open-faced.

gravy-basted, baked tofurky sandwiches.

belly-bursting 'splosions of delish, duders.
...that's how it happens.
sandwich week knows no limits, my ninjas.
slices of seitanic sexiness smothered in a
landslide of brown blops!
and just how much gravy is too much gravy?
c'mon, now.
is eleven too loud, fresh, or hard for your A*s?
it's obviously a trick question.
the whole object is more.
in fact, my second sandwich was even flippin' bigger
than that one up there.
moderation is for suckers.
and weak waterbaby wankers.
but not us.
that's a fact.
(expert)
***********
did you watch collapse yet?
my homeboy ro-ro put me onto that jauns.
the end of the world, as we know it?
and i feel fine;
but only because i'm reppin' anti-city shittiness
and have got an army's worth of ordinance, neighbors.
put it on your instant netflix queue, or whatever,
and then try and tell me that having all these guns
isn't rad.
and then i'll tell you that you're probably an A*hole.
real talk.
***********
tomorrow is winter.
remember that.
the first day, son.
that's some sh!t.
and the next day?
maple star has a berfday.
9 years old.
my little baby girl is kinda big,
and kinda strong,
and all that kind of not a baby stuff.
winter.
birthdays.
crapricorn.
(i know i said crap-ricorn, you try being half goat/fish)
cusps, duders;
never quiet, never soft.....