hunting.

we're on safari, kids.
the infamous and oft ignominious house hunt.
it's like being a chaparoned spy.
seriously, ya'll.
we look at houses every day.
we go inside, walk around outside, go into basements......
we look into people's lives,
and we get to see a lot about them that we wouldn't normally,
at least not just at face value in the supermarket.
now,
i don't exactly look in the bedside nightstand drawer,
but we still get a pretty good feeling 'bout the who's, what's, and when's.
in a completely underwhelming lack of shocking revelations,
most folks are supersaturated in 'sap.
man,
the television:bookcase ratio is pretty rough up here.
not to mention the doo-doo buttery decoration skills,
knick-knacks, bric-a-bracs, & tchotchkes,
displayed by moms and old people
like a trophy case of last place finishes.
holy XI-mas, my duders, but it physically hurts to check this crap out.
and carpet, miki-fikis.
there's always some circa 1974 orange shag carpet.
wall to wall, like spider-man, son.
you can call it vintage if you want, i'll call it a hate crime.

i gotta be up front and honest about my predispositions;
why does the old and busted stuff have to be SO mutha-flippin' dope?!
all the new sh!t is seriously f*n' weak and watered-down.
contemporary architecture? chugfest!
chalet vacation homes? double chugfest!!!
raised ranches? i'd rather eat a live human infant.
no joke
berber carpet and lush lawns don't do it for me.
i want creepy basements, pet cemetaries, weird chimneys,
and all the secret quirky super oddity and character that comes with that old sh!t.
it's free-standing history, ya'll.
i'd glady sacrifice acreage for hottness.
giant timbers and drafty windows,
woodstoves and alcoves are what's up.
of course,
giant heating bills, 
hundreds of garbage bags,
hours and hours and hours of actual manly hard work,
gallons and gallons of paint, polish, stain, and sandpaper 
are all the compulsory cohabitants of such a kickass peice of property.
still,
i'll trade lead paint and cold mornings
for carpet and ugliness any day.

so far,
if it's really, really nice,
it's too small.
if it's big enough,
it's waaaay too broken.
if it has land,
the house is an assplosion,
and in all other instances,
if the house is newer than the 40's,
it sucks a fat one.
i guess that's why it's called huntin'.
if we found the goldilocks-type of just-right,
right on the baby bear first try,
it'd really be called gettin', no?
i've got my sights zeroed in,
now i'm just waiting for the shot;
never quiet, never soft....