you know it, kids.
rattling around inside my head,
powered by lunar tumescence,
(that's full moon boner-poppitude)
and henry weinhard's epic root beers.
sleeping is in limited capacity,
i wouldn't call it deprivation, though.
what i miss in recuperative slumber,
i regain in worthy and competent conversational creation.
rest seems like a waste of perfectly good hanging out times.
plus,
the real-life is happening all over the place out here.
i wouldn't want to miss out, now would i?
and i think we've worked out the kinks, as well,
and the newly-oiled never quiet art-making juggernaut
is tuned-up and ready to roll again.
the tuba and trumpet disquieting duets are improving as well.
that depasquale girl can really make some noise, too.
dang.
***********
now,
would you like to know what a good thing is?
okay, i'll fill you in;
a good thing it is that i don't panic easily in circumstantial aberrations.
how is this relevant?
you'll see.
guess what i munched up last night
thanks to meryl's tasty dinnertime action?
broiled beets, b!tches.
no matter how cooked up by putting the hot fire to 'em,
they always look like raw bloody chopped off body slices.
with a faintly earthy (read topsoil) aftertaste.
that being noted,
they were delicious, and i even had a second helping.
there's more, duders, hold on....
now, back in the woodsly goodness,
my wifely wonder-woman can't hang out with beets.
she thinks they beat it. off.
which in turn means i rarely experience beetly beauty.
is that it?
not yet, folks...
it also just happens to be a fact of the first order of nature
that i am similar to any desert-dwelling creature in my ability
to go inordinate lengths of time without consuming any fluids.
now,
how does all this tie together in an interesting,
yet cohesive way?
it all distills down to salmonberry syrup.
yep.
you see,
most folks with limited exposure to beets, dehydration,
and first-o'-the-mornin' peeing as a triple threat combo
probably would've gotten nervous, y'all.
yessiree,
it took a second for me to dismiss renal failure
as the cause of the pink motor oil spouting out of my weiner.
happily,
i've been reading my sherlock holmes,
and deduced the cause rather quickly.
...a second helpin' indeed.
color-coded high-viscosity transmission fluid.
of course,
now that i'm reacquainted,
i think i've fallen in love with urine-dyeing dopeness
all over again.
***********
it's not-casual friday at identity tattoo.
the dapper duder from the woodsly goodness
is decked out and lookin' sharp.
so sharp, in fact,
that if looks could kill,
then the cause of death would be slicing and stabbing.
from the sharpness,
c'mon.
you ever seen a horse-faced yeti in a bow tie play a tuba?
i doo-doo that loud, hard, minnesota sh!t;
never quiet, never soft.....
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