Once upon an avalanche of irritation, it came to me. The Whozits and Whatzits weren’t meant to be. They had different grooves and sentiments and philosophies. The Whozits didn’t give a flying fuck about nothing but granola and the Whatzits were all about that gravy, Baby. The sun dried up and the moon decided to cast stones in the sea. Whozits were out on their riding lawn mowers doing donuts on the Whatzits back forty, where they always park their tiny house communities for wayward company executives that got caught with their hand in the corporate cookie jar and choked because they didn’t think to buy milk. Stoopid educated CEO, all out of blow and sittin’ in his orange jumpsuit eating tiny square pressed turkey with tiny hands on holidaze. It’s a new craze! This monster mash smash trash with the blue lights stacked on the dash and everyone trying to get on TV at the expense of some other bean when it’s really that bitch who needs to be baked. Ya know what I’m sayin’?

—© Pat Berryhill

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