nothing more tingly than a stack of firewood

nothing sends me into nirvana quite as quickly as the sight of a nice stack of seasoned firewood.
tell me it's a cord (whatever that is), and my knees get all quivery.
and if that stack is on my property, well then i'm pretty much living large.

ya see, i love fireplaces and all the goin's on inside them.
and that is the root of the challenge before me.

stanton murray across the street just had a half dozen oak trees (in firewood circles, wood to die for) chopped down and converted into stacks and stacks and more stacks of perfectly split wood.
i know this because i've been spying on the whole operation through a little used second floor window for four days now.
normally this wouldn't be so riveting but stanny already has a couple of cords remaining from a similar operation three years ago.
so tell me, what's that all about?
it almost smacks of manhood mockery.
i mean, all i have is a measly firewood ring, nearly empty no less.
and he has his little freakin' firewood farm for all the world to see!

so the problem is i'm tempted.
real tempted.
i'm tempted to try a little firewood reconnaissance operation under the cloak of darkness tonight.
after all, he has those big random piles all over his front yard just stickin' their dry splintered tongues out at me.
yeah, a little firewood heist is just what is called for.
and i'm home alone to boot.
no keaton to keep me on the straight and narrow.

yup, it's all lining up for a little haytown road high jinks.
old stanny won't know what hit him.
that is, until he smells the smoke of is own toil billowing out from my chimney, as i laugh and cavort about the fireplace inside, drinking purple wine from a jug and singing ribald songs of downing trees, and carrying on with scantily clad forest nymphs, and other lumberjack shenanigans.
just a little payback for his flashy wood pile ways.

yeah, that's what's brewing.
real trouble.
a hotdog and beans night if ever there was!