ten-four.

roger that, good buddy.
it's here.
yep.
you know what i'm talking about.
and conditions are perfect:
the sun has made it's big reappearance,
right on schedule.
the tourists have all left because of the rain.
and we've got special dispensation for early dismissal from zapblasting this afternoon.
today is the day.
and for the next eight more,
in a row,
so is every day...
the very best thing about maine is poppin' off,
in crisp, autumnal new englandy fashion.
the party is started,
the battle has been joined,
and the spirits and the memories of the woodsly goodness are rejoicing.
loud, hard, and greasy.
it's happening even as i'm typing...
there's even been talk of a falafel mafia tattoo.
we'll see about that;
it's gonna take a ton of tahini to persuade me
to indelibly depict the delicious dopeness on my body.
in my bellyhole is one thing, (and that's a sure mutha-F*n' thing at that)
ON my bellyhole is a whole other 'nother one.

uncle steven did some serious berserking yesterday.
we came home to sliced and diced,
dismantled, dismembered, destroyed dopeness.
what's cookin'?
well,
for starters,
he shaolin sawzall master killered the kitchen.
it didn't stop me from simmering up my last non-falafel feast for a while,
but it didn't make the magic any easier to make, either.
i'm sayin',
he made like the bikini atoll and pretty much nuked the islands.
now they're all hacked up, stacked up, and bracketed up,
in the beginnings of a brutally barbarian bastion in the middle of the floor.
yeah!
old and busted and new and the hottness.
concentric overlapping circles, y'know?
uncle steven does manly, manly stuff.
we took him, and jim, to see zombieland.
that was our big treat for the evening,
and it was short, sweet, and seriously bloody.
it made me fall in love with firearms all over again.
but that's all in the past,
ancient history,
and it just isn't relevant to the sunny sunday stormclouds i'm brewing up.
is that thunder you're hearing?
kinda,
i am bringin' it,
but it's actually the ursa major grumbles of my foodbox.
i'm on the attack, my ninjas.
i've got a battle plan drawn up,
and it looks conspicuously like the Fryeburg Fair floorplan.
ironically,
i'm only targeting the middle-eastern enclave among the turkey-lickin',
blooming onion idiot patriotic 'necktards.
i'm a hottness-seeking smart bomb
and i'm about to cram my warhead full of ever-loving motherfunking falafel.
it's destined to be a fair fight,
and probably a food fight,
but i won't fight fair,
i'll fight fire with hot fire...
megatonnage, my ninjas;
never quiet, never soft.....