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You can have your big city.

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: Tractors. I have an affinity.

: See my previous statement.

: These tiger mits are great for lumber jackin’.

: Man vs Machine.

: Liam + logs + mud + farm equipment = endorphin ‘splosion.

: I like my logs in pile form.

: Lift with your legs. Chew with your teeth. Move with your mind.

: This must be the woodshed Dad keeps promising to take me to.

: Come at me, bro. Come at me.

: This is a good widdlin’ stick.

: When I’m lifting logs, the sun is always shining.

: I almost got a hyena.

: I could do this for hours.

: Sticks and stones will break your bones. Remember that.

: I named him Mr. Piccata, Mr. Veal Piccata.

Greatest Hits.

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: What about the shirt don’t you understand?

: Mmm… toppings.

: Come at me, bro. Come at me.

: Wanna start some static?

: What is this, some sort of tube?

: This sled hill is always too crowded.

: Punkins.

: I always travel lower middle class.

: Watchin’ my stories.

: Not yet seeing the benefit of this.

: Snow. It can’t stop me.

: What.

: Come with me to the glue factory.

: Trucks. Hell yes.

: The one eye.

: Presto! The beef heart has vanished.

: Heed the advice of the vehicle.

: Yak blood flows through these veins.

: With or without his specs, I’m still more literate than Dad.

: I read faster without britches.

: “Keep your feet off the furniture.” Riight.

It snows here. A lot.

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The shirt doesn’t lie.

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