undesirables.

what happens when a crew of silent,
nonviolent sneaky petes crash a hotel pool?
well,
if they also happen to look like half-gay pirates,
with a couple of kidnapped kids with 'em,
then,
they make it about thirty-one steps into the chlorinated vaults,
and get searched, questioned, and then kicked the F* out.
...yep.
s.w.b.'s aren't just limited to airports anymore.
apparently,
they've been imported to stand guard over the watchways
and the watering holes in the woodsly goodness, too.
this one wasn't even a lady,
he was just a nightmarish b!tch-like up-here stumpulator.
bad teeth and all.
that's a hard style, duders, for sure,
when the janitor security man catches you out so hard.
i should probably mention that the ladies all slid right in
without a second glance or any kind of hassles-;
it was just yours truly, and the cucchie,
who got tagged for trespassing.
weird, huh?
i guess they just can't hang out with battle-beastly body-hair-bears,
or flamboyant flouting of the 'hotel-guests-only' rules.
the womenfolk (who also left with us in solidarity)
suspect it was our decorated epidermises what clued 'em in;
in fact,
harvest and maple were outraged, duders.
that's no joke.
don't discriminate against the kaleidoscopic-skin-colored folk
while those two art-awareness activist/terrorizers are around.
that's a little friendly advice from your buddies over here.
soooo,
that was not a righteously executed infiltration operation.
but,
after avoiding the attention of the real authorities,
and a walk-of-shame exit from the establishment,
we still went swimming at the not as dope hotel pool down the road.
where we all got ogled for our infinite conspicuity.
some for their fresh semi-revealed mammaries,
and others for their extra bits of plastic paint and metal dangles.
the worst part about all of it?
chlorine is so hurtie.
red eyes,
dry skin,
irritated nostrils,
and,
for all that burning juice,
there's still pee in that water y'all.
it doesn't just disappear by adding poison gas sauce.
...nice.
to sum up our real-life:
pee-pickled hydrogen ions,
grumpleberry faux-po-po-licia,
molto bikinis,
the stares of a thousand little kids,
and the late-night good memories of a special pair of small humans,
that's a sunday to remember, friends.
all memorable memorial, sans parade.
***********
the whole crew has been up and at 'em for little minute.
what's that entail?
seven sets of bagels,
seven mugs of tea (or juice),
seven soul-surviving soldiers of serious
sap-slapping, symphonic, sauce-strengthening superiority.
that's a tall order-
and it's the last day of may.
and it's the girls' last night in town,
and it's broccoli bread for dinner, too.
there's more and more and more of this real-life living, my ninjas.
super-concentrated hottness,
from daybreak to full-dark,
and everywhere in between,
every single time.
it's ALL really happening,
and i'm grateful for the wall-to-wall worthy warriors
i span this time alongside;
never quiet, never soft.....

doughnuts. go nuts.

chef paul, doing double duty as bakery boy.
with crazy glazy girlies helpin' finish the flavor-
so what've we got to show for that?

we've got doughnuts and cake and sh!t for breakfast.

recognize, duders, that the Folk Life collective is ON it.

we gets it in, i mean.

that's some sunday fun-day sugarsap-slathered nutrition

...for every-flippin'-body's face.

it's all vegan,

and it's all from scratch,

because box mix is for suckers.

and all that tasty treatsies after another

'nother other grillfest last night.

what's the best way to close out an awful afternoon of working?

with dinner for ten,

which goes to eleven,

on the fly,

with no meal plan at all.

we even made a new new friend.

two new entries in under a week?

c'mon.

we got them jauns.

harvest, maple, cucch, jess, holly, leah,

elsah, jim, brooklyn, & me.

so many full bellies crowded around the crucial campfire.

together-times, y'all.

it happens.

culinary conquests, and dietary domination.

we doo-doo that type of hard-style flippin' out.

throw in a big black stink-sausage in double dark maduro wrappings,

and it became a late-night hard times weird dreamland span.

nicotiana tabacum, my nin's.

stumps.

far past the point of puking, green faced and woozy,

and backdrafted bellowing-billows back again.

it's like choosing the wrench, for your mouth.

for sure.

not to mention the serenity-stripped sleepytimes,

scorched with stenchsome smells,

and grindcore rythymless rapid eye movements.

deep sleep, only takin' it deep, and without so much sleep.

long nights lead to ever-earlier mornings-

and,

at stilldarkout o'clock, a.m.,

the littlest birds in the land pee-peeped out

the loudest, long-lasting litany of wakeful warbles

specifically concentrated outside my window.

just for my eardrums only, apparently.

no sleep, and brooklyn left hours ago.

go figure.

***********

what could be a better denouement to dopeness,

than even more painus-in-the-anus tattoos today?

biggest?

nope.

most beautifulest?

no way.

okay,

but, what about MORE??

of course. that's the whole point.

the rest of the fam' is resting and relaxing,

swimming and tent sale-ing and baby animal petting-

but not the pugilistic poet we all know and tolerate.

naturally,

i'm holding it down in zipzap land all mo-b!tchin' day-o.

i'm back on my grind.

i doo-doo that sh!t, too.

holidays?

what is holidays?

a grand don't come for free, son.

do work, kiiiiiid,

and get that mother-F*n' movie check;

never quiet, never soft.....

my muffs is too big...

...for the pan, man:

triple banana coconut oatmeal streusel muffins, babies.

family breakfast, ya'll.

for seven.

it's an all-day, all-weekend memorial house party.

for seven.

that's a sweaty, living, breathing, fight club posse,

taking over the fortress;

a crew of hungry hungry heads, ninjas,

and we're all eating muffins.

instead of fighting, i mean,

unless you mean fighting over the last muffin....

yum4tum an' that.

streusel represents everything good in the whole world.

greasy, gobbledy-knobbity cinnamon treats!

TREATS!

the good food, the good life, the good times.

word up.

***********

saturday morning on memorial weekend mostly means one thing:

yard sales.

if ever there was a more community-minded awfulness activity,

i've yet to learn of it.

crusty crusters selling their crusted crap.

and cheapskate choosers trying to haggle a gaggle of dollars right off.

that's such a hard style.

don't get me all wrong here-

every once in a little minute,

there may be a hint of hidden hottness hiding out,

but usually,

it's a mil-dil-dew-doo-dooey garage of grandma's garbage.

happily,

it's the wife's job to seek and destroy them jauns.

i've got social-interaction exempt status.

good thing, too,

because i can't hang out with junk-collecting scavenged stump creatures.

i go to the MAN-tique store when i want old busted treats.

not somebody's driveway.

higher standards, kids.

i hold to 'em.

hard.

no stumplestiltskins allowed, y'heard?

***********
now,

we've got grilling and 'gars to blaze.

and a whole household to hold it down.

kids and grown-ups and childish adults and surly seniors,

we got it all, y'all.

first things first,

i've got a half a day of deuce-droppin' ideas to dish out

on hapless, heedless homeboys and girls at the tatzap studio.

after two slow-motion sweet-moolah-free days of doing not so much,

the unwitting white mountain vacationers must be punished.

and i'm here to mete out the penalties,

one crucial codeworded kanji,

one tribal somethin' terribly spiketarded,

or one black-'n'-gray gayblast at a time.

but then, when the sap is done oozin' out,

it's cigars and vegetables and my peoples 'til tomorrow.

lather.

rinse.

repeat.

all weekend.

no weak-ending here.

strong, long, king, and/or donkey kong.

we have some time,

and we're making stuffs out of it.

it's all really happening,

like it or not;

never quiet, never soft.....

the whole family.

it's a small world for larger-than-life livers.
someting about not being drawn to scale or somethin'.
you'd think there was a beanstalk around here somewhere,
what with the influx of giant hottness in my vicinity-
what's the cause of the solar flare-up temperature changes?
my family of choice, muthas.
the all-st*r heroes.
the first-round draft picks.
the special forces delta team.
six serious soul-surviving viking lightning-strikers-
harvest & maple,
the cucch & silent yet somehow salient holly,
my wifely wonder & moi.
that's the original lineup, duders...
the first and foremost Folk Life legion.
we're all here,
manning the crenelated battlements,
and guarding the portly portcullises of the fortress.
worthy warrior poets;
some swarthy soldiers,
and some sallow sailors;
light and dark,
day and night,
good, bad, indifferent,
and for some of us,
invariably ugly;
which is to say, therefore, dope.
living the life of luxury.
luxury?
yeah, luxury.
super-fancy an' that.
too much is the right amount,
and if it's a luxury, it is absolutely very necessary.
luxurious life living, really real times and places.
it goes to eleven, obviously.
puerile pranks?
we gots them jauns.
vegan eatsie treats?
naturally.
long, luscious evenings and bright, bright, bright days?
c'mon,
what are we?
A*-holes?
no way, kiddos,
we're berserker barbarian battle-beasts.
woodsly goodness is what we DO.
and the full-moonlight bright and shininess?
that's bold bardic beatdown fuel, y'all.
throw in a loaf of broccoli bread and some doughnuttines,
and it's like a family reunion you'd actually want to go to.
this is the crew i hand-selected to span time alongside me.
my peoples.
that's word.
***********
how do you know the world is full of human turds?
take a spin through the majestic mountainous
scenic byways of northern new hampshire today:
it's a friday on a vacation weekend for regular folks.
that means crowded restaurants,
congested thoroughfares,
out-of-state license plates,
and epic inconsiderate gaytardation.
nightmares in broad daylight.
plus,
residual lunar moonbeam wolf-lasers
are adversely affecting all the moon-children up here.
that's powderkeg punch-out poppin' and lockin'-type sh!t.
luckily,
we've got our self-selected city-state sovereign island;
our dead-end, out-of-the-way castle;
our very special, very own lycanthropic laputa in the sky.
tucked away, y'all.
top-secret, like the universal planagram.
we doo-doo that ninja summer kickoff business.
hard, and loud, and fresh...
...for your face.
broke, broken, ugly, and dope.
again;
never quiet, never soft.....

garden paths.

hey hey hey.
it's fat albert time, kids.
landshark chompa-chomps,
for everybody's whole throat-hole and their guts.
weekend's end means big eats for the woodsly goodness.
cukes in custom blended sesame rice wine dressing?
with extra bun seeds?
olive oil and cracked pepper king oyster trumpet mushrooms?
black'd up char-broiled balsamic soy brussels sprouts?
tofu steaks with almond-garlic pesto on toasted ciabattas?
we eat good in the woods, ninjas.
real good.
there's something to be said for the gentle art of making dinner,
with the main ingredient being hot hot fire.
it makes sense,
all that primordial power being focused on foodstuffs;
after all,
manly menfolk prepare this barbarian festhall's
feats of feasting up here.
and we do it so hard, for your face...
but would you like to know where we do it?
i thought as much,
check the teleport:
our brand-spanking new, sexy MasterForge charcoal grill.
...and yes,
that IS a miki-flippin' cast-iron furnace door in front.
and a bottle opener off to the side.
crackin' root-brewskis and berserker burning business?
your little weak-sauce weber just cannot comprehend
all this superior hottness, y'all.
and there's a coal tray that elevates or drops by crank handle.
and a removable ash pan to alleviate the need to scoople or dump 'em.
and even a shiny, sexy little chimney,
with a damper to trap the fumes,
y'know, for savory smoking an' sh!t.
no face-igniting napalm briquettes get to hang out in there,
and no pee-pants poopstink propane, either.
wood lumps, b!tchbags.
woodsly fire-pit barbecue log leavings only.
that's that pure taste-o'-pyromaniacal-poetry, for your palette.
believe it;
my summertime agenda goes to eleven.
...duders,
c'mon,
this is waaay better than blah-blah-blabbity tattoo pictures anyday.
it's really real life.
it's all really happening.

our front dooryard doorspace is getting spiffed to the t!ts, too.

what's that you're asking?

where's the grass?

GRASS?!

get that grass outta my face-

what am i?

an A*-hole?

heck no, M-F*ers;

that's some 'needs to be mowed', as our buddy jim says.

and greedy, needy, whine-babies aren't invited over here.

even if they're made out of lawn.

that baby-b!tchballs business had to go.

instead,

we've got our semi-shade gardens gettin' planted,

supplanting the 'sauce we sodded off.

get it?

you like it.

***********

our two-day whirlwind of activity is over and done with.

now,

i've got half a day of zaps,

and half a day of driving,

so it's all assorted sordid 'saps 'til tonight-times.

waterbaby 'assachussetts is on today's to-do list;

long holiday-times means family together-times.

and that means my kids are coming up

to hang out in the mountainous magic.

i mean,

there's still snow on the mount washington.

that's nature magic, for sure.

__

-p.s.

i couldn't find my box of b.b.s,

which is the most important ingredient of b.b. guns.

so that 'garious geiriadur got a rump-rupturing reprieve.

...for now.

revenge is best served cold, yeah?

it must just be too hot out to pelt pelts with justice.

it's okay,

i'll wait, yall.

patience is it's own reward,

unless you're the one getting shot;

stealthy, silent, savage;

never quiet, never soft.....

hardness.

what do you know about black ops?
unacknowledged actions, all top secret and ninja.
sometimes,
i swear i've got a crystal ball/gps built into my brains.
half secret universal plan, half werewolfen lunatic,
and 111% hard-style.
it would seem as if there are covert guerilla battle plans
being transmitted directly to my thought patterns by
the ghosts of grisly grizzled grist-grinding gravediggers.
that's that haunted-house kind of seance-type sh!t.
so before i begin to prepare a pistol for perilous plinking,
i'm starting out with less-lethal countermeasures.
what?
i've got a ball bearing air rifle at the ready,
zeroed in on the perimeter in a defensive position.
it's the full moon season,
it's stupid hot out,
and we've got a wandering cat problem.
that's all three strikes for bad decision making.
...you'll see.
now,
you may already know that our chipmunk population is
comprised, in the main and on the whole,
of loud, hard A*-holes, yeah?
agreed.
however,
they are beloved of my uber-vegan animal-crazy wife.
therefore,
by the rules of TAG, and it's inherent electricity,
if you mess with my 'munks,
you're messing with my wife.
and if you're messing with jess?
you get a softball-sized hole up in your chest.
ah-ha.
so now we're getting down to the nitty-grits, ninjas.
the cat problem.
now,
i would like to make mention of the facts:
there's this epic D*-lord feline who harangues our household.
and it's fruitblasting focus has meandered away from merely making
our dog sh!t her pants sideways in savage stormswept berserker fury,
and drifted towards dominating the ground-dwelling rodent population.
flippin' cats, y'all.
i just can't hang out.
and now,
neither can they.
watching and feeding the birds, chipmunks, squirrels
has become kind of a thing for all of us at
the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
but all of a sudden, it's not working out so tough;
thanks entirely to that bag-o'-doots puss in boots,
THIS is happening:

mutha-b!tchin' muthalickers!

(note the absence of tremendous testicles on her)

one of our little ladyfriends got laced, kids.

and that smug little F*hole kitty was eating her face right off of her face,

as well as her shoulders,

in plain sight of the whole family-

both the two- and four-legged members.

do you know what that means?

b.b. gunshots to the torso.

that's word.

if i have to pick a side,

i choose Folk Life,

and definitely NOT gaytarded death machine pets.

i'm tellin' you-

foxes and hawks and sh!t?

word up.

that's nature.

infinity, duders.
forever and ever.

wild animals doo-doo that monstrous business-

but cats?

no me gusta.

they're pleasure predators.

i mean,

they have names,

and scratching posts,

and poop-coated feet from their in-house outhouses.

where's the hottness in being fancy feast eating,

house-sleeping thrill killers?

here's a hint:

it might be inside the b.b.s.

oh, stop it.

you know what else?

i may even eat something with honey in it, too, crybabies.

after all,

i could be using pellets,

or bullets,

or poison,

of F*ing gluetraps.

but i'm not.

soooo,

what's the vegan-friendly rationale in this?

where's the practical purpose of it?

what's the gain of pelting pussypants with zinc-coated copper dots?

uhm.. it's a little sumthin sumthin' called REVENGE.

c'mon.

the cat may have an inescapable infinite nature,

but unfortunately for it's stupid A*spot,

so do i,

and mine has a high-magnification rifle scope attached.

that's absolutely correct, folks.

there's a cat what needs shootin', son.

but rest a little easy:

i'm going to fight it,

but i promise i'll let it live.

...this time.

at any rate,

i'm not going to EAT it afterwards.

i guess now we'll settle the old argument about relative intelligence

in dogs vs. cats.

can you teach an old CAT new tricks?

i hope so,

because it's a hard-lesson session over here, y'all.

those chipmunks may be A*-holes,

but they're MY A*-holes.

battle-beasts forget their feuds when common foes show up;

never quiet, never soft.....

BIG B.

F* yes.
how's'about some special weekendie foods:
big breakfast.
of champions.
you know you really like it.
the whole damn gamut of greasy 'getables.
soysages? check.
smashed up tofu crumblies? check.
biscuits? obviously.
...and gravy, too, mutha-b!tches.
this is exactly how the party gets started.
fact.
and duders, just for the record-
smoked paprika and some ho' sauce on that scrambles?
eleven.
from a warm start.
family breakfast is every bit as bangin' as dinner.
when the short times are every bit your own times,
you can do whatever makes it worthy.
warrior poetry is sometimes written in gravy.
blood is tougher, sure,
but way less tasty.
and since there is a moritorium on lame-sauce vampire 'holery,
blood is off the menu this morning.
but,
now that we're flying on high-test vegan power-ups,
anything can happen.
plus,
it's as hot as an oven, and twice as sunny,
so it all probably will happen.
really.
real life, duders.
we eat food and get busy and doo-doo that day-off sh!t.
unfolding the plans like origami animals.
(it's hard to make anatomically correct chipmunks)

take a look at that big bell-

no,

it's not an F*ing tuba,

it's a day lily.

nature pulled out a pre-emptive 'splosion-

that's what's happening all of a sudden in our yard.

a whole patch of mellow yellows popped up overnight.

it must be because they're celebrating.

celebrating what?

dan dealy's berfday.

that's some sh!t.

happy mutha-lickin' day, duder.

black op photo-poppin' hottness.

i hope there's cupcakes or somethin'.

i'm sayin'.

i've known that ninja for nine years in a row now,

and he just keeps gettin' better with age.

do that work, kiiiiiid.

nice.

***********

time's a wastin',

but not by us.

we're packin' it in,

hard, and deep, and full.

whole weeks in only 24 hours,

whole years in just seven days.

check the teleport.

i'm digesting words and deeds,

at breakneck speeds.

swallow, swallow, swallow, swallow;

always full and never hollow.

life-eaters, y'all,

gluttonous, glutinous, 'garious;

never quiet, never soft.....

monday may i.

having a ball.
or two.
word 'em up.
these mutha-b!tchin' chipmunks, y'all.
A*-hole varmints.
they make this suckie suuuki-suuuuki noise;
all loud and hard an' that.
all the way out for my face.
but, as much as i respect the volume and intensity,
they kick off a big simultaneous serenade at 6 a.m.
...and then they don't stop doing it.
ever.
never quiet, never soft,
in rodential consequential format.
and it's called barking.
and just to add a take-it-to-eleven factor,
it makes their enormous furry bags flap around.
wait....what?
mmm-hmmm.
huge 'munker balls, duders.
every-flippin'-where.
the good, the 'nads, and the ugly,
all around the fortress.
i guess the ratio of males to females is severely skewed over here.
and it's as if they're part viking-
there's a whole lot of sacking going on.
oh, c'mon.
like my daughter asked me:
why does he have those big those?
i don't know.
maybe they're letting me know that i've got spirit animals.
kindred beasts,
with burdensome bobbalones.
...just like me.
A*-holes in solidarity,
loud and hard,
from early 'til late...
***********
the weekend is looming.
impending excellence on the visible horizon.
whatever else is in store,
i can tell you that there will be some life aquatic
on the digestive docket.
shark-gluttony, the ever-present
megalodontic dietary destruction.
there's rumors of pleasant skies,
and whispers of hot fire and late nights.
we're ready.
Folk Life community living,
secluded, possible deluded, with no responsibilty eluded,
it's all really happening.
fuzzy munchkin slaps,
brittle bits of bone, hard-pressed analog digit-ization,
multiple meals, maximizing multiple burners on the stove,
hard times, day times, good times, night times.
harvest and maple are headed up here in a few days.
so's holly.
and the cucch is already here.
that's the whole damn family.
making our own memories,
all memorial weekend.
minutes into mountains,
molehills into millenium,
it's time, kids;
never quiet, never soft....

salt and pepper.

that's it.
salt and pepper.
sodium chloride and piper nigrum.
that's how the flavor gets activated.
salt and pepper.
that's all the seasonings on this tasty meal.
oh,
and sesame power dots, too.
sesame seed magic nubs are pretty delicious.
and they go good with sesame oil.
i even used the double blendie mix, kids.
sesame oil and toasted sesame oil.
that's that double-dope business.
add in the seeds and it's a triple threat to all unsuspecting tastebuds.
uh-huh.
asparagus and collard greens, too.
that's vitamin vegetative nutrition wizardry.
family dinner is important.
mandatory attendance-type sh!t.
and after an early night,
and a good sleep,
what happens tweve hours later?
boo-yarmulke:

panniecakes!

perfectly prepared by p-paulie-paul-nice!

that's family breakfast.

(also with mandatory attendance)

with real distilled tree sap sauce,

artificial butter,

and irish breakfast tea.

that's how we doo-doo them treats-

sunday mornings, mutha-b!tches.

we go easy.

it happens.

all of it.

really.

***********

my hands have dentures.

what?

yeah,

they're flippin' old man hands;

nosferatu feelers;

ancient spider crab legs;

root/bark/branch spindlers:

arthritis-ridden apendages, y'all.

that's not so good news, yeah?

hard work = hard styles = hard times.

it's like that.

it IS that.

what's the alternative?

weak sauce?

lame cake?

b!tch-sap?

nope.

even with battle-damaged digits,

i've got a death grip on real life.

hold on, hold on, hold on.

tattoo machines,

steering wheels,

forks,

shovel handles,

matches-

i'm holding on.

never quiet, never soft.....

six or seven?

hard working.
hard styles.
hard party hardy hearty housewarming.
yeah.
friday night Folk Life festivities.
we had those hungry heads over for treats.
jim, elsah, cyle, casey, cucchie, leah, and us.
that's a whole bunch of fortressy freshness.
tempeh skewers,
grilled broccoli and sweet onions,
vegetable burgers,
kale salad,
asia slaw,
'tato salad,
lemonade,
maine root beers,
and strawberry shortcakes.
we eat food, ninjas.
hard.
hot fire,
sherlockian pipe puffing,
and molto stories, too.
simple times is good times.
especially if duders can hang out.
and all the peoples we know can hang....
***********
how many days of working in a week
is too many?
personally,
i think four in a row is kind of excessive.
but, then again,
i currently work a normal five day week,
and it's lookin' like six or maybe even seven
in-a-row zap-sessions may be in my immediate future.
duders,
non-stop workin' times?
all mutha-b!tchin' summer?!
c'mon.
that's hard times, y'all.
i'm sayin',
ninjas don't want to see me work,
they wanna see me LIVE....
but if i don't doo-doo that extra sauce,
who's gonna?
yeah.
responsible adulthood.
suckle it.
one whole summer,
already F*d in the A*;
never quiet, never soft.....

people disagree.

mangy raccoons,
incredible increases in instances of
chipmunk on chipmunk violence,
late night bear buffets.
i think my wife may have some inner
snow white princess animal empathy;
y'know,
like sheena of the jungle, or some inland aquaman power.
it's cool.
i was hoping for assorted animal turds 'round the compound.
scat, they call it, in the woods.
which is where the bears drop 'em off,
and also where we live in the middle of.
that means poops, y'all.
all over the flippin' place.
that's where we are,
that's how it goes.
nature + nature x nature = infinity.
that's secret universal planagram math, i think.
***********
yesterday was thor's day.
and i feel like it got mjolnir'd into submission.
workin',
grillin',
a campfire,
and a terrible movie:
it's complicated- heard of it?
it should've been called 'it's suckie'
steve martin suckered me in,
and the bloated baldwin and streep finished me off.
i felt old, and maybe a little bit 'tarded, when it was all over.
baby boomers want to watch hours and hours
about whiny, pathetic mutha-b!tchbags now?
-not dope, duders.
i don't know what we were thinking...
in the future,
when i feel the need to hang out with someone
with a name as obscure as meryl,
it'll exclusively be with the poetic prowess
of my peoples in minneapolis.
anyways,
that's your average everyday thursday
here in the woodsly goodness.
now, friday, on the other hand,
that's sure to be some sh!t.
we've got peoples comin' over,
we've got heads arriving,
we've got vegetarian vegetable vengeance.
we've got all them jauns.
hard.
but,
it's never all the way live for hard-style barbarian blasters,
...i've also got to work late.
...on some tribal.
it's true.
missing out on the opening acts of Folk Life fellowship,
and for the lovely alternative known as black spikes.
awwwwwwwwww, man.
that's real life, real real.
on the real.
-
-dear black spikes-
you win too,
xoxoxo,
love,
albie;
never quiet, never soft.....

my cucchie's back and you're gonna be in trouble.

holy crapola.
my inner knee-side thigh-hank is pretty swollen.
actually,
it's a pee-pee balloon of seriously sloshy sauce.
furious fluids have flooded my flank,
in a futile attempt to help me forget how awful
last night's tattyblasting thunder felt.
as if a lymph node explodey grody stump
could erase the taste of abject terror.
how did it go?
it sure did.
i thought i was getting a hermit crab in a teakettle.
nope.
but i did get some crabs, (t.w.s.s.)
and some ghost of a dead samurai, instead.
that's sort of the same thing, right?
sure.
y'know what the only bad part about asian samurai images?
so many lines.
it was like laser-burning ball-flensing.
ouch. ouch. OUCH.
i think i may have even had an accidental vasectomy.
if not, it must've been a close call, y'all.
the good news?
the cucch showed up partway through!
that's super rad.
best man returnage.
word up.
check it:

that's some of that real life in pictures sh!t.

tea and toast and breakfast blogfest,

now with 111% more cucchie.

recognize.

that meant that i had two extra witnesses to my discontent,

plus phuc,

who, of course, was the main cause of it.

he's always so nice about wrecking my day.

and he's gentle, for the most part.

at least, i don't think he's doing it on purpose...

what goes great with hot fire on my flesh?

green elephant in my bellyhole.

i told myself i wouldn't eat to the point of rectal ragnarok again.

but,

with my wife and my ace homeboy there,

i couldn't rep on that weak sauce.

you know how it goes...

like the midgard serpent and nidhogg the world tree devourer.

sea serpent/dragon gluttony.

man,

distended destruction,

and complete inner thigh-high devastation.

non-stop mayhem, my ninjas.

it's morning, and my whole digestive tract STILL hurts.

that's how we doo-doo that doo-doo-

it's happening;

never quiet, never soft.....

fuego-a-go-go

whaaaaaaaaaaat?
what gets bigger the more you remove from it?
jim came by yesterday,
and helped me hollow out a honkin' hole in the front yard space..
hooollller.
(holler back)
y'know why?
no,
it's not for burying bodies.
good guess, though.
it's for all my spit.
oh c'mon, you know you like it.
spitting the hot fire, right?
look at this holier-than-heck halo in the humus:
-freshly excavated.
moist, dirty, and full of potential.
check those belgian battle-blocks out.
a ghost-circle, ready to spill it's smoke rings into the sky.
spirits, thoughts, and memories,
patiently waiting to exchange stored energy for active ones.
that is the hottness, y'all.
home is where the hole is, they say.
don't they?
really?
well,
...maybe they should start.
duders,
i was pickaxing sh!t all over the place.
severing thick roots, and scraping granite glops,
and all kinds of savage manly power-ups.
so what's the big action payoff for that kind of procedure?

fire. Fire. FIRE. FIRE!!

the inaugural blaze.

the soil a foot down had a high clay content.

you know what happens when wet clay gets hit up

with hot fuego?

that's that bisque sh!t, b!tches.

no, not the crustacean coulis.

c'mon. stay with me.

yeah,

we baked the bricks,

and scorched the earth,

and flame-on burnt a whole bunch of brush.

hot fire, after a hard-style day, my ninjas.

it's good for you, like vegetables.

only, made out of flames.

and after all of that,

you get left with smouldering smokeholes.

burnt out, used up, and cooked to a crisp.

that's how you end a good day;

...in a pile of ash and embers.

savage stormswept wild fires,

the circle is complete,

now the garden of concentric stone waves comes next-

the sounds of swinging metal and splintering stone;

never quiet, never soft.....

done, done, and done.

wow.
tuesday, y'all.
that was some day.
check out that happy little acorn.
thanks in part to the scroungy old squirrels,
he almost had a victorious rooting down.
except, squirrels couldn't care less about plans.
-sorry, baby oak tree.
but when you want to sprout out loud in the middle of the garden,
your funky trunk gets weeded.
plucked right out of the daylillies, kids.
that's how we get busy in the gardens.
the same gardens that are growing pumpkins!
yeah.
all the leftover wedding-time gourds that melted into piles
of brownish orange 'sgustingness?
they made tiny body-fertilizer sacrifices,
and now we've got a couple of different infant winter squash plants.
nice.
landscaping and hard gardening.
we got that.
mulching with hemlock bark,
as a sympathetic synthesizer.
that's the majority rule tree in the yard,
so we matched it up all nicey-nice.
we planted flowers and ferns,
and created a floral future fresh before our own faces.
-
awwww.
a little wort flower poppin' out of a tree stump.
that's pretty cool.
all naturey and growing an' that.
but y'know what makes it even cooler?

...the overachievin' leafy mutha-licker is 7 feet up!
seven feet, duders.

i said it.

that's how flippin' huge that tree is.

that's some woodsly goodness.
there're all kinds of secret dopenesses poppin' up.
it's our first late spring in the fortress,
and everything here is that much more excellent
for being the first time.
new hottness.
that's the best kind of hottness.
but you can't have the sweet without the bitter, yeah?

if you've got new hottness,

you also need a baseline of old bustedness:

and here i thought the chipmunks weren't very cool.

how about a broad-daylight rocky-boy?

this duder is so old as to be nearly blind.

he didn't care that he's supposed to be nocturnal.

he didn't care that his mangy fur was greasy,

and covered in mosquitoes.

and i guess he's not too worried about a gypsy throat-bite, either.

if it weren't for the concerns about rabies,

i may have even given the dog free reign...

i mean,

if a raccoon wants to die a warrior's death,

who am i to deny 'im a trip to valhalla?

but,

he may reconsider halfway there,

and vet bills aren't cheap, ninjas.

that's all i'm sayin'.

***********

tuesday.

like i said, it was some day.

i also slopped on a slew of slidey sauce in the bathroom.

that mutha-ucking floor is sealed, suckas;

...and steve rovetti came by,

photographed jess' artworks,

and blazed up a stump on the sundeck;

...and we went out for dinner;

...and we stayed out all forkin' night,

whilst the wifey chalked up a board,

and i chalked up some boredom,

at the frontside grind coffee shop in town.

the new menu boards over there are doooooooope, duders.

and now today,

i get all zip-zapped up, again,

and there's talk of the cucch ending his isolation from us, too.

it could be another 'nother day of dopeness.

y'know,

it's all really happening and everything;

never quiet, never soft.....

frequently correct.

olive the dog, y'all.
our dog.
she doesn't have many uses.
mostly pooping, barking, and eating,
and all of those at inopportune moments...
and thus, usually, she's not so awesome.
if i wasn't such a sucker for good-lookin' things,
she'd be in plenty bad shape, indeed.
but,
she's pretty cute in the big dumb block-head department,
and she does have one very excellent skill:
savage berserker battle-beastliness.
yeah.
a willingness, or even a determination to destroy.
infinity in it's natural form, duders.
no matter how windy it gets,
some stuff doesn't change.
i know, i know,
that's not always a good thing;
but lately, ninjas, it SO is.
why?
well,
because chipmunks are A*holes.
...like i already told you.
but what i didn't know was that the little A*holes have been
robbing my wifi and reading this blog,
(at least somebody is reading it)
and must've taken offense at my estimation of their character.
of course,
they only proved me right yet again.
do y'know where it's probably not such a good idea
to be small and furry and delicious looking?
yessiree,
inside the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
alongside the barbarian terrier of terror.
which is exactly where one of those little dummies showed up.
up and out and into the house.
and into hours and hours of crushing canine chaos, kids.
fast, furious, ferocious fangs and quick-steppin' paws.
like a crashing smashing cartoon chase through the house,
all tom and jerry like a mutha-ucka, an' that.
for the day and some of the night as well.
i mean,
you've really got to be some kind of anti-instinctual idiot.
right?
but then again,
this is where ALL the seeds are kept.
no more sharing, or even fighting,
provided it could've outsmarted the watchdog.
i keep thinking of fraggle rock, and gorgs an' sh!t.
but if that miniature mutha-fuzzer had succeeded,
he'd be the most chipper of all the 'munks, huh?
i don't know if he got outside successfully.
i think so.
we haven't heard him squeaking in horror for a while now.
then again,
that may be because he's sizzling away
in stomach sauce in olive's bellyhole.
inside out,
and upside down.
disorder in the natural order.
suicidal protests at electronic name-calling.
and dio's dead, too.
as if the natural world has been flipped on it's axis.
that's right, holy divers;
never quiet, never soft.....

inescapable nature.

chipmunks are A*holes.
for real.
there are four or five of these little jerks outside
eating millet and corn and sh!t at any given time
all day every day, even in the rain.
there's about a pound and a half of seeds and treats
all over the place
in various specific sheltered and open spaces
all across our yard.
so there's plenty to go around, i mean.
and in enough different spots,
to a degree where the little rodents could each
have their own personal stash.
nature doesn't give a flying F* about cooperation
or compromise, though...
in every direction,
for miles and miles around us, here in the woodsly goodness,
we're surrounded by nature.
yeah,
i'm in a fresh fortress of Folk Life,
but in an enclosed valley of vicious vivaciousness.
i can't readily get away from that external nature
any more than i can get away from the even-more-pervasive
inner nature.
just like these hairy little F*tards-
they could be gettin' on rather well with each other,
and stockpiling their resources together;
instead,
they bite each other's heads and tails,
and slash, scratch, claw and bite their whole lives right off.
usually over the suckiest cache of corn kernels, too.
A*holes, like i said.
i understand their primitive little walnut brains can't
form complex strategies for cohabitative community,
and that eating, fighting, and hard-style pounding
are about all that occurs to them to do with themselves,
but c'mon...
thirteen feet to the left,
there's a completely uncontested pile of sunflower seeds!
stupid little idiots, y'all.
slaves to their infinite natures.
i get it, for sure,
but i'm still not happy about it.
i mean,
most duders are not much different, really,
minus the tails.
really,
i'm just waiting for the right combination of fox/goshawk/owl
to even up the score a bit.
nature wins, kids.
inescapable, infinite, inner and outer.
the trick, i think,
is to eat, fight, and hard-style pound it up,
harder, and louder, than ever....
then,
at least,
it might not win by shutout.
a 11th-round decision is as close to a tie as we can hope for.
***********
it's monday already.
again.
a new weekend looms on the horizon.
i've got a date for some attention on my inner thigh on wednesday,
with a side order of green elephant shark-gluttony thrown in.
basking shark-style.
that's how we're on the big action.
not only are we no longer chewing anything,
we're not even closing our mouths while we swallow.
bask in that, ninjas.
firepits,
floor treatments,
food,
and phuc.
it's all on the schedule,
it's all really happening;
never quiet, never soft.....

sunday in the wind tunnel.

i should take up parasailing
or some other wind-based epic A*-holery,
because it is still preposterously windy.
every single flippin' leaf is making that rustle noise.
all day long.
the whole world around me is jangly and noisome.
that's supreme awfulness.
plus,
there's no percussion to any of it.
just tinkle-bells, and jazz cymbals, and babbling breath sounds...
where's the F*n' bass, my ninjas?
word.
the only available cure for this kind of butt-blasting
gale force gaytardedness?
panniecakes!!
c'mon.
what else am i gonna eat on a blustery sunday morning?
it's supposed to be so easy, kids.
still,
syrup and faux butter and wheat frisbees?
oh man, i'm ON it so hard.
panniecakes make it all better.
every time.
blow on, inland hurricane storminess,
i've got tasty whole-grain lps to play on my palate.
and when i've finished feasting, fantastic mr. fox ferociously,
y'know what i'm gonna snack on for the rest of the day?:

candy-mutha-lickin'-beans!

vegan mutha-flippers an' that.

41 flavors of gourmet candy in bean-shaped pebbly blops.

yep.

forty-ONE flavors.

gimbal's gets it in.

but let me go on record here-

buttered popcorn-flavored candy-beans?

unacceptable.

there are other untasty ones,

but that but' p' is by far the worst.

it's like a secret ruiner in the bag.

i used to take a gamble on whether or not the white ones

were coconut, vanilla bean, or terrible buttered plops-

not anymore, though, ninjas.

now,

i just fire 'em out of my car window whenever i encounter them.

ALL the white ones.

that's how i doo-doo that empowered sweet treat defeating.

-

dear coconut candy-beans,

you should've been more easily distinguishable

from your yellow-spotted counterpart.

i'm sayin'.

then you'd be in my mouth,

instead of on the highway.

love, albie

-

it's true, of course.

when i'm at the grocery store,

i look for the bags with the least concentrated

collection of white ones.

i'm just so like that.

if only there were more going on,

but it's a non-stop tatblastin', hand-hurtin', bean-munchin'

real-deal real life of everyday every days.

it's all happening,

windswept, wild and wilful;

never quiet, never soft.....

still windy, still changing.

do the right thing, ninjas.
nobody will give you any propers due to you,
but do it anyway.
it's good for you.
otherwise,
you kind of have to F* right off.
that's the rules.
live free OR die.
just be dope OR F* right off.
one or the other,
never both.
never quiet, nor soft.
so sometimes neither,
but always more.
***********
cabinetry?
finished.
i'd show you curious onlookers a picture,
but the bathroom is too tiny to back up far enough
to get it all in the shot.
which, incidentally, makes me wonder how it took me so long.
anyways;
primed, painted, stained, and saturated.
finally.
that's accomplishment, ninjas.
now i get to slop some plastic glop on the floors.
never ending fun.
that's how it goes on a super-sexy saturday
in the white mountains...
***********
jeez,
what is going on up here?
it's like march was supposed to be,
two months ago an' that-
all windy as a mama-jama and sh!t.
c'mon skies,
take it easy.
cool breezes on hot days would be one thing.
wind chill on a cold may saturday is another animal entirely.
"quit it off", is what i'm sayin'.
plus,
my overbuilt palace of woodsly goodness
holds the darkness inside it like a cave of coldness.
the big sexy superhanger eaves on this fortress
do wonders in keeping weather away from the foundations,
but they do even greater wonders by way of preventing
any sunshine from peepin' into the windows, too.
y'know what warms up the whole world?
the sun.
y'know where there isn't any sunshine?
yeah, my living room.
it's cold in here, y'all.
no joke.
it may even be colder inside than it is outside.
and that's never that nice, now is it?
nope.
i can't hang out with this kind of flippity-floppin'
in my barometric future.
this day is stupid, kids.
and it just started,
and there's plenty more where that came from....
never quiet, never soft.....

cabinets and doo-doo dollops.

watch out for the aloo saag.
you've been made aware-
indian food is really good.
squishy, brownish orange, and spicy, yes;
and undeniably good to eat.
but what about that aloo saag?
i dunno, my ninjas.
it isn't often that vegetables intimidate me.
have you had the aloo saag?
that's dark greenish blackish spinach blops.
and it's too serious lookin' to eat.
i'm telling you guys,
it was just like internal bleeding-style whipped baby poop.
for the record,
it wasn't my entree.
i used my menu reading skills,
and ordered something entirely different and non-craplike.
duders,
nobody could get too into it,
and it just sat on the table, dark and dirty,
like a sad sackful of underpantie accidents.
oh man.
ugly, and not dope.
that's a distasteful combination.
suck-time for whoever ordered that, yeah?
too bad for that third entree-eatin' diner, duders.
our man adam, from work, has a hard time not dissecting food
when it doesn't look like alien science.
the aloo mutter, however, was bangin' for my bellyhole.
so was the gobi kofta masala.
two full-bellied Folk Lifers, and a still-hungry homeboy.
thursday nights in the woods get pretty crazy, huh?
yeah.
***********
whoah!
that's not all that gets crazy, baby!
look in this mutha-ucka:

cabinety hottness?
we got them jauns.
(i know you see the exposed brick bits in the bottom corner, right?)
uh-huh.
i'm gonna put some kind of treats in there.
like extra toilet paper, and probably a plunger.
y'know,
just in case.
i can't hang out with exposed plumbing equipment, y'all.
i'll be prepared for the eventuality of a hard-style clog,
but i won't subject the casual hand-washer to a
presumption on the size of their impending logs.
it might be necessary to plunge out a link or two, sure,
but we'll all be discreet about it.
no problem, kids.
i'm here to help.
make a note:
the decrapinator's in the cabinet.
make another note:
avoid the aloo saag, and you won't need it.
***********
i've got plenty of work to do today.
heck,
it'll last me into the early evening hours, even.
that's good stuff.
friday night,
the woodsly goodness,
tatzappity-zappin',
overcast skies,
and a gang of cranky bluejays squawkin' until dark?
it's all really happening,
as we live it.
real life.
for your face;
never quiet, never soft.....

and it weighs a ton.

...and painting, too?
that's what i keep wondering,
when i stop for ten seconds and think
about how much more work i have left,
making this little bathroom so dope.
two days off,
almost completely consumed by
preparatory color-additive tintworks,
and disastrously disproportionate deglutition.
basically,
when i wasn't eating,
i was making home improvements happen,
and vice versa.
now,
whose idea was it to add a fourth color of stain
on the inside of the mutha-lickin' cabinets?
huh?
oh, yeah,
it WAS me.
but that's the difference between nice and nicey-nice, yeah?
i'm sayin',
i've got a rich and lustrous cherrywood finished floor,
the soft matte finish of water-resistant cedar stained walls,
a deep penetrating natural knotty pine ceiling,
and cool jacobean brown grain interior cabinetry.
c'mon.
plus,
a super-american primitive shade of super-hot green,
all up on the trim and sh!t.
and even that was an epic pain in the A*-hole.
seriously.
i'm glad as F* that i'm not in charge of painting all the time-
i would have to quit that job quicker than hurry-up, y'heard?
taping, priming, edging, multiple coating, touching up....
sounds like a job for b!tchbags if you ask me.
however,
i can assume temporary responsibility for that kind of activity,
provided that i can take full credit for the victorian hotrod
paintjob/colorscheme later on.
what's the point of a job well done
if you can't lord it over your peoples afterwards....
bam-a-lama, mutha-b!tches.
thirty square feet of Folk Life masterwork.
you like it.
i like it.
we like it.
and of course,
i still get to slop on a serious series of polyurethane, protective,
preservative plasticoats all over the floor.
yep.
we wouldn't want to a wet, sad, pee-stained
situation happenin' on it later on,
now would we?
heck no.
we sure wouldn't.
***********
...and now it's back to work.
tatzapping and jaw-flapping.
big fun?
not exactly,
but still better compensating than brushing up
on bathroom beautification.
i hope all my clients have interesting anecdotes
about bathroom renovation, y'all;
otherwise,
it's sure to be a verry one-sided series of conversations.
i talk about what's happening,
and it sure is;
never quiet, never soft.....

trimmed beards & trapdoors.

just in case you'd ever wondered what the hottness looks like,
here's a quick glimpse into the woodsly world of cabin fever:

yes, that's another trapdoor.

yes, it has recessed antique brass pulls.

yes, those are square-head wrought iron nails.

yes. yes. yes.

no time for weak sauce.

only loud fresh hardness.

all day, all night.

all the time.

...to eleven, kids,

that's just how it goes.

***********

less hair,

more face.

when you're a real life barbarian battle-beast,

that's almost never a winning combination.

today, on my skull,

that proves truer than ever.

my beard and hair are well-manicured;

expertly edged-up by our buddy elsah.

so now,

i've got a meat-pipe expose in 360 real-time,

attached to a prickly peanut in grey and bald.

you'd know it as called a head.

not just any head, either.

my head.

a berserker balloon, tapered just so,

and covered in a two-piece fur bikini.

awwwwww man.

that's a hard style, duders.

my head, i mean.

a haircut is like landscaping a haunted house.

it's hard to tell if it makes anything any better,

but it's better than doing nothing.

i hope.

***********

we tuned up some green elephant in portland, maine, again.

jim and jess and i made the other patrons nauseous, again.

y'all know it's time to congratulate a ninja on some gargantuan gorging

when the servers all draw attention to the amount of food,

and the speed at which it disappears.

they know what's up.

superior shark-gluttony,

when committed in concert,

without pause,

and in conclusion with dessert,

by skinny mutha-uckas,

makes fat vegans feel bad about themselves.

F* 'em, kids.

i've got no time for feelings,

only feedings.

if it doesn't hurt when i'm done,

it's like it never happened.

(that's what she said?)

stuff'd to bursting, b!tches, in my bellyhole.

there's a great big void in there.

i'm filling it in with vegetables.

until something breaks.

doing myself a mischief,

one meal at a time;

never quiet, never soft.....

wee weekend.

a little tiny bit of days off, duders.
that's not enough,
but i'll take it, anyway.
the whole fortress is replete with fumes, y'all.
i'm not foolin',
there's been a lot of stainin' going on.
pre-stain,
wood stain,
gel stain,
water-treatment plus stain.
it's a regular blotchy, latex glove disintegrating,
hard-style headache over here.
...and that kind of activity gives off some hazardous vapors.
stains, my ninjas.
slowly but surely,
there's a bathroom in my future.
a turbo-licious ultra-sexy wood log cabin water closet.
if i don't pass out from the harmful waves of wafting toxicity.
-
however,
despite the odor and the echoes of awful
that they cause at the edges of my vision,
and in the back of my brain,
there is such hottness happening in that hidden hollow:
hahahha-hand hammered, indeed.
you mutha-b!tches know you like that backlit backdrop.
oil rubbed bronze,
smoke blackened copper,
natural edged countertops.
the dopeness is in full effect,
and i'm only halfway there.
your brain can't even handle this much fresh hard loudness-

is that a picture-framed contrast-stained ceiling trapdoor?

obviously.

after all,

what am i?

an A*-hole?

no way, jose.

get that weak sauce out of my face....

***********

in other news,

what's up with the fake flower store?
we needed it, and they got it.
convincing faux foliage for the fortress?
yeah.

now there's some greenery for the background scenery.

ever-greenery, even.

and some perfect plastic peonies, too.

actually,

they're silk.

only the stems are petrochemically composed.

but we still got them jauns.

where in the woodsly goodness is there such a store?

out in nowhere, maine, duders.

i guess that's where the synthetic flora hangs out.

well,

now it also gets busy in my living room, too.

***********

more staining,

more priming,

more painting.

keeping busy by gettin' busy.

stains, my ninjas.

so hard.

i'm huffin' noxious gasses,

and smacking, flippin', and rubbing it all down.

long nights,

hard times.

keepin' it real,

and rockin' fake plants.

i don't get it either;

never quiet, never soft.....

that's a lot.

eight hundred.
yup-yup.
eight flippin' hundred times.
in front of this keyboard,
chronicling the really real-life comings, goings, and doings
of woodsly goodsly warrior poetry.
800x.
...is that a milestone?
kinda, right?
i mean, it all keeps happening.
and i keep living it.
i suppose that should count for something.
documenting that real-deal deep doo-doo.
that's what's up.
for sure.
staying worthy of the time afforded,
for what that's worth.
***********
it's below forty degrees outside.
c'mon.
that's ferociously uncool.
and,
there's subfreezing temperatures threatening
to drop the mercury another 'nother notch...
i know mercury is in retrograde, ninjas,
but it's not supposed to be like this.
the woodstove is raging.
the wind chill is preposterous.
spring is in remission,
and winter time is back with extreme prejudice.
i would seriously punch ma nature in the boob right now.
that's no joke.
right on the side-boob part.
hard.
if my chattering teeth and shivering skin
didn't throw off my aim.
there's hot food on the table,
and there's good folks sittin' alongside me-
cold world,
warm hearts;
never quiet, never soft.....

mom-strous.

mutha's day.
happy, happy.
i know a lot of moms y'all.
a lot.
and they keep makin' more.
mom mom mommity mom-mom moms.
i get it.
you make a small person,
you get a day.
the small person gets big,
you still keep the day.
it's a lifetime membership kind of situation.
moms 4eva!
riiight.
now, i'm not huge on little kids.
i can hang out with about eleven of 'em, grand total.
and even then,
i still don't hang out with many of their moms out there.
but i do like greeting cards.
i think that's a good foundation to build a holiday on:
hallmark cards and scrambled eggs or some sh!t.
i'm just sayin',
a whole half-holiday devoted to eating a tasty brunch-
that means lots of breakfasts this morning.
...ain't no moms up in here at the fortress, though.
so i'll stick to home,
and to tea and toast, my ninjas.
check this action out, though-
hey moms out there,
i got all y'all bottom-b!tches some flowers.
wu-TANG!
made fresh before your face!!
nature's very own bouquet,
from ma nature to ma dukes.
nice.
yeah, and there's more...

happy mutha-flippin' mutha's day.

-you like the giraffe-nubs on these duders, yeah?
native columbine is what's up.
it's pretty short, though.
unlike a giraffe, i mean.
that's alright, columbine.
play it cool.
i still like you.

c'mon.

and that's just the beginning baby bloomers, too.

come summertime,

y'know,

around father's day,

there'll be an ever bigger, better display of dopeness.

y'know why?

because this is DADDY's house.

everywhere else is just a butthole.

yeah.

it's windy, and it's cloudy, and it's cold;

if only i had some big brass blasters over here,

i could warm it up and drop it like it was hott;

y'feel me on this one?

i could go for the sweet serenading sounds of a tuba;

never quiet, never soft.....