The Support Group is Ripening, My Friends...

As I was studying Chemistry this morning (Acid/Base reactions: <Insert pun here>), a possible new support group member thrust their all too terrible story upon me. As has previously been established, the evil ploy of bananas and, to some extent, oranges is currently being realized. The Fruit Army is attacking us, picking us off one by one. It won't be long till more people start joining our ranks, having realized that they face an enemy that was until recently completely unsuspect. Yet, it is inevitable, my friends. I have preached it since day one. The Fruit Army is a jihadist group that cannot be messed with. They are serious. They mean business.

With that, I submit to you the story of yet another member of our support group. We need to have a sense of identity. If you have any ideas for a name, submit them, along with your application, if you wish. We must work together to stop this plague upon the earth. This member maintains a blog of her own, which this story has been published upon for more exposure to the masses: Clicky click. With any luck, CNN will have our story on the air within the decade. And, if not then, certainly within the century.

And so, without further adieu, I present thee her story:

A short while ago, I was attacked by organisms so crafty you would never suspect them of their cruel capabilities. What could these ghastly creatures be, you ask? Well, they are members of the most organized group of fruits on the planet. Don't believe me? Realize, then, that this was just one in a string of ambushes by these evil beings--here's a link to more of the assaults (and some other unrelated but entertaining stuffs by a friend of mine): http://msisley.blogspot.com/
But now on to my story...
It was the beginning of the school day. I came out of a classroom where I just dropped my load of books off. I’m minding my own business and walking along—dodging the preppy chicks standing smack in the middle of the hall in their skimpy clothes that they never get called on for dress code; holding my breath against the odor escaping the restroom; and avoiding that one scary teacher from the math department who looks like his or her gender could go either way. It is quite fortunate that I have a tendency to check the floor often to make sure there are no cracks in it. I looked down for a second, no cracks there, good, I shan’t trip today. But then—what’s this? A foreign object in my path?!
Closer inspection revealed…a banana peeling. Three inches from my shoe lay that object, potentially deadly to one’s reputation when placed in a busy hallway full of impressionable students. Especially to a girl wearing a skirt…Anyway, I glanced behind me at a sound of laughter. There stood the banana’s minion—clever of it to get a typical idiot to plant some item of destruction. Feeling quite pleased with myself for having avoided certain disaster, I stepped over the peeling and went to class. Little did I know that the fruits would strike again later that day…this time, with more success.
The second assault came in the cafeteria: an ironic place for a fruit plot, considering the portrait of the radioactive broccoli being struck by a massive fork that was painted in a massive mural along the wall.
The healthy food of the day in the “food” line was a nice bowl of sliced oranges. I went through the line, grabbed some of the usual mystery substance that was the main dish, and on last thought placed a bowl of oranges on my tray. I could use the vitamin C…some bug was going around. I went to my seat, as on any normal day, and ate my “food” with the relish of a cow forced to eat a hamburger. The oranges, started on last, weren’t finished by me—I gave them to some random kid sitting across from me in exchange for his pledge to never ask me for food again. I took up my garbage, and sat back down, awaiting release from that house of ill refuse. (And no, I don’t mean repute. I mean refuse—when was the trash last taken out of that place?!) The dean of students’ voice came over the speakers in a garbled tone, but putting voice and time together, we assumed that was the typical signal to scramble out through too few doors, push and shove each other out of the way, and dash to class. It was that moment that the oranges chose to exact their revenge for having been so unceremoniously sliced, diced, and ingested.
As usual, I looked down to make sure I wouldn’t step in any of the day’s food fight ammunition. In front of me was a pair of orange peelings, floating in a large puddle of juice. I deftly turned to the left, thinking I had escaped once more, only to come face to face with…a rather large pole, running from ceiling to floor, that I swear to this day they’d just put in over the previous night. I teetered, and nearly fell on this unsuspecting freshman, who pointed at me, laughed, and shared his glee with the other morons around him. So much for being on top getting you respect. One pair of orange peels, strategically placing themselves next to a pole, ruined that. Beware the fruits!