Wednesday, July 31, 2013

60 Seconds Inside a Blonde's Head

I can’t believe I’m at baseball game…Baseball’s OK but it’s too damn hot… At least my date is hot…and so are the players… Athletes are hot... I must admit though, I am a little confused about the spitting. I guess all that running makes you want to spit…The scratching of their crotch is a bit weird, too... but then again it’s not really a scratch. It’s more like a push… to the side…a fix…it could be a grab… I guess them things get in the way a lot…Some more than others… but you can’t leave home without it…Sort of like a purse… Where is my purse? There it is, by my feet …I should have worn sneakers. These stilettos are tough to get around in but then again, they do make my legs look long…and hot…Damn, it sure is hot. ..This guy I'm with should go get me a daiquiri… I can’t believe I’m at a baseball game.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Detroit Rock City

Detroit Rock City is a Kiss song,
And now they should kiss
The city,
It’s gone.

The haves, the have-nots
They all had their way.
No sand in the sand box
Now no one can play.

No money.
No fame.
Who is to blame?
It’s always the same
Shame. Shame. Shame.

They better think twice
Nothings for free.
Gomer Pyle would say

Saturday, July 13, 2013

The Running of the Gay Bulls

It’s morning, the first day of the famed Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain. The city is ecstatic but Norman, the legendary lead bull from America is not in the mood. Miguel, his friend, standing next to the bed is ready for the day’s events.

Miguel: Rise and shine, you big burly bully beast! I made breakfast!
Norman: Good God, give it a rest, Miguel. I’m not ready for this.
Miguel: Now, don’t be a Grumpy Gus. Not today. Today is a big day and you always amaze the crowd on your first day.
Norman: Yea, yea. So, I’ll get to stick a horn up a Spaniards ass.
Miguel: But you love that, Norman. You’re the best. People from all over the world love you. Bulls, young and old, love, admire, and respect the great “Gore-Man Norman.”
Norman: I’m tired Miguel. I don’t want to do it anymore.
Miguel: Are you crazy? Yoo hoo, world! Miguel calling! He goin’ crazy, again! Now, you get up and get that big beautiful hind quarter out of that bed.

Miguel grabs the covers and throws them off Norman.

Miguel: Whoa. Well hello, there. What do we have here? You better hide that thing and save it for the runners. You don’t want to scare them away before they blow the whistle.
Norman: Leave me alone.
Miguel: Oh no, not this again.
Norman: I’m tired of living a lie, Miguel. Look, I know who I am. I’m the biggest, the baddest bull at the premier bull event in the world.  I’ve bucked every cowboy in every rodeo back home. I’ve been a stud for every cow who works for Chick-fil-A. Miguel, I’ve never told you this, but humans once made me do things with that cow who jumped over the moon that no bull should have ever had to do, but still, after all I’ve done for them, I can’t be with the one I want and tell the world who I am.
Miguel: I know Norman. I want people to know us for who we are too. But you’ll get your chance if that’s what you want. Times are changing. You’ll see. Now please, go ahead, eat your breakfast. You’ll need your strength. We can talk later.

(Miguel walks to door, stops, and turns to Norman.)

Miguel: You know Normy. This is the world we live in, for you to not gore the silly humans, who spend good money to be gored by the best there is, would be, how do they say, inhuman. You go and gore today my friend. You are… my exquisite beast.

(Miguel leaves and Norman says to the empty room)

Norman: I am a beast, a beast of burden.

 To be continued…

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Francois Ferinand "Fuzzy" Foret- Dead at age 104

Montegut, LA - Fuzzy Foret, the legendary trapper from Montegut, La., known by admirers for his bare hands wrangling of everything from marsh hens to the mystical Nutria-Man, has died at 104.

Survived by his wife, children, illegitimate offspring, grandchildren, great-grand children (with too many baby-daddies to list here) we acknowledge the passing of a man larger than the trapping lifestyle itself.

Fuzzy, also known for his animal trapping radio show on KJIN-AM is said to have laid the ground work for sports shows such as American Sportsman, American Gladiator, and the reality show Swamp People.

Not much of a family man but certainly a lady’s man, Fuzzy often got drunk after a long day at work, or night if he was poaching, spending many hours in Dupree’s Bar. (I met Fuzzy there as a young reporter. He had a wad of hundreds and three women on each arm that had all their teeth. Fuzzy had lost all but two of his in a string of bar fights but the residents loved him. He was very charismatic.)

Local legend has it that Fuzzy once trapped the mystical Nutria-Man, the story brought to life in the acclaimed motion picture Terror in the Swamp.

The story passed down for generations states that Fuzzy was out early or up late, one of the two. But, he does remember while checking his lines seeing the beast walking in a clearing of cypress. Fuzzy was so excited; he gave chase leaving his gun in the pirogue. Nutria-Man, alarmed, got snared in one of the lines. Not wanting the beast to get away Fuzzy jumped on the giant rodent and wrestled him to the murky water but didn’t realize Nutria-Man would over power him, take all his clothes, and leave him for dead. Well, that’s what he said when the game wardens found him naked by his boat.

It’s not to say that Fuzzy didn’t have his problems. His love for the water sparked him to join the navy but his career was cut short when on the way to Houma,  the city close to his home, he stopped to help a sugar cane farmer whose wagon was broken down on the side the road. Unbeknownst to him, Fuzzy had had a liaison with the farmer’s daughter. A fight ensued and Fuzzy was beat almost to death. He recovered, but from then on he didn’t seem to think straight, thus the nickname Fuzzy.

Yes my friend, gone is a legend, Fran├žois Ferdinand “Fuzzy” Foret. On his passing, Troy Landry from the hit television show Swamp People said, “It’s a sad day. The marsh will never smell the same.”