garden paths.

hey hey hey.
it's fat albert time, kids.
landshark chompa-chomps,
for everybody's whole throat-hole and their guts.
weekend's end means big eats for the woodsly goodness.
cukes in custom blended sesame rice wine dressing?
with extra bun seeds?
olive oil and cracked pepper king oyster trumpet mushrooms?
black'd up char-broiled balsamic soy brussels sprouts?
tofu steaks with almond-garlic pesto on toasted ciabattas?
we eat good in the woods, ninjas.
real good.
there's something to be said for the gentle art of making dinner,
with the main ingredient being hot hot fire.
it makes sense,
all that primordial power being focused on foodstuffs;
after all,
manly menfolk prepare this barbarian festhall's
feats of feasting up here.
and we do it so hard, for your face...
but would you like to know where we do it?
i thought as much,
check the teleport:
our brand-spanking new, sexy MasterForge charcoal grill.
...and yes,
that IS a miki-flippin' cast-iron furnace door in front.
and a bottle opener off to the side.
crackin' root-brewskis and berserker burning business?
your little weak-sauce weber just cannot comprehend
all this superior hottness, y'all.
and there's a coal tray that elevates or drops by crank handle.
and a removable ash pan to alleviate the need to scoople or dump 'em.
and even a shiny, sexy little chimney,
with a damper to trap the fumes,
y'know, for savory smoking an' sh!t.
no face-igniting napalm briquettes get to hang out in there,
and no pee-pants poopstink propane, either.
wood lumps, b!tchbags.
woodsly fire-pit barbecue log leavings only.
that's that pure taste-o'-pyromaniacal-poetry, for your palette.
believe it;
my summertime agenda goes to eleven.
...duders,
c'mon,
this is waaay better than blah-blah-blabbity tattoo pictures anyday.
it's really real life.
it's all really happening.

our front dooryard doorspace is getting spiffed to the t!ts, too.

what's that you're asking?

where's the grass?

GRASS?!

get that grass outta my face-

what am i?

an A*-hole?

heck no, M-F*ers;

that's some 'needs to be mowed', as our buddy jim says.

and greedy, needy, whine-babies aren't invited over here.

even if they're made out of lawn.

that baby-b!tchballs business had to go.

instead,

we've got our semi-shade gardens gettin' planted,

supplanting the 'sauce we sodded off.

get it?

you like it.

***********

our two-day whirlwind of activity is over and done with.

now,

i've got half a day of zaps,

and half a day of driving,

so it's all assorted sordid 'saps 'til tonight-times.

waterbaby 'assachussetts is on today's to-do list;

long holiday-times means family together-times.

and that means my kids are coming up

to hang out in the mountainous magic.

i mean,

there's still snow on the mount washington.

that's nature magic, for sure.

__

-p.s.

i couldn't find my box of b.b.s,

which is the most important ingredient of b.b. guns.

so that 'garious geiriadur got a rump-rupturing reprieve.

...for now.

revenge is best served cold, yeah?

it must just be too hot out to pelt pelts with justice.

it's okay,

i'll wait, yall.

patience is it's own reward,

unless you're the one getting shot;

stealthy, silent, savage;

never quiet, never soft.....