Wednesday, December 30

the end is near.

yesterday was a snow day!
which, of course, meant anything could happen,
and a whole lot of it actually did,
there's a phenomenon that occurs the instant that frozen precipitation
starts sticking to the soil and sh!t.
what's that, now?
your guess is that it's winter wonderlanding i'm referring to?
no way.
i mean,
you know i don't tell stories about the nicey-niceties of daily real life.
i tell true stories about the hard styles we witness,
and the wearying, worrisome woes of warrior poetry.
that said.
here's what happens when the weather outside is frightful:
the rain-slicked ice-rimed snow-packed treacherous roadways
mean that every necktarded pick'emup trucker from the outskirts
of the woodsly goodness HAVE to prove their up-hereness
by barreling around the streets like a bunch of imbecile juggernauts.
the good thing about that?
they come and they get tattooed.
nothing wrong with that from where i was sitting,
which was at the tattzap studio.
oh, right, dads don't get snow days.
there is only ever work days, and long days,
not big fun icy crystalline congress with the arctic elements.
no way.
i've got movie checks to make, neighbors.
a grand don't come for free,
and the way the world works,
it goes twice or thrice as quickly as it grows.
i worked a whole bunch.
i shoveled a lot, too,
and i plotted a course for this year's end that promises to be one
which i will feel  will fulfill the prerequisite levels of hottness
we've come to appreciate and expect from the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
oh yeah.
i also
cooked a pile of pasta with sauce and beans an' that,
for the fourth time in five days.
we haven't had the same thing twice,
we don't do it like that.
even a variety of bowlfuls of beige and brownish red isn't nearly photogenic enough
to repeatedly document day after day after day.
it tastes good, but it looks rough.
we stay ugly,we stay dope, and we eat well,
even we if we resemble what we're putting in our mouths, if you weren't already aware of the rules.
i don't know what y'all do when you text your people.
i do what i've always done.
that's right.
i make it weird,
and i kind of ruin it.
for real.
the jokes i tell aren't jokes,
but i still think they're funny.
for example,
if your dad sent you this,
would you laugh?

oh, stop.
that hasn't been strictly true for over a decade.
i don't know if my kids find me amusing,
but i still chuckle a little every time i look at this haggard mess
of screen-glare-lit loose skin and roughened cheekmeats.
i watch you poop.
that's what i tell my dog, duders,
because it actually happens a bunch of times every day...
we're running out of '15 real effing fast.
i've got snow and ice and fog and rain ruining the outside times
of my one day away from work this week,
i've also got three fresh family members,
and my main man crabtree to keep me company during the inside times.
all things being considered equal,
i s'pose i'm coming out ahead on the scales of spirit and memory.
i've been baking treats since six,
i'm gonna start some exxxtra-sexy advanced dinner preparations in a moment,
i've been sipping on custom pancake breakfast tea,
blended to my exacting specifications.
oh, yeah.
i have my own signature tea now.
because i'm expert...
check it out:

some information has been redacted for my own protection,
but the essence is there for you to envy.
and for the record,
it tastes F*ing dooooooooope.
then again,
that should be obvious, stoopidheads.
i don't believe in half-measures or taking it easy.
too much is the right amount,
and that applies to the marigold petals mixed right in with the loose leaves
for extra honey-colored hottness,
and an irish breakfast base for super-strong syrupy body;
and french vanilla beany assam black business,
AND coconutty double-infused ceylon creepin' in the cut.
like i said: expert.
it compliments a stack of those griddlers that you see on the label.
those are MY coconut oatmeal vanilla flappyjackers, btw.
i'm just sayin'.
you're doing your thing,
i'm doing mine,
and we're doing ours.
it's all really happening,
and the measure and mark of what's good is staring us right in the face.
i watch you poop, i drink my tea,
i bake those cakes.
this is it, as the second to last begins with a burst of activity;
never quiet, never soft.....

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