Bananas Hate Me

First off, let me begin by stating that bananas are probably my favorite vegetable. I have nothing against bananas. They just hold a very blatant hate of me for one reason or another.

I've never known why, but I will explain to you how I know of this hate.

Two days ago, a banana of unknown origins and his cohorts planned a kamikaze mission against yours' truly. I'm not entirely sure what provoked this kamikaze mission, only of the fact that it was deliberate and very well calculated. It was able, through careful planning, to sneak through my defenses, plant itself within the target area, and strike at the most opportune of moments.

Friends, I'm afraid I may be the bearer of bad news in stating that America is not safe from the fruit of the looming threat known as the Banana Republic. This terrorist cell, only one member of the much larger fruit jihadist group known only as the "Fruit Army," has been conspiring against this great land we call America for many years.

Perhaps it would be best if I gave you a brief history lesson before moving on in my story of the great terrorist plot. Many years ago, humans did not exist. Only fruit did. Several species of fruit existed in a very tribal nature, always fighting and warring against rival tribes. Whenever a peaceful pear proposed the idea of peace between tribes, the peaceful pear became pieces of fruit. Life was hard and full of toil for the fruit of the first era.

Then one day, a stripper strawberry thought a change would be nice. She toured the world, spreading the holy word of the great grape known as God. This grape had the power to forgive the sins of all fruit, thereby granting them admission into a great place known as heaven. The alternative, Sally the (former) stripper strawberry stated, was to surrender to the grapes of wrath, who owned a nice place known as hell, where one could never take a bath ("There's no escape from cranky grapes, they are the grapes of wrath!" she proclaimed.).

And thus, the world's first great religion was created. It ripened and grew to great proportions, until one day a bad apple decided to stir up trouble. You see, until this point, it had always been assumed that the great grape God was a purple grape. It wasn't stated anywhere, or anything. The holy book of Grapianity had nothing to say on the issue, but still, in everyone's mind, the purple grape seemed to be a symbol of purity. It was on this note that the bad apple (who shall remain nameless for purposes of remaining nameless) created a cult that believed that the great grape was not purple, but was rather green. The cult grew slowly at first, but gradually picked up momentum. Within a decade "Great Green Grape Church" had stolen a third of the congregation of the "Pure Purple Church".

The consequences of this split were enormous, to say the least. Families were split, nations divided by this oh so terrible issue. In the end, tension between the GGG Church and the PP Church grew so strong that the members of each could bear to live with one another no longer. The Banana Republic and the Farmers' Market nations were formed.

It is at this point that the details begin to blur a bit. The Banana Republic embraced the philosophy of the GGG Church, while the Farmer's Market was created to follow the PP Church. Bananas are believed to have formed their republic with oranges, tangerines, and other fruits of an orangeish nature. Tension grew in the republic as orange orgies grew more common, and it was at this point that the bananas declared a separation of fruit and state in order to keep the orangish fruits out of office. The Banana Republic became a Dictatorship. The clothing store that you now know is just their money making branch of government. Yada, yada, yada, history is kinda boring...

Oh...and the Pure Purple Church moved to Massachusetts and founded some Puritan movement...Moving on.

Wow, that got boring in a hurry. Anyway, hopefully you understand the history behind everything a bit better now. That will make understanding what I am about to tell you much easier.

So where was I, anyway? Oh yeah. The very well calculated terrorist plot. Maybe I'll do this Law and Order/Old Timey Sleuth style.

<Weird Sound>
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Broward Dining Hall

I walk into Broward dining with friends. My goal: to eat. Today's lunch will be a meal not unlike that of any other day. I utter the words "Meal Plan" and hand my card to the man I like to call "Jacques," just because he looks kinda French, but in a good way. He slides in through the register and motions me to move along. He has a long line of students waiting to hand their cards to him while uttering "Meal Plan," or even "Declining Balance" for the more adventurous.

I take two steps in before my eyes meet with all the beautiful foods that will be mine in just a short time. I stand a while, just letting my eyes wander over the wonderful feeding trough. I stand behind a girl with a trench coat on, just barely able to make out the words "Dry Clean Only" on the label resting behind her neck. I know that if I look up and meet eyes with her I will have to apologize for being so coy and handsome, and so I continue to look down at the tag on her neck, not wanting to inconvenience her so. I read "Dry Clean Only" in French: "Dégraisser Seulement", and in Spanish: "Seco Limpia Solamente." I stand for five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty. I am waiting for a sandwich. My turn finally comes.

"I'll have wheat bread with mayo and mustard, please."

"That's iiit?"

"No, I was gonna give it to you slowly so you wouldn't get mad at me."

"Oh."

I finish my order and retrieve said sandwich. Before retiring to my seat, I grab some Chilled Sweet Iced Tea and some pasta. Not entirely sure what I need to find here, I sit down to enjoy a meal before I lose my lunch. I devour my sandwich and pasta, leaving only the slightest proper amount of food on the plate. One must have good taste in such a nice establishment as this. Before taking my tray to the dish area, I grab a banana and place it in my backpack. Little did I know, this banana was from the jihadist Banana Republic.

Time passes. I awaken in a small room. I am disoriented. That is, not oriental. Suddenly I recall that I am in college. I am not feeling well. Is this what a hangover feels like? No. Can't be. I only had seven drinks last night. They were all water. I must have a cold. Oh, yes. Now I recall. I did have a cold. I was drinking to forget.

I rise and grab a banana from the fridge. This reminds me of the banana in my backpack, but I let the sleeping terrorist banana lie against my better judgment. I place my new Technical Writing book in my backpack. I have had to return it to the bookshop twice now thanks to errors in its pages. It went from page 18 to 336 in one page. It was a miracle book. I now know the managerial staff of the bookstore like the back of my hand. It is secure. I walk out my door and to class. Chemistry.

Time passes. I leave chemistry and go to calculus, but not before noticing a sticky area on the floor and on my knee. I wonder to myself, but ignore what should have been obvious to me at that moment. The terrorist plot was in motion.

I sit through calculus, all the while ignorant of the banana's dirty deed. I go to lunch with a stain on my shirt, ignorant of it all the while. I again walk into broward dining. Wait in line for my sandwich Stand behind a girl with a T-Shirt that reads, "Wet clean only." I do not understand this terrible American sense of humor.

I obtain my sandwich, grab a glass of water, and sit with friends to enjoy my elegant ham and salami delicacy. I decide that I should study my technical writing, lest I have to speak in class after only having finished half of the chapter. I pull out my book, only to behold the terrible attack that the Banana Republic had planned against me. My backpack, seeping with the revenge of the bananas for all my past misdeeds. It had been smashed by my technical writing book, and the banana had taken revenge. It was only proper, really. The technical writing book deserved it for its misdeeds. The banana was smashed all over everything in my backpack. My backpack leaked banana for the entirity of the day. My Blueish polo shirt smells like banana...my books are rotting. Basically, my life is going to pot. And all because of a banana!

The point is, my friends, that jihadist bananas can strike anyone at any moment. No one in this great nation is safe. I therefore submit my plea to the PP church and to the Farmers' Market: Please! Save us from the jihadist bananas! And my plea to you, America: Do not laugh at the PP Church's name. They are doing God's work on earth, and they are most certainly not yellow! Only the bananas are yellow: the color of evil.

As an aside, I am creating a Banana support group for anyone that has experienced great peril at the hands of bananas. Granted, an attack on the part of any fruit is grounds for admission into the group; one never knows which fruits are lurking at a given time. One must first realize that there is a problem with terrorist cells of fruits, and possibly, vegetables, and accept that times are changing. If you or anyone you know needs help, I encourage you to contact me with your story, which I will publish here as a means to help you begin to recover from your peril.

God bless each and every one of you. Be safe, and avoid those poison apples.