My Hands Have Teeth.

pot pie.
from scratch.
making good eats & the making of good eats made complicated. those're my moves.
flaky pastry, poultry-seasoned tofu, melty veggies,
mushroom gravy. so many steps to thick, deep, oozie hottness.
it was delicious, and there's leftovers.
i was having a jones like indiana for some tricky british isles cookin'.
put anything in a pie. i mean, any 'thing', and they'll eat it.


look at that crust... it has roundies!c'mon. and it's golden, not just good... i'm sayin'.


4 furious inches of pie, top to bottom. thats like a pie stacked on a pie in weak-sauce relativity.
it really is gluttonously deep, and fat, and oily; and delicious. doubledecked. thick. solid.
four and twenty blackbirds could've easily fit up in there....

i ate so so much. it was good to munch up so hard, especially after working up an appetite
while working on making it for so long.
seriously, it takes forever. forever and ever.
i used many yum4tum vegetables: 'tatoes, celery, carrots, onions, garlic, mushrooms, & spices.
and i baked the tofu before i sauced it up. (DEFINITELY not weak-sauce either)
cooking food. i tell ya, it is ON the list of big fun skills...

not that anyone asked, but if i WAS a lobster, i can tell you the four words i would say,
all day every day,
that will pretty much dominate the world of men and beasts:
MY HANDS HAVE TEETH.
try it out: my hands have teeth! my hands have teeth!
no matter how you say it, it's dooooooope.
and it is most decidedly an argument winning statement, to be sure.
(oh yeah? well, my hands have teeth.)
that's the kind of dominating decibel destruction that goes all the way to eleven.

storytelling.
thats my favorite part, i think.
i may actually be better at storytelling than i am at anything else.
and that's saying something.
true stories told truly. thats about all i amount to when the smoke settles and the dust clears.
telling tales is what i do.
tall, terrible, tasteless, and true. i tell 'em all and i yell 'em all.
chronicle. narrate. document. locute.
each one comes out fresh from the furnace.
i spit hot fire.
it's all about how you do it, thats the key.
i'm gonna say it again:
never quiet, never soft.
stories worth hearing. people worth knowing. food worth eating. lives worth living.
the how determines the assigned worth.
if you do what you do, and you do it as best you can, 
then what you do is deserving of the esteem and value placed on it, as indicated
by the way you're doing it.
IS just being dope greater, in value, than the effort required?
c'mon, you already know the answer, yo.

besides, ...my hands have teeth.

hot fire and lightning.
burning and smoking, the engines are running at speed.
ive got the thermometers operating in force.
(they're rectal ones. digital, but still....)
the gauges are all in the red, maxed-out past ten, at eleven.
and the hot hot heat is full-steam boiling.
i often picture my insides like an imaginary Victorian machine that 'makes' electricity.
a big boiler, lots of banging, and gears all over the flippin' place.
with steam, smoke, sparks, and soot spraying everywhere, too.
of course, just when it seems like it is going to overheat, fall apart,
and cause major property damage.......
lightning bolts shoot out and charge up all the Tesla coil battery towers.
everything lights up, plans comes together and the events of the day make sense.
an old-fashioned, dirty, dangerous contraption, but one that still works.
i can live with that.


drums in the deep, ya'll.