trimmings.

trim.
trim.
TRIM.
there's something like 16 different
definitions on the books.
and a few other other ones, too.
more anatomical an' that-
(y'know, for the ol' "vertical checkbook")
i bought some trim yesterday.
what?
heck no, i didn't pay for sex!
c'mon.
the moulding kind.
not the kind of moulding that happens
under the leaves in my yard.
the royal treatment.
crown moulding.
trim.
and it trimmed my wallet down to size.
now it's looking trim to the point of gauntness,
like it's an anorexic doing aerobics.
tree-trimming is what's up, though.
or at least tree parts as trimming.
wood, in the woodsly goodness.
i've got a luxury liner head of a crucial cabin crapper.
and i've got a sinking feeling;
if i'm to stay afloat over here,
i'll need to trim my sails,
and adjust my ballast...
it will look dope, of course,
this barbarian bathroom of mine,
but my ducats and ingots are being diverted into
this one solitary tiny little space.
it's my own personal death star,
and i'm bankrupting the empire on it.
what's worse,
it's not even close to fully-operational.
ohhhhhh, man.
the upside to this economic downturn?
secret doors!
uh-huh.
three of 'em.
how flippin' dope is THAT?!
trap-, entry-, and hidden firearm-.
that's the trio of prefixes, ya'll.
under the floor,
out of the house,
and ready to spit hot fire.
so dope.
why the magic number when one would suffice?
because,
it's not building i believe in;
it's OVER-building.
i guess you could say that's my philosophy.
too much is the right amount.
***********
y'know how i know i'm getting old?
because i think young people look like a
fresh-baked batch of A*-holes.
more than just head-shaking at
the neo-neon pop punky goofiness,
what i really find myself wondering is:
who thought of this new pantsless trend?
someone with a ninja-pedophile fetish?
just leggings, dromedary digits, and fuzzy boots.
dumb.
and a little bit skanky.
especially if you have a sad butt...
ladies,
you've left the house without any pants on.
it's true.
are there buttons?
pockets?
a zipper?
seams?
well,
then those black stockings you're wearing
aren't pants now, are they?
the 80's aren't coming back.
at least not for about 70 more years.
so unless you're a mime,
or a gymnast,
or you've just gotten out of a dance recital,
i shouldn't have to see the silhouette of your uterus.
ever.
be honest, duders;
for every scandalously flavorful, firm set of legs,
there's her three stretched-out lycra/poly/rayon blended
brutal behemoth bovine buddies.
uh-uh, ninjas.
that's six plump-when-you-cook-'em hocks
for every two human-proportioned stalks.
hard styles.
i can't hang out.
be ugly, and be dope, for sure.
be ugly, and look stupid?
not so good.
plus,
even with stupid, furry, knee-high inuit slippers on,
i'll bet their barely-protected babymakers are COLD.
...you could get chapped lips.
oh, c'mon.
i mean it,
the wind chill alone dropped the temperature
almost 20 degrees yesterday.
you could freeze and embryo like that.
on the real,
it's not like you can wear a pair of quilted parka-panties
underneath those silky-smooth ho-ho-hose.
y'heard?
kinda changes the meaning of icebox, yeah?
sorry, scantily-covered heinies;
i like a revealing, absentee-fathered, attention-seeking,
been-raised-wrong outfit as much as anyone...
but a circus strongman leotard,
with a belt strapped over a sweater?
that just isn't it.
i'm not actually gay,
i just prefer my trim to be warm and made of wood;
never quiet, never soft.....

nacho libre.

okay.
so maybe i was hasty.
all Bad Brains, an' that.
y'know,
with the quickness, yeah?
i dissed and dismissed one thing too many yesterday.
it's true,
and i can almost always admit when i'm wrong.
and i was wrong.
why?
because i added a little terrific tortilla tastiness
inadvertently into my tyrannical tirade.
when issuing decrees, i sometimes get carried away.
i apologize.
i should've thought ahead just a little bit further, ya'll.
because,
if there is actually one thing i have in common with
fat, quasi-literate, jockstrap pinchin', A*-hole sports fans,
it is clearly the ubiquitous adopted mexican delicacy:
delicioso, gringos!

i got those LIBRE jauns, amigos.

black history beans,

refried beans,

black history olives,

fire-roasted chiles,

imitation chickenish strips,

vegan taco filling blops,

hot sauce, (c'mon)

and dos types of salsa.

the wifey used some gay-o soya-queso, too.

that's some eagle's eggs powers-type sh!t,

and a whole helluva lot of nutrients.

get that corn into my face...

it kinda looks like some fraggle rock ragnarok action.

gorg gorging gluttony an' all.

staring at the mountain of piping hottness,

i almost expected two rats to pop out

and tell me the trash heap had spoken.

i mean it,

that's a filthy pantload of dirty diaper dopeness.

easily five full pounds of food,

and aside from the crunchy corn circles down under,

it looks like it's already been chewed!

that's economy of action, really.

bite, swallow, bite, swallow.

chew?

c'mon.

sharks don't chew.

it would be safe to assume we brought the thunder.

...and so did montezuma, duders.

not some much revenge as a stern warning.

luckily,

merit points were awarded for supporting indigenous artisans.

(the sink, kids. hecho en mexico. recognize)

aside from the shrapnel of some soggy salsa-sorcery,

we tuned-up the whole heap, too.

FAT.

that's how we live.

not so much in the wallet area,

or even along the beltline...

but on the inside.

that's word.

my infinite nature is four hundred pounds, ninjas.

***********

remember julius caesar?

you know,

sneator/farmer/general/empror/conqueror?

yeah, him.

not only did that ninja bring the noise,

and coin the phrase 'fortune favors the BOLD',

he also is partially responsible for taking the calendar

to eleven.

it's true.

that's my kind of peoples, ya'll.

before him, and his flashy ways,

there were only ten months.

all the way to december-remember your latin?

deca = 10.

now it's the twelfth month.

then, between june and september (septa = 7),

the romans snuck in july.

before augustus showed up, an' that.

from ten months to eleven.

just like that.

later on, august got slid in as well.

but you can't have twelve without eleven first.

certain folks are just so dope.

usually, later on though,

their friends stab 'em up.

hard.

of course,

it's still a ways away from mid-march.

hmmmm,

i wonder if i should reconsider my minnesota trip?

(et tu, hebrankus?)

hahahahahahaha;

c'mon;

never quiet, never soft.....

super.

SPOOOOOOOOORTS!!!!!
today is some kind of super special day,
for jocks,
college kids,
fat dads,
bored wives,
drunk people,
and small chickens everywhere.
(sorry, buffaloed winglets)
that celery stalk next to the dead bird arms
never ever gets any credit.
that's a hard style.
it's the big game.
the super sunday.
better than palm sunday.
way better than church,
and,
the perfect excuse to get sh!tty on a sunday-
and get serious about shark gluttony
while eating well beyond the borders of good sense,
and yelling at a glowing rectangle on your wall.
super stupid stupor bowl.
turn off your brains,
and cross your fingers,
maybe the squares you bought
at the office pool pay will off big!
SPOOOOORTS!!
sorry, world events.
fat shirtless americans in bodypaint
are gonna dominate the front pages,
newcasts, and radiowaves all day and night.
actually,
during the halftime bathroom breakaway flushout,
i'm pretty sure the beer/chili/b'wangs/pizza blast-off
will make the highlight reel of plumbers everywhere.
...super bowels, is more like it.
so huzzah for commercials!
hooray for chubby monsters in plastic armor!!
three cheers for nachos!!!
cowleather pigskins!
that's dumb!
rarely using feet!
that's ironic and moronic!!
dominant male archetypes!
wait, what?
yep.
cheerleaders, ya'll.
c'mon.
skirts and flirts aside,
they're not exactly advancing equality among the genders.
rockhard washerboard abs notwithstanding,
they serve the ogler more than the spectator.
(that's the guy with the huge foam finger down his pants)
it must suck to be a dumpy mom watching the game.
all big business, oversized lucky jersey,
and horde of semi-'tarded meathead spawn dropping crumbs.
y'know,
relegated to secondary support,
extraneous sideline material,
eyecandy with no overall impact on outcomes.
that's right at-home ladies,
get back in the kitchen and clean up those pizza boxes!
yay!!
Go! fight!! WIN!!!
and unless you look like those bobotic future pornlets,
fetch me another brewski out of the chillbox.
ohhhh, man.
**********
SPOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORTS!!!
i will be yellin' like a madman,
all damn day long,
the single super-syllable super-salute to super-ness.
sports.
sports?
sports.
most fattie-boombattie bigbottoms yell right back.
some offer high-fives,
others, the always bromantic chest splash-
they don't always get my non-specific athletic warcry,
but they like it.
super;
never quiet, never soft.....

the mid-atlantic?

it hasn't snowed in a while.
that's the worst.
somehow,
the lower portion of the right side of the country
is getting a hell-hammer of blizzard blitzkrieg,
and up here in the northern extremes,
we're just cold.
who came up with that idea?
i mean,
virginia?
i though that was for lovers,
not skiers.
not that i want to shovel,
or slide around on the roads,
or go sledding, even;
but,
i can't hang out with the doo-doo buttery
bustedness of old snow, sand, debris, dog poop,
and whatever other other sh!t gets exposed
when the existing snow gets old.
crunchy, sad, half-ice, melty crap!!
gross.
i'd be happy with a freak storm of mint mentos, y'hear?
i need that freshmaker, ninjas.
the blanket of beauty.
the gentle downy dopeness.
the billowy arctic cottonballs.
whatever.
it's really just a cover-up,
and deep down underneath,
all that sour, scabby, salvageyard scum is still there-
but i'm more than willing to sweep all that weak sauce
under a blanket of fresh, clean winter carpet, yeah?
i want that whitewash topcoat cleanup special.
make it a winter wonderland again.
i could use a day off where i'm actually OFF.
a stay-home, make soup, take-'er-easy day.
you need that snowblind blitz,
that stormswept blizzard blasting,
or else you're just being a cookie-cuttin' nancypants.
that's no joke.
barbarians roam the tundra, son.
that's just how it is.
unless there's a ferocious flurry of frozen fury,
you gotta get busy out there.
sorry, D.C.
your sauce is watered-down.
***********
i'm worried.
it's true.
i'm worried about maintaining the hottness.
think about it, ninjas;
if my tiny half-bathroom is this thermonuclear lava hot,
how much more time, money, thought, and flavor
will i need to muster up for the bigger, better rooms?
it keeps me up at night.
no joke.
i dream of the van dyke's catalog.
spare rooms.
that's something.
spare?
yeah, spare.
13 separate definitions, ya'll.
from showing mercy,
to having extra,
to even being frugal.
spare rooms.
spartan, sparse rooms?
i don't think so.
spare rooms.
extra rooms?
heck no. that's not it.
spare rooms.
unoccupied rooms?
c'mon.
spare rooms.
i'm thinking on the savage second-chance strike sh!t.
the barbarian boulder bowling ten-pin extra points.
i'm thinking 7/10 split style points,
and gutter-mouthed guttural balls.
spare rooms!
axe-chop battle backslash marks on my score card.
no matter how old and busted they are now,
i'll finish 'em off proper.
that's final frame, extra roll business for sure.
spare no expense,
spare no detail,
spare me the sorry sob-stories.
...hey, ninja, can you spare a room?
you'd better F*n' believe it;
never quiet, never soft.....

wipe-out!

oh, my, MY, my.
lookie here.
my Folk Life fiefdom just got fresher.
well past ten, and testing the limits of eleven,
i've got heavy metal hook-ups all over the place.
no head-banging, either.
wrought, forged, cast, cut, and hammered.
oil-rubbing is on the menu, too.
do you feel the force of woodsly goodness?
it's probably emanating off of your
computer screen right about now;
what makes a barbarian battle-bard get goosebumps?
decorative hardware.
and i've got a tingle in my tips.
y'know why?
because when i'm doin' the wipe,
i want that luxury on my wrinkle-dot.
check it:

dear french victorian t.p. roll holder,
you are my sunshine sunburst of burly bronze beauty.
and that wood spindle in your middle?
...yeah.
you're so the hottness.
xoxoxoxo,
-albie.
***********

i know it hurts, kids.

i know.

that much epic detail,

that much decadent doo-doo accoutrement,

it surely stings a little bit.

that's the sensation of brutal hot-to-death dopeness.

don't worry,

once a roll of quilted two-ply is hooked up,

it actually feels soothing.

you heard it here first-

if i'm destined to be an A*-hole,

i'm gonna be a furious, spurious, luxurious A*-hole.

and that goes double for my actual A*-hole.

and unless you're an A*-hole,

you're all the way all about it, too.!

***********

sorry carhartt tard-carts,

but no canvas-clad heinies get to doo-doo any freaky sh!ts.

not once, not never-ever,

and not in my new wood-walled water closet.

that's reserved for classy-asses only.

i'm just lettin' you ninjas know in advance...

dress to impress, and wear your sunday trousers,

if you want to drop 'em along with some logs up in here.

and that's the double-truth, ruth.

***********

and that's what's happening over here.

small wonders.

it's all the little things that add up, yeah?

and these little things are all big on dopeness.

that adds up to something huge.

like the freshest outhouse-sized lavatory around.

some people thing good enough is good enough,

but enough is never ever enough,

and if you think you've got too much of a good thing,

it's probably not all that good.

i've got just the right amount of a good thing;

a woodsly goodness thing, even,

and i'm busy trying to fit in a little more.

good enough is never enough.

it bears repeating, my ninjas.

that's the difference between 'scale-of-1-to-10' folks,

and us berserker barbarian battle-beasts.

we don't just go the extra mile,

we always take it too far,

because you can never actually go too far.

(smoke rings, globes, and ghost circles just start over)

past the point of no return, and back to the beginning;

never quiet, never soft.....

louder than ten.

eleven.
that's some sh!t.
when it comes to flavor points,
in case you're keeping score-
it goes all the way, kids.
and let me take a little minute to mention:
i love the mail.
it brings me my treats.
and i love my treats.
UPS counts as mail, right?
i hope so,
because they sure bring a big bountiful
cornucopia of special speedy deliveries over here.
so what can brown do for me?
it already has, my ninjas...
i got a tasty package of soulfully sexual
smoke-seasoned, hand-hammered
chester copperpot hottness:

c'mon, mutha-uckas!!

if that oval of devastating dopeness doesn't

make my peoples pop the hardest, ragingest,

hard-style style-boners,

well,

then those boner-less poppers are Off The List.

so hard.

and,

you know what's even better?

that isn't close to all i got either-

but,

those pictures will have to wait.

this much hottness can't be absorbed

by the common man in just one viewing.

there's also a big ol' box of other 'nother fixtures an' that.

so many fresh and amazing super-dope design features.

...treats!

this bathroom is shaping up to be explosively bad-A*.

i'm in love with it, a little tiny bit;

and i may also have made a worthy new buddy-

larry is full-on bringing the thunder down on this project.

really,

above and beyond the capacity of everyday handy manliness.

thanks, buddy!

***********

y'know,

sometimes white folks get it wrong;

and other times,

white folks get it really wrong.

i'm well aware of B.H.M. being in full effect,

but i'm just not okay with overgeneralized racial innuendo.

i don't know who let the crackers up here think they

could be a part of the month-long magic

just by gettin' down on some ribs.

that's scandalously stereotypical.

and,

i'm pretty sure nobody meant tattooed ribs.

so although that's all i did, all damn day long,

i'm fairly certain that "barbecued"

was the correct method.

yeah?

oh, come ON, for crying out loud.

hilarious.

***********

i'm cool with ugly people, ya'll.

but only when they're dope.

lately, however,

i find that there's some kind of conspiracy

of doo-doo buttery weak-sauce sorcerers

tryin' to F* with my well-being.

no jokes, duders.

there are some broke, busted disgusties

oozing around the valley,

harshing up the scenic sights of woodsly goodness.

what's worse?

three seperate clients have made casual mention

of my own lack of dashing features

and pleasing physical attributes.

as if somehow,

my personal perceptions of ugly dopeness

are so severely skewed,

i'm actually akin to the stump-creatures

cavorting out from their crevasses...

then again,

how worthy, bold, and actively participating

are those judgemental beholders?

if i look like i've fallen victim to some hard livin',

maybe it's because i'm just livin' so hard.

that's word.

be ugly,

be dope.

never quiet, never soft.....

seven hundred.

if that doesn't look delicious to your face,

then ya'll are most probably giant A-holes.

...with bad taste.

...and dumb eyes.

i was looking for a starchy treat to go with my eats;

i rocked out with the classic, ya'll.

baked potato.

c'mon.

it's only got the two ingredients.

baked,

and potato.

and those are both dope.

notice the morse code punctures on top?

H, T, over and over;

that's no joke-

hot, tasty, hot, tasty.

we doo-doo that freaky sh!t.

and those blackeye peas?

better than a rough right hook to the orbital.

seriously,

some hot hot sauce, and some sauteed onions,

and they blew the eyelids right off my head,

and tuned up my lacrimals, too.

and what about those collard jauns?

smooth, my ninjas.

so smooth.

even though i cheated,

and did 'em up with garlic and olive oil,

not vinegar and onions.

(oh, sh!t! northern white people don't even know about that!)

they were still incredible.

and edible.

and after all,

sicilian-type hard-style cookin' is half-chocolate anyway.

woooooooord.

that corn-meal madness,

the brown slab of meaty and delicious lookin' treats-

that's the chicken-fried seitan.

the kind of illicit ingestible that makes my mom say:

damn, Damn, DAMN.

(it's true, i heard her)

on the ones, my hungry, hungry homies,

i should have a restaurant.

i'll call it:

hotter than yours.

why?

because my cookin' so is.

(unless you just happen to be the cucch)

be easy,

i'll share some of my treats with your hungry A*,

you just have to make the trip up here.

it's true.

a viking warlord never refuses to be hospitable,

even though he will totally axe-chop your whole F*n' face.

remember that.

gratitude, and generosity, and berserker fury.

you will get a savage stormswept barbarian bashing,

but,

we'll eat really good first, y'heard?

***********

all culinary credibility aside,

the big question remains:

am i still keepin' it real up here?

i sure as sh!t am.

believe it.

sorry, white mountains,

but i've got a conscious conscience,

and i can't hang out with your white deviltry.

i'm reppin' alice walker, not johnny walker,

l.l. cool j, not l.l. bean,

ghostface, not facebook,

bass drums, not bass fish,

& the jackson 5, not the jackson$20.

woodsly 'hoodness, ya'll.

B.H.M is how we get busy.

***********

today's update of the comings and goings-on

in the snowblown northern frontier

marks the seven hundredth communique

from my rural reality to the far reaches of everywhere else.

that's no small amount, to be sure.

i guess i'm in the seven hundred club, now, duders.
what?

hell no,
not the crazy A*-tard christ-y weirdie one;

the other one:

the hard-style long night debonair legionnaire one.

jesus isn't invited.

sevens, my ninjas.

on the ones.

i'm just sayin',

time doesn't really take any of itself, does it?

seven years in the woods seemed severe.

seven hundred blogs about savagery,

-styles, 'shrooms, -sauce, and sh!t,

somehow seems more serious.

it doesn't stop happening,

and i don't stop documenting.

today's another day,

just like every day;

never quiet, never soft.....