Hi-fructose drama-nation (AKA Plebeia Ovulation-Jones), clad in a rumpled football shirt and golden sweatpants, rolled her bovine eyes, burped, then plunged into battle in the Walmart parking lot. Overweightia U.S, looking on, gestured rudely while blabbing on her phone. America herself, standing by, talked loudly, swiveling her fat neck around with a menacing gesticulation involving her two-and-a-half-inch poisonous green fake fingernails studded with tiny rhinestones in the shape of well-known designer logos. Witnesses claimed that the altercation started when America could not find her own thong, which was lost between mountains of cellulite-rippled sweaty rolls of flesh. Splendora Obeeze, her BFF, trying to get America away from the fight scene, mooed like a feral heifer, then barked at her ex, who proceeded to taunt her while filming with his I-phone:

Woo ooh-ooh baby Ima get wit chu den do like u cause we rollin, we rollin . . .

Plebeia suddenly snarled at her 3 year-old daughter strapped into a car seat to leave her shit alone and then re-entered the store where she proceeded to sing to herself in the brassiere section until she bumped into her 4th toddler’s baby-daddy who was mumbling into his thick beard RE tha lightweight herb he smoked wif his boy as he checked his text messages for the freestyle lyrics by “L’il Murgatroid”. The entire affair ended badly when Plebeia spilled corn-dog flavored popsicle powder all over America’s thong-retrieval device. WW IV warning apps were triggered. They beeped, were ignored, failed and then were deleted. No one shouted World Staaar—u see dat? Oh shiiiittt !!
Plebeia O-J was oblivious, in any case, and strode boldly into the Walmart pharmacy section as the predatory drones prophesied in Revelation were released from the bottomless pit by Abaddon, Lord of Destruction. Fabulously overweight as well, I was, nonetheless, underwhelmed by the thong itself, when it was finally retrieved from the depths of America’s rumpled sweatpants, on the buttocks of which was emblazoned the final terrible message: PINK UNIVERSITY: BITE ME.

PROMPT 20: write a poem that “talks.”
While it isn’t a monologue, it’s largely based in spoken language,
interspersed with the speaker/narrator’s own responses and thoughts.
Try to write a poem grounded in language as it is spoken –
not necessarily the grand, dramatic speech of a monologue or play,
but the messy, fractured, slangy way people speak in real life.
You might incorporate overheard speech
or a turn of phrase you heard once that stood out to you –