Something Wicked This Way Runs Into Everything

I do this out of spite.

Just let me in,

George and Jerry sit eating some satisfying crisps from an iconic yellow bag. Kramer bursts through the door, the hinges just barely holding on are able to stay put for now, “What’s poppin’?” he asks, shaking while doing so.

“Having some fried, over-salted, fattening potato chips”, replies Mr. Costanza, “want any?” “Do I?” he ponders aloud. “Do you?” George responds. “Yes”, he begrudgingly says, but he wanted a chip anyways.

Kramer reaches into the bag and takes out one chip. George stares at the affair with confusion and rage. Only he knew what true rage felt like. 

“What are you doing?” he asks Kramer. “What do you mean? I’m having a chip”, he responds while relishing the salty flavor as he nibbles it. “Yeah, you’re ONE”, George made his concern known. “Yeah, so?” says Jerry with Kramer looking confused. “You can’t eat JUST ONE!” George exclaims.

The confusion didn’t stop. George picks up the bag, nearly tearing Jerry’s arm off during the process of receiving more salty splendor.

“It clearly states, right here, YOU CAN’T EAT JUST ONE”, George says, pointing at the quote on the back of the bag, next to the commonly ignored nutritional information.

Jerry, now understanding the red-faced Costanza, walks to the other side of the counter and grabs the bag. “It also says BETCHA”, he says to George, pointing at the same quote.

“Incomprehensible rubbish”, George states. “It means I-BET-YOU”, responded Jerry.

Ode to the sun drenched kingdom of valleys and beaches of rich sands and creatures, rich is the soil and sands of this land I call home. Once a mouse climbed into my shirt while I was trying to sleep.

Joyous are the crows that keep us company, joyous are the hawks that soar the clouds. And those quail sound funny too.

The sands of the beaches tell a beautiful story like a tapestry of yore, is there nothing more I can ask for? I almost stepped on a hypodermic needle twice this year.

Ode the place that thinks it could charge three grand for rent and the closest thing is a McDonald’s. Captivating are the minds that declare soggy fries and “acceptable patties” a meal worth sitting in line for an hour at the drive-thru.

Ode to the weird mold spot on my roommates ceiling, it as well calls this its home.