So...what the hell is this? I go to PF Changs to celebrate with Mrs. Reese's Cup and after my delicious meal of MSG and dead chicken covered in sweet sugary glaze, the waiter puts this crap on my table.

"uh...excuse me."
"Yes, sir?"
"What is that?"
"What is what?"
"There's a tree growing out of my cheesecake."
"Oh. That's garnish."
"Why is garnish growing out of my cheesecake?"
"It's not to eat. It's to make it look better."

Look better? It's cheesecake. Making it look better is like telling Odette Yustman she needs to powder her nose before you kiss goodnight, or thinking I'd be more willing to take a hundred dollar bill because you put a High School Musical sticker on it.

If I wanted vegetables I'd have ordered a freaking salad. I want sugar, sweetner, syrup and graham cracker crust. I don't want some arrogant chef planting a garnish garden in my cheesecake.

Anyway. It was dang good.

ANOTHER reason fruit is evil.

Mostly I have no problem with fruit. One of my all-time favorite foods is passion fruit skittles and cherry starbursts. Also, pineapple isn't bad. Pineapples are like that girl in high school that tries to set a record and kiss every guy on the basketball team--everyone likes them, but they give you canker sores.

But mostly fruits are a lesser evil version of vegetables. I will occasionally share the different reasons why fruits and vegetables are evil and must be avoided.

Today's reason:

Fruit is violent.

Mrs. Reese's Cup of Dr. Pepper called and asked to come help pick pears for some god-forsaken canning project in which she is participating all day Saturday. Well, all day, or long enough to keep me from watching the Tennessee-Florida game.

Of course I agreed. I am on a short leash. Short enough that I admit it freely and with a small amount of fear that she will read this post.

The mom-in-law picked me up and was supposed to take me home so I could change from my designer Mervyn's/Ebay attire into a more appropriate Salvation Army ensamble.

Instead she carts me straight to the "orchard" wear her boyfriend awaits to galavant around the town in wild wanderings of middle-aged-divorced romance, with a potential nightcap at Cracker Barrel if all goes well.

So I pull up to the "orchard", which turns out to be an old man's back yard. The kids are eating rotten pears and dirt and the Mrs is on the top rung of a 300 year old ladder held together by staples.

I get what appears to be a lacrosse net made from barbed-wire on a ten foot broom handle. It may have been one of the murder weapons used in the lastest Friday the 13 movie when that "pineapple" girl, mentioned above, sets her record.

I reach up and pluck two pears.

Easy Peasy.

Wrong. Immedidately I am carpet-bombed by a dozen overly-ripe orbs. Luckily, only my hand and custom Wal-Mart loafers received the kiss of splattered death.

I mutter a curse word under my breath and briefly catch criticizing look from the 1 year old.

I go into "pear-picking mode". Okay stop.

Tangent:

Males will occasionally pretend that the task they are attempting to complete is vital to rescuing a beautiful woman, achieving world-renown, or simply saving the world. The reason we do this is to add meaning to an otherwise menial task to help us focus.

In this case, I was Earl Murgle, PhD. Biologist to the stars and advisor to the President and King of Zanzibar. Aliens had infested the national pear orchards, and only I could save the world--and a beautiful dame perched on a treacherous ladder. Thus, "Pear Picking Mode."

End of Tangent

I reached up slowly to snag a large green monster dangling from limbs. I quickly snag it, but immediately see my error. Two large, brown and saucy pears plummet toward me. I step back and the goo from the first carpet-bombing causes me to slip.

Slam.

A third, previously unseen goo-ball knocks me on the noggin. The curse word isn't muttered. The one year old isn't impressed. The world ends and the dame I was supposed to save ends up giving me a dirty look the whole ride home.

Vegan Propaganda

Have any of you ever noticed that in the myriad of dinosaur cartoons that the only dinosaurs smart enough to talk are the ones who only eat plants? The meat-eaters prance mindlessly around head-butting rocks as they spit and growl at the plant eaters.

Sure you get the token meat-eater who "befriends" the all-knowing lardo leaf-eater. He might throw in a few comments, but he gets patronized by the whiny dino-vegetarians. We watch an hour and a half of the veggie group search for green food, but the meat eater NEVER gets to eat.

I'm convinced this is propaganda by the Vegan movement to brainwash us.

For once I'd love the token tyranosaurus to say, "You know what? Screw you guys. All you do is treat me like crap because I like meat. So you know what? Next time we all cuddle together to block out the cold, I'm going to use your leg as a chew toy. And you know what else? You weigh 10 freaking tons! Maybe if you'd slow down on the salad we wouldn't have to cross the Volcano fields for the freaing Green Valley, you selfish punk."