what's cookin' good lookin'?

that's correct, kids.
broccoli bread brings the thunder!!!

jim, cucch, jess, harvest, maple, and myself
all got stoically heroically hungry-style on a whole entire loaf.
how much was left?
not even a crumb, ya'll.
demolished. destroyed. digested.
victorious and glorious.
that's how dinner gets served in the woodsly goodness.
pounds and lbs. of gooey green greatness got gobbled.
so hard.

recognize, b!tches.
***********

moths are not butterflies;
i'm sayin'....
nothin' like a stressful situation to accentuate the dark circles,
wrinkles, gray hairs, and wonky crimps, kinks, and creases. 
and nothing helps me feel even less attractive than retrospective introspection.
im referring to being put on blast,
by the past.
have ya'll ever looked at your ex-partners' ex-partners?
i mean,
what does it say about your own appearance
if every other 'nother person they've dated,
before and even after your tour of duty with that booty,
is a heinous half-formed mutant stump creature?
is it hubris to assume that they only got lucky and landed
just one devastatingly handsome devil,
and that that handsome devil is YOU?
statistically,
that just seems so unlikely.
moreover,
why would they go back to dredging the swamp
after a taste of the hottness,
if in fact it ever really had any heat at all?
they probably have a type,
and that type is ugly mutha-lickas.....
just like you.
no foolin';
minky girl-bird babies,
short an' stout little pube-'froed teapots,
ham-lipped homonculi,
and ichabod crane wannabes
are the before-and-aftermaths
of some trysts with yours truly.
a few of those femmes could've done better,
at any point,
but they just chose not to. 
hard style business, for sure.
makes blind dates seem like a necessity,
but in a helen keller kind of way.
word up.
i guess the track record speaks for itself:
comedy, tragedy, and history,
at the same time.
i'm a regular old dirty bastard.
fancy clothes on a funky monkey...
the mirror still serves as a constant reminder:
be ugly and be dope.
more pity to the fools who choose poorly, yo.
what i'm lackin' in looks,
i'm making efforts to make up for in flavor.
the sort of overcompensation sensation that makes
lackluster ladies lament lapsing the lease on the lycanthropic lothario
they used to bump and grind on.
this one goes out to all my dope 'n' ugly mutha-uckas,
gettin' busy on that freaky-diki doo-doo business.
let the other ducklings sing their swan-songs too soon.
we'll outlast 'em all;
never quiet, never soft....