hairy.

i swear, y'all,
this 'ucking full moon is one of the worst ones yet.
the crazies are crawling out of the woodwork,
and the weak-sauce is flowing like a tsunami.
if my skin doesn't pop open
and reveal a furry fenris of fury within,
the lanky skankiness without had better do some
severe neck checking,
or i can only imagine the tinitis-alarming
ear-ringing high-pitched squeal of lunar lunacy
that's fixin' to make a ninja's head explode.
loco lobo looney-bin freakout waves, kids.
i'm just sayin';
some folks aren't sensitive to those radiated rays,
and therefore escape the urge to bone-up
and bark out loud at the big blue pieplate in the sky.
lucky them.
what's worse than berserker barbarian battle-beasts?
gaytarded puppy-faced poop-boat mongrels.
huh?
eleven is the magic number.
if you can't commit to epic, heroic, off-the-chain,
unhinged full moon fever...
well,
then you may just be a little b!tchbaby mutt bastard.
ohhhhhhhhhhh!
that's werewolf snobbery,
from a truly untied, tide-and-tried, true-blue
warrior of woodsly goodness.
can you hang out with this?
if i overreact,
then i expect equal but opposite knee-jerks
from all my other 'nother duders.
raging stormswept barbarian fury.
accept no substitutions,
make no exceptions.
there're only four ingredients,
and not a one of them is reason or sense-
berserker.
barbarian.
battle.
beast.
the next couple of days will see the manic mayhem
of sleepless freak'um harum scarum hottness.
crazy raving rant and rampage?
you're welcome;
never quiet, never soft.....