eleven. twelve.

F* this.
non-stop rockin' is mandatory,
as far as saturday nights,
and their feverish frenzies are concerned-
and yet,
there's a hurky-jerkiness,
a dischordant disconnect,
a speed-bump,
a disturbance in the force, even,
between gettin' over and going under.
that's what's up.
it's cold, it's dark, and the whole of the woodsly goodness
is chock full of fantasy XI-mas gift-grabbers.
ugh,
so many moms in so many s.u.v's,
and their disinterested doo-doo buttery duders.
that's a clogged causeway of mountainous meat-tards.
...in the mountains, at that.
heck yes.
it's nights like tonight that keep the turd in saturday.
c'mon.
it's congested outside,
and we're congested inside.
that's winter in new england in vacation paradise.
word up.
oh,
and i'm pretty sure i have a latex allergy.
no,
stop it.
on my hands, neighbors.
that, or smallpox.
on. my. hands, i said.
clap clap clap, son.
with my hands.
alright, that'll do;
never quiet, never soft.....