choosing the wrench?
i doo-doo that.
i just got a delivery of treats,
and these muth-F*ers are designed to hurt me.
and you know i ordered too many.
just the right amount for my face.
check the nicotiana tabacum-type teleport:
so gross, but so good.
that up there's what very manly activation looks like.
too bad it also stinks like a hundred pounds of hot burnt death.
(which i think is what manliness smells like?)
hand rolled tubes of terror- because summertime fires,
and summertime car rides, and summertime grilling,
and all kinds of hammock lounging and lawn mowing require a very specific
form of nauseating, light-headed, fuming, billowing smoke-stack
stink stick attacking and hot fire spitting.
it keeps the bugs away.
and the neighbors.
and also every girl i know.
i've got a system for remaining a hermit,
and those puros are part of it.
how else can i continue to tar-stain and smog-age my weathered
old man of the mountain-style rocky crag of a haggard head?
just look at it:
i've got a plan, and the universe has a plan,
and we're scheduling around prior engagements.
i keep it ugly, kids,
and i keep it really real.
y'ever point at someone, and call 'em an A*-hole?
it feels pretty good, huh?
yeah, i know.
try doing it with a giant drug-lord plantation-owner-sized big black cigar,
waving it's cherry red exclamation and trailing a wisp of singed soot...
it feels waaaaay flippin' better.
i talk with my toothy hands as much as
my toothy half-horse half-wolf maw.
and i give my propers to props that accentuate and punctuate my gestures.
it's sign language after a fashion,
and it's the way i make myself understood.
smoke rings and hazy clouds of quicksilver-lined mercurial mayhem.
the ghosts that surround me are of my own creation;
never quiet, never soft.....