baby sat.

jeez.
i guess all the last minute not-ready-for-autumn-type ninjas
are all here for that last week of freedom.
it's like a carnival is in town.
without the rides,
or the food,
or the fun.
just the migrant weirdies who shill and huck.
they're here.
in droves.
the last minute push, mutha-lickas.
the last week or two of sweet sweet movie checks,
and fattie-boombattie swanky livin'.
that means that my grind is even gristlier.
and grislier.
and way more 'garious.
that's a vocab word that almost nobody knows.
but trust me.
it's flippin' 'garious.
at least there was a small bright spot of consideration, though.
my homeboy doug,
who happens to also be my propane representative,
brought me some hummus and pitas and taboulleh.
from somewhere in massachussetts.
'specially for me.
that's some sh!t.
it's always surprising to me when duders think of me,
of all people,
when they're out doo-dooing their own freaky sh!t.
i mean,
why ruin a perfectly good time,
or make a bad time worse,
with hot and fiery furious mental reference to me?
woodsly goodness as post-hypnotic suggestion?
does all my brutal butthole banter leave a seed of destruction
in your mutha-flippin' brains, kid?
i'll take it, don't get me wrong,
i'm just a little confused.
but,
those pitas are off the hinges.
chick pea power, mutha- b!tches!
i got that.
***********
chainsaw massacre.
those two words imply a lot.
like skin-wearing melt-faced murderers,
and body-snatching baby-eating texas mutants.
relax.
i'm not so down with all of that action.
but,
i will totally massacre the spruces that windbreak my northface.
not my jacket, jerks.
i don't hang out with that type of cracker-A* hiker apparel.
i mean at the fortress.
facing north, against the cold and blustery sh!t.
you get it.
we're on some living-roof timber pole-shed wood hut-type jauns...
it isn't going to construct itself,
and neither are the trees going to relocate their roots.
good thoughts and warm wishes for the photosynthetic conifers, for sure,
but we are woodsly warrior barbarians, b!tchbags.
we chop all kinds of stuff down.
and the chainsaw my father-in-law has supplied is gonna be the instrument of
creation and destruction over here.
like i said,
chainsaw.
massacre.
it's what has to happen.
if i get ten seconds to doo-doo anything before dark anytime soon.
busy-busy.
with my grisly, gristle-down grind.
hard work and hard styles and hard currency;
never quiet, never soft.....