Dirk and Kirk walked into their local whole foods. Kirk’s face was riddled with disappointment as he said, “Dude, tell me again why we came here when we passed a 7/11 two blocks ago.”
“Dude, if I step on 7/11 property when I’m this lit I basically can’t walk away without a taquito,” Dirk retorted.
“Mm, I’d both whip and nae nae for a taquito right now,” said Kirk.
Dirk and Kirk slinked between the aisles, drawing judgmental looks from all the white people.
“And if I get a slurpee, then that totally betrays the Atkins diet that I’m doing with my mom...then it’s like...where’s the trust, you know?” said Dirk.
The boys exchanged a solemn, knowing look. “Dude...I get it. Moms are so chill. Like last night, I was…” Kirk trailed off, eyeing a package on the nearest shelf, “What the fuck is quinn-oh-ah.”
“Only the best grain to be discovered since like...rye,” Dirk said, grabbing a package.
“Oh,” Kirk continued, “But anyways, moms. So like last night I’m watching Thrones and Daenarys was totally wrecking some Dothraki thugs. It was insane. So she lit this whole dojo piece on fire and walked out like some kind of prehistoric savage.”
Dirk adjusted his pants and turned the corner toward the prepared food section. For the twelfth time that day, Dirk said the phrase, “Dude...I’d totally hit.”
“But wait, there’s more,” continued Kirk, red eyes growing larger, “Two words...boobs,” realizing he only had one word in mind, he repeated, “boobs. Anyways, of course my mom is down there cleaning as I’m replaying it and sees the whole thing. It’s not like we fist pounded or anything but, like, she was chill about it.”
The boys filled their cardboard containers with Atkins-friendly goods and made their way to checkout, passing four white people with dreads. Lane four was empty and Kirk walked toward the available cashier. Out of fright, Dirk grabbed his arm.
“Dude, no way,” said Dirk.
“What?” asked Kirk.
“This is gonna sound weird, but that guy looks way too much like my Uncle to see me this lit,” Dirk explained.
Kirk considered this for a moment, staring at the cashier. “Dude it’s like that time you kissed me at Bonnaroo,” Kirk resigned.
“Dude, please stop bringing that up.”
“Wait it applies this time,” Kirk explained, “Like that happened on Day 1. Of course I was scared to be around you after that, like, I wanted to call it quits. But I just had to remember PLUR. Peace, love, unity, respect.”
A moment of silence passed with the two staring blankly at each other. “Okay, like, I’m not getting it.”
“You know, like, you didn’t choose to kiss me, you were caught up in the moment. Just like this guy didn’t choose to, you know, look like your Uncle.”
Unbeknownst to Dirk and Kirk, the other customers in line had already begun passing them and the cashier was with another customer.
“NEXT IN LINE!” came a voice from the end of the row of cashiers. Dirk and Kirk walked over.
Brushing aside her fuschia colored bangs that stopped halfway down her forehead, the cashier adjusted her non-prescription glasses and began scanning the contents of their basket. She spoke suddenly, “It’s funny.”
Her statement interrupted Dirk and Kirk’s internal monologues, both of which were weighing whether or not her boobs were big enough to make her bang-able. “What’d you say?” asked Kirk.
“I just think it’s funny how you didn’t even think about the tiny orphan hands that cultivated this slave quinoa,” she said.
“Dude...that’s quinn-oh-ahh,” said Dirk.
She berated the two further, “Oh, prepared food line? Tell me, what do you smell?”
Dirk took a hefty sniff and considered for a moment, wringing his hands together. “Um...chicken?” he answered.
“That’s weird,” she responded, retching dramatically, “I can’t smell this chicken over the three to five inches of feces it sat in for its entire life. But that must just be me.” Suddenly, she wielded a brimming bucket of red soupy liquid, threatening, “If you’ll murder an animal, what’s to stop me from pouring its blood on you?”
“Dude,” Dirk said, secretly wondering where she could possibly store that bucket of blood, “If you’ve got such a chubber for animals, where’d you get that blood?”
“So you don’t have anything to say for yourselves?” she asked, brandishing the bucket.
Kirk tried wildly to come up with anything that might appease the cashier. “What if I told you this was,” Kirk shot a hesitant look at Dirk, “my boyfriend…?”
The cashier continued, “Nice try, but you’re both suspicious fruits to say the least. Prove it.”
With a final look at the overflowing bucket, their Atkins-friendly munchies hanging in the balance, Dirk and Kirk turned towards each other, tears welling in their eyes.
“Just like Bonnaroo?” said Kirk.
“Just like Bonnaroo,” weeped Dirk.