CHOKOLOSKEE, FL — Perched on top of a rusted, engine-less 1998 Chevy Silverado sitting on cinder blocks in the middle of a swamp, local alligator and proud Florida resident Barnaby insisted Wednesday that his daily dosage of 37 Cool Mint 8mg Zyn pouches at once is purely a mild “maintenance level,” down from what he called his “wild days.”
“Honestly, 37 doesn’t even do much anymore,” rasped Barnaby, whose upper snout was swollen to the size of a water gallon jug, packed so tight with the max-strength pouches that his nostrils could no longer fully close. “It’s like drinking a single lukewarm Busch Light at a high school bonfire. It just keeps me from throwing lawn chairs at the mailman.”
Barnaby claimed his recent attempt to cut back was inspired by a sudden spark of self-improvement after getting banned from a local Waffle House for trying to fight a ceiling fan.
“Back in July, I was packing two whole cans of 8s per lip, chugging a Buc-ee’s jug full of Red Bull, and free-soling the power lines behind the Publix,” Barnaby said while picking his teeth with a discarded meth pipe. “So 37 Cool Mint 8s at a time? That’s basically microdosing. I don’t even get the lip burn anymore. My gums turned into calloused leather back during the Obama administration.”
Local residents and wildlife authorities expressed deep concern, noting that Barnaby’s “slight cutback” hasn’t done much to curb his quintessential Sunshine State behavior.
“He called the police on himself twice yesterday because he thought his own tail was an undercover cop trying to seize his jet ski,” said Dale, a neighbor who was actively skinning a catfish on his front porch. “Then at 3:00 AM, he tried to barter three live copperheads and a stolen air-conditioner unit at the Circle K drive-thru for another sleeve of 8mg Cool Mint. He’s not chilled out; he’s just immune to lethal doses of stimulant.”
Despite zero noticeable reduction in his heart rate—which local paramedics measured at “the tempo of a drum-and-bass remix”—Barnaby remains convinced he is on a path to total zen.
“It’s all about balance,” Barnaby yelled over the roar of an airboat engine he had wired directly into his living room wall. “Next week I might drop to 36 of the 8s, but only if I can supplement it by huffing air horn propellant during the NASCAR race.”
At press time, Barnaby was last seen wrestling a copperhead over an empty bag of boiled peanuts while screaming about his constitutional right to open-carry a weedwhacker.
