Barbequing

I left work an hour ago at six am.

It was dark and it was rainy, rainier then it had been the last few rainy days had been, which had been pretty rainy in their own regard. You know what I smelled, breathing deep the anchorage air?

Barbequing.

This is a sentiment I can get behind. I imagined a grizzled old man, bearded and dressed only in a wife beater and oiled stained jeans: kinda like Willy Nelson, except my man drinks Old English and smokes way more marijuana.

He has 3 freezers full of meat and he has twice as many guns as he does grandchildren (of which he has dozens), he probably just fucked 3 women half his age and you know what's gonna do?

Barbeque a fuckin' stake.

As I drove home, to do things far less manly, I realize this is a man I want to emulate. I think we should all emulate. I think before you do anything, you should as your self, what would he do?


Did the old man that lives in my head think "oh gee, it's raining and it's six am, I shouldn't barbeque"? Fuck no, the rain didn't stop him from killing that moose with his teeth shortly after concussing it with his cock, why would it stop him from slathering that bitch in Jack Daniels and cooking it rare?.


And really, barbequing in the rain? That's for pussies anyway. He'd barbeque in the middle of winter, then he'd piss some malt liquor onto the neighbor kids snow man, because they're annoying little shits.


You've got to go beyond just thinking with your stomach. You've got to start thinking with your balls.

Whats a fucking hibachi? Pussy speak for a cock toaster?

You're all fucking pussies.

Big Mike.