As you read this post, Jane Fonda, lounging on a loveseat with a can of Pringles and a glass of red wine, curses herself—and Tom Hayden, and Ho Chi Minh—after it dawns on her that she’s been whistling Country Joe and the Fish’s “‘I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-To-Die’ Rag”—a song she’s come to despise almost as much as that one by Francis Scott Key, the name of which escapes her just now.*
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Fox left out the part about the threesomes.
1400 miles away in the mountains of Northern New Mexico, Ted Turner stares blankly out a window of his sprawling mansion on the 580,000 acre ranch/estate. Mostly unaware of the blustery spring storm rolling in, he considers how the earnest redhead kneeling between his feet looks ever-so-slightly like Jane, and this thought troubles him.
Wow, nice reference, Jeff. Dja ever sit in the basement of your parents’ house under a black light, looking at the day-glo shit you painted on stuff and listening to “Section 43” while tripping your brains out?
Not that I have, just askin’.
Spamword, “need,” as in, “Damn, I need more Thorazine.”
Jane; “I did the floor plan while I was rehearsing the ‘Vagina Monologues’,” Ms. Fonda, said poised in pale purple sweater and slacks, and tinted, rimless glasses that can’t quite hide those Barbarella-blue eyes. “Lofts are always so angular. I wanted something curved. I wanted to come through the double doors-read labia-into a warm pink womb, and then pass through a narrow birth passage.” (NY Times 4/5/5)
So, just what was her problem with ol’ Rogers threesomes anyway? Was he just ahead of his time?
Word, “waiting”, as in I’m still waiting for someone to tell me why I would want to know about this vapid asshole’s long, strange…..whatever. Who gives a shi….
Y’know when I first saw Barbarella I didn’t know about the VC shit and so forth and I thought to myself – DAMN that bitch is hot and I wish I could bite her nipples off of her…..now that I have fully come to my senses and absorbed all the shit she has done to our Soldiers and even Vietnam I have reached the conclusion that no matter how hot she may have looked it is like wanting to fuck your sister…..not satisfying and certainly not the right thing to do.
I am depraved and a real shit but, I could never eat that stuff or bump uglies with her snatch. This is one sick, miserable and worthless piece of shit and the sooner she dies a miserable, lonely and abjectly horrible death the sooner we can put it out of our minds….we can’t do it now as she will not shut her fu^kin mouth.
I wasn’t gonna post anything but the word was “MANS” as in a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Yep, I’d hit it. Two times.
Well, in her defence it was a California vintage. So, like, she’s not totally a traitor.
Does her new book come bundled with the “Jane Fonda Workout Retrospective DVD?” Because I might think about buying that puppy out of the discount bin.
Meanwhile, in the temperature-controlled environment of a glass sarcophagus, the pickled prick of Ho Chi Minh tingles slightly at the memory of Miss Fonda’s peach-like bottom. Oh, to be alive again….
spam word: comfort
I wish I could bite her nipples off of her..
Funny… Thats exacly what I thought too.. that or burn them off with a soldering iron.. but then I wouldnt want to risk melted fat spattering on my William Fioravanti Super 220 merino wool suit..