would you like to know what produces this amount of grit-grimy geis and shruggably sad sucktardation?
frozen pipes.
dirty ones.
and as much of a fan as i am of hot, clean pipes,
(that's what she said)
i am the exact opposite in endearment to the cold, stuck-up dirty ones.
remember yesterday?
when i was talking about how cold it was inside my house?
yeah.
it was waaaay colder under the house, i guess.
clearly,
someone is attempting to force my hand.
folks have been vanilla sky cultivating this moment.
now, daddy has to get butt-nasty in the pretend basement...
did i crawl around in the frozen spider hovel for a while?
yep.
did i just flippin' write about how psyched i was that they were probably frozen?
uh-huh.
were they frozen solid or at least into submission?
c'mon.
where would the fun be in that?
duders and ninjas,
i was actually excavating creepy-crawly spots under hot exhaust vents and sh!t.
i shimmy-shimmy-ya'd under, over, and around
some ridiculous 18" high obstacles on my belly.
in the asbestos/radon/powdered neuropoison/furnace smoke deathtrap-
and i still couldn't find an access point to my kitchen.
old and busted and so full of funtime surprises.
frozen aqueducts and zipped-up walls and crawls, ya'll;
there was absolutely no way in.
what does a woodsly warrior poet do when confronted with this scenario?
you'll like this one,
you'll like this one,
if only because it's a time-tested recipe for money-pit mayhem,
demonic devastation, and probable loss of limbs:
i bought a skil saw.
me. and a skil saw. and an old house.
you like it.
to err on the safer side, i invited my actually manly burly bearded buddy over.
wayne morris, ya'll. a real friend, for sure.
he left work for a minute, chopped up some linoleum,
and then we cut a hole in the floor.
on the one hand,
two hundred year old two foot wide planks of hard-style hardwood
are almost too dope to chop up,
but on the other hand,
the results of this testoster-tacular trial will be a fully-operational trap door.
i said it: a trap mutha-ucking door.
with a cast iron recessed pull ring,
and a rug over it to make it tippity-top secret an' everything.
i mean,
is this a fortress or just a dumb house?
yeah, i thought so.
in the meantime,
there's a hole.
in my floor.
full of very cold, hungry spiders.
what?
yes, actually,
it did feel like little spiders were in my beard all day.
i'm the 'itchy drug addict' look was very appealing to anyone watching.
what now?
oh, hell yeah, i'm totally gonna roll around in my dingy dirt pit again this morning.
we found animal bones down there already.
i'm sure there's some angry dead indians waiting to poltergeist my jauns, too.
***********
by the way;
when your pipes freeze,
don't turn up the water pressure.
why?
because your washing machine might explode.
why do i mention this?
oh, y'know,
no reason....
***********
you should hear the sounds of construction destruction over here.
it' like shiva's bathroom or somethin';
never quiet, never soft.....
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