknown would have wet his pants like the yellow lab pup he is.

So, Roger D sits down in the last position with Ginger sandwiched between us. The dealer flips me two 8’s, Ginger a Blackjack, and Roger a 16. Dealer Jack shows a 5.

Roger’s making all cute and cuddly and using his rock-star lucky charms with nurse Ginger, who is jumping up and down yelling “code blue to you, sucka” at the dealer thanks to her big win. Woo F’ing who, I’m thinking. I’m playing cards here, not the dating game.

I slide another 50K forward with my paw, all cool and fox-like. No words needed. Happy Jack knows I’m splitting 8’s. The two 10’s he drops turn my 8’s to 18’s. It’s about F’ing time. Let him chat it up with Gin if he’s turning coal to platinum.

I look at his 16 and pray to Athena that he makes the right move and stays at 16. But wrong, I am.

I don’t know how they play blackjack in the UK, but the way we friggin’ play it here is the US of A is when you’re last position, and dealer Jack is showing a 5 to your 16, you plant your ass on your rock-star hands.

But no, that’s not what Sir Who does. He scratches his finger on the table and calls for another card.

I can’t get the words “Fuck no” out fast enough. Dealer Jack tosses him a queen of spades, clubbing my beating heart, and turning his 16 to 26. He busts, then laughs about it cause he owns mansions made of gold.

I can see for miles what’s coming next. Dealer Jack flips his hold card and shows 15. The 10 that Tommy Boy just asked for, that cost him 100K of his walking-around money, was supposed to go to the dealer to bust him. He took the dealer’s 10, damn it.

Tommy himself

Now Jack from Montana looks at me, the corners of his mouth raise like an alley cat’s, all wicked-like. Even he is clairvoyant enough to see my bad luck coming. He’s chuckling inside, knowing what Princess Pinball Wizard just did.

But I’m too late. Here comes the trick of the light, as the four of diamonds falls flat, giving the dealer a 19, beating my two 50K 18’s. I’m crushed by the man who sang Sister Disco.

That’s about when I hear Who Boy start singing “mama’s got a squeeze box, Daddy never sleeps at night” to Ginger.

One of the remaining Who geezers is singing the creepiest of songs to Gin thinking it’s the magic bus to her heart. He slides his room key across the felt all-stealth and old-guy creepy like.

I only know what happened next because the police were playing the tape when they paw-printed me. Laughed their asses off, they did.

In the video, I jump on the table and go mobile. I nail Roger right in the nose. After that, there’s five minutes of me hanging on to his face as he tries to shake me off. Tables, cocktails, everything goes over. He’s screaming just like he does in concert. Then he grabs my tail and uses his microphone twirling skills to whip me across the casino. I land against a Wheel of Fortune slot machine, where security takes me down.

I have blue eyes that are sad. Where's my billion dollars in royalties?

Ginger has seen this show before. I yell out that she led him on and there goes my bail money. She says she won’t get fooled again and runs out.

In court, he judge says, “Who’s next?” and looks like he’s ready to give me life. I want to give him the slip, Kid. I can’t explain my actions, but I can tell him what Sir Behind Blue Eyes did. And after hearing the story, the judge dismisses all charges. He agrees that’s it’s illegal to hit a 16 when the dealer is showing a 5. It’s a crime, he says, and lets me go.

I’m free.

That’s my side of the story. Ginger won’t return my calls. Unknown sits in a hotel room somewhere. I look in the mirror tonight and wonder, Who are you, Fox? Who are you?

Fox out.

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles – Concerts on the Green

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Hello,

Fox here. Unknown is on my shit list again after yesterday’s “I’m lucky” post. I asked him if he wanted to write another one of those sugar fests while he’s coughing up a lung doing his treatments. Judging by the two birds he flipped and red face, he’s not feeling so happy-go-lucky right now. My turn to write a post.

I attend concerts because that’s the kind of thing I do. I grab my nurses and roll to where good music is playing.

Each week the Valley Cultural Center hosts a free concert in Woodland Hills. Desperado, an Eagles tribute band, played and rocked the house, and we danced like animals.

The band played one of my all-time favorite songs: “Hotel California.” Here is the Eagles’ original version on youtube.com. Feel free to play it while you look at the pictures. You’ll feel like you were hanging with us.

It was a packed house tonight, which meant I signed a lot of autographs.

Lots of people, great music and great fun

I seek out places where hunting is easy. This park has one of my favorite places to eat. As it reads on the side of the trailer, “All American Cooking.” That pig looks like he doesn’t turn away until his plate is cleared.

A truck full of meat. It doesn't get better than this, my friends.

Here’s my tri-tip sandwich. Meat and bun. Simple for a fox. Not too much fun for a vegetarian, but they do have grilled corn on the cob to chow down.

Juicy meat I didn't have to chase down and skin. Loving it.

This place has strange places to visit. You couldn’t pay me enough to go in the tiger’s mouth. Kids went in, but they didn’t come out.

You can consider yourself tri-tip for the tiger when you walk in its mouth.

The event got out of hand when a giant rat ran through the park. I chased him off.

Nothing creates havoc like a giant rat with a cheese belt

When I hang in public, I get attention. People don’t see many foxes. The cameras come out and autograph hounds run over to visit and talk. Some even sketch a picture of me. Here are two of my favorites of the night.

I love the taste of hen. It really does taste like chicken.

Here’s another one done by a young fan. She just sat there and stared at me like she’d never seen a fox before.

Fox is popular with young fans, too. They know I'm a gamer and hold the record in Super Mario.

Here I am. The most handsome of foxes.

I am more handsome than you are - by far. No comparison. And I'm 100 times better looking than Unknown. No need for a bag over my head. I'm foxy.

That’s my adventure in Los Angeles.

A quick shout out to Josh at Welcome to Joshland. He’ll know why. 🙂

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

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.