Pitmaster T
Babbling Farker
- Joined
- Apr 3, 2011
- Location
- Texas
DAMMIT!!!!! I need one bad. For small jobs when I just arrive with a tent my bottleneck is torts so I need a small one dedicated to just torts all day. For big jobs when I bring my MKT, It might be neat to have the crowd see one woman making torts FRESH out where people can see (and draw them in). OR... I have 4 burners, only two of wh9ich have a griddle.. the top I could just over the other two.
I wish I could post a picture of what she'd look like. Instead I will describe her.
She stood there, flipping tortillas like a younger, yet more approachable; attainable if you will, Della Reese. She gave me 'that eye.' I speak of her eye in the singular because one is just so ever juxtaposed to the northwest of her intended target. She looks at the pepper with her good eye. As I reach for it for her - trying anything to please her... she said it.
"Salt please." I dream of a lifetime of this delicious confusion... always getting it wrong... because I can't tell the intention of her gaze.
She stands reaching out. She is lunch. To be eaten with bones then cast out in a pile like August next to a Mike Mills tent. Her oversized "chest tortillas, full vertical ovals of approximately 8 inches visible beneath her BBQ Brethren shirt making it apparent that it is not just her eyes that are cockeyed.
Oh beauteous cockeyed woman flipping my torts; allow me to droppeth two nickles so that you can pick up a dime.
Let me be your warmth at night. I know you are lonely oh cockeyed woman. Lonely because your man left you--- for seeing someone on the side. Enter my abode... so that yes you, can answer the front door while still keeping another eye on the back.
"Do you want me to wrap them?" She said, this beautiful creature whose lips incorporate a curious extra growth of skin... which giggles a bit when she speaks....enticing me to get closer to remove it, an obvious skin tag, before its weight tears it from her lips and falls down on the hot Blackstone below.
"Yes, I suppose so my darling." And I leave, stepping back on the deck of my military trailer, its deck plate vibrating from the hustle of its four, 24 volt diesel injector motors belching it fire beneath the flattop matching the heat and pulse of our burning loins.
I take one last look. She smiles a smile that would change your TV channels. She was like a portrait standing there... a portrait that would hang itself. Her clothes tight and high against her skin... skin that surely had to be bathed with CLR - that is if the water didn't jump out first.
Oh my tortilla woman. How I wish we could wake up after a night of passion and eat breakfast together and I could marvel as how even the Rice Crispies are silent in your reflection.
She returns to work, exposing a delicious behind like an axe wound in a gorilla's back. I follow the line of her legs and at her feet, countess cats, dead, for when they look at her she takes all nine of their lives. Her toenails; like gang signs, a visual cacophony that compliments her face, which upon first gaze makes one think she has bobbed for apples in a chipper shredder.
Ahhhh I hear a faint sizzle... the skin tag hath falleth and I am spent. Who will get her nourishment in their next taco?
I wish I could post a picture of what she'd look like. Instead I will describe her.
She stood there, flipping tortillas like a younger, yet more approachable; attainable if you will, Della Reese. She gave me 'that eye.' I speak of her eye in the singular because one is just so ever juxtaposed to the northwest of her intended target. She looks at the pepper with her good eye. As I reach for it for her - trying anything to please her... she said it.
"Salt please." I dream of a lifetime of this delicious confusion... always getting it wrong... because I can't tell the intention of her gaze.
She stands reaching out. She is lunch. To be eaten with bones then cast out in a pile like August next to a Mike Mills tent. Her oversized "chest tortillas, full vertical ovals of approximately 8 inches visible beneath her BBQ Brethren shirt making it apparent that it is not just her eyes that are cockeyed.
Oh beauteous cockeyed woman flipping my torts; allow me to droppeth two nickles so that you can pick up a dime.
Let me be your warmth at night. I know you are lonely oh cockeyed woman. Lonely because your man left you--- for seeing someone on the side. Enter my abode... so that yes you, can answer the front door while still keeping another eye on the back.
"Do you want me to wrap them?" She said, this beautiful creature whose lips incorporate a curious extra growth of skin... which giggles a bit when she speaks....enticing me to get closer to remove it, an obvious skin tag, before its weight tears it from her lips and falls down on the hot Blackstone below.
"Yes, I suppose so my darling." And I leave, stepping back on the deck of my military trailer, its deck plate vibrating from the hustle of its four, 24 volt diesel injector motors belching it fire beneath the flattop matching the heat and pulse of our burning loins.
I take one last look. She smiles a smile that would change your TV channels. She was like a portrait standing there... a portrait that would hang itself. Her clothes tight and high against her skin... skin that surely had to be bathed with CLR - that is if the water didn't jump out first.
Oh my tortilla woman. How I wish we could wake up after a night of passion and eat breakfast together and I could marvel as how even the Rice Crispies are silent in your reflection.
She returns to work, exposing a delicious behind like an axe wound in a gorilla's back. I follow the line of her legs and at her feet, countess cats, dead, for when they look at her she takes all nine of their lives. Her toenails; like gang signs, a visual cacophony that compliments her face, which upon first gaze makes one think she has bobbed for apples in a chipper shredder.
Ahhhh I hear a faint sizzle... the skin tag hath falleth and I am spent. Who will get her nourishment in their next taco?
