sharking that gluttony.

sometimes, duders.
sometimes i wait until almost the very last minute.
i'm doing my taxes, or at least, having them professionally prepared,
today.
which meant that i spanned last night in the reams of paperwork
we compiled in compliance with preferred and accepted methods
of amassing records of what we've done and spent and all that.
it also meant reliving some of the lowlights of the worst year of my whole life.
yup.
rehashing life before hashtags, even.
it's a hard style, neighbors,
but it's custom cut, fit, and tailored to my irregular-sized loud freshness.
and that's no joke.
the self-loathing and self-destructive cyclone of erratic and emphatic behavior
in receipts and proof of purchase.
evidence of an overlong eviction process, kids.
it's not easy.
but nothing worth even half a sh!t ever is.
dang.
i powered up my batteries with a disgustingly large portion of heroism.
like, as in- hero sandwiches.
y'know?
hoagies, grinders, submarines, and so on and so forth and on and on?
yuuuuuuuuuuup.
vegan fancy activation, with non-meaty balls,
and other assorted italian-themed hottness.
check the shark-glutton teleport:

c'mon.
two of 'em?
uh-huh.
i may be trying to be a fatlard blarp monster again.
those twin ten-inchers of terror have fra diavolo sauce spicing it up,
and daiya(rrhea) chee' getting sloppy under the sopping brown balls.
(that's exactly what she said, too)
uh-huh.
fried chee strips, son!
i pan-seared those faux-cheesy jauns into greasy stripes
of gummy goodness all by their lonesome!
expert?
obviously.
there's caramelized sweet onions and chopped broccolini,
and even some iron-rich nutrient-laden popeye-type spinach in those muthas, too
yes, indeed, duders,
i doo-doo that luxurious deluxe fancy business,
and then i take it to eleven .
how?
well,
by powering down all twenty inches and three-or-so pounds of bread
and sauce and stuff in about seven minutes of megalodontic biting,
tearing, and swallowing.
on the really real ones, y'all:
what the b!tch-F* is chewing??!?
......oh.
apparently,
it's for A*-holes.
that figures.
at least we all know that that sort of weak-sauce
is NOT ever getting invited to my make-out parties.
*
death and taxes, friends.
death, hopefully, only claims you the once in her cold, final everlong embrace-
and not as a dependent, or head of household,
and definitely keeps witholding for as long as possible....
but taxes on the other other hand?
those d!cklords try to kill your whole face right off,
like a dolphin rape-attack on dry land, every single year.
in quarterly installments of booster-shot buttholery, even.
yuck.
it's the finite timeframe of the infinite natural disorder of something for nothing, i think.
and it's happening.
today.
wotan and his one eye are stink winking my wednesday!
dick the accountant (true story) is scrutinizing my papers,
and some other other semi-imaginary whitehair named uncle sam
is trying to stick me for my papers.
spreadsheets and spread cheeks, folks.
i'm ready for my close-up, i guess;
never quiet, never soft.....