life from the glove's end

It's a sopping wet morning/afternoon outside. The view from behind my half-open blinds is breathtakingly simple. Two adirondack chairs on the front porch that just yesterday gleamed a brilliant bleach-white in the sun, lounge lazy and dripping wet in a dirty-cream tone accentuated by the fiery red brick surrounding them. The wilted, patchy-green-but-mostly-salmonella-yellow grass that is my front yard does not lie complacently. It heaves and squirms like a giant earth-sponge that has greedily soaked up every last dripdrop of sweetly toxic rainwater. The behemoth earth-rag rests in a bloated sprawl, waiting desperately for The Almighty Hand to reach down and wring it dry so that it might go about soaking up the excess aqua that has bled over into the streets and sidewalks. Hey, what's that?! The oven buzzer screams like a colic-ridden baby and the smoky sweet smell of bbq chick'n pizza hits my nostrils like a fifty in the hand of a cheap hooker - my hard-earned reward for almost thirty minutes' pleasurable work.

That reminds me of this little ditty...

"Tell me, how is excess measured
Mixing business with pleasure
When pleasure is your business
You don’t have to ask forgiveness"