wonderful wonderland.

let it snow.
let it snow.
let it snow.
except,
i've got somewhere to go,
and the flakes are falling fast and flurrious.
abominable blizzard wizard sauce-sorcery
is not going to help me get there, either.
real talk.
mountains make for treacherous driving
in the whiteout wonderment of bewildering blown bits of ice.
no two are exactly alike, an' that.
unlike the identical idiots who keep coming into the studio
just to F* up my afternoons.
different flat-brimmed hat, same exact lack of awesome.
i'm sayin',
since when do mediocre mendicants all look like clone troopers,
sans new zealand kiwi looks, accents, and muscles, and white armor.
basically,
why do all these oversized sweatshirt awesomizers
feel the need to come and hang out over here?
all up in the woodsly goodness, son.
like a sh!t-salad suckstain on the white mountains.
just like a mouse-turd in the rice.
it's not the 'hoodsly doo-doo-butterchurn, after all.
i'll take their movie checks, duders, don't worry...
it's my soul, or the semi-solid spiritous semblance thereof
that i worry and wonder about;
how much craptacular crunk crap can i administer,
before i'm guilty of perpetuating the preposterous,
preponderous, presence of these poop sprinkles?
if you arm your attackers,
don't be surprised when they storm the gates, yeah?
yeah.
dang.
that's a hard style, for certain.
at least the iceslide slalom we call a driveway at the studio
will keep some of the scritchers and creatures inside their trailers,
and away from my domain of calm.
a likely story.
the barbarian blanket of arctic comfort can't compete
with a blotted, blighted batch of b!tchbags.
my domain of calm still has to be navigated downhill later on.
there goes that tranquil focus, and i haven't even started my car yet.
no such luck, suckas.
especially not if i'm swerving, sliding, skidding,
and screeching my way to work.
all-wheel drive is a plus,
but the radio wavelength's sunday morning npr serenade
may force me into a diaper-baby pantload of uppity feel-goodery,
and then,
i may feel the inappropriate need to be 'culturally sensitive'.
heaven forbid such a thing, kids;
understanding is not one of the services i provide.
especially not to geographically-confused A*tards.
you kow the rules:
just be dope,
or F* right off.
the end.
urbanish woodboogers?
uh-uh.
i can't, and won't, hang out with that type of cakeholery.
i will, however, risk life and limb and liberty
to take their flippin' money.
dollar, dollar, bill, y'all;
never quiet, never soft.....