Yeah, that’s right, I’m talking to you, you stupid bag of tiny oranges. Because once again, you tricked me into buying you at the grocery store and once again, you’re now sittin’ pretty on my kitchen counter all smug-like and shit. Thinking you’re all cool with your Day-Glo colored skin and your juicy little insides. Oh, man, how I hate you, you dumbass oranges. I f–king hate you.
There I was, just pushing my cart through the fruit and vegetable section like a regular suburban schmo, and as per usual, you saw me coming. Oh, you most certainly did. “Here’s that blonde chump again!” you giggled to one another. “Quick! Look like you’re full of age-defying Vitamin-C so the old crone picks us up!” And of course I did. I always do. Like a GROWN ASS SCHNAUZER-FACED FOOL I DO.
Every other freaking week, I buy a $6.00 bag of you miserable Clementines. And every other freaking week, I don’t eat even a single one of you creepy little bastards. That’s why you want to go home with me, isn’t it? Isn’t it?! Because instead of getting eaten, you can just hang out in the kitchen telling lame-o knock-knock jokes to the idiot bananas until you turn moldy and I throw you away. Oh, yeah, Orange Foolius, don’t even think that I don’t know your strategy. You look all enticing and healthy and shit in the grocery store, then once I get you home, boom. The psycho citrus game playin’ begins.
“Looking for a snack, lady?” you hiss into my ear when I stagger into the kitchen at 1:00 a.m. “How about the Cheez-Its? They’re just like oranges, but all you have to do is stick your hand into the box. None of that nasty peeling and manual labor like with us. Eating us takes time and concentration. So just put your hand in the box…there you go…that’s a good girl….now go stuff your big fat pie face with the crackers…hahahahahaha! High five, Orangemen! WE RULE!!”
But you know what, Clementines? I’m sick of it. S-I-C-K sick of it. I’m sick of wasting my money, I’m sick of my husband asking “Are those oranges only for display? Why not just flush $6.00 down the toilet every week and save yourself the trouble, genius?” and I’m sick of constantly wondering if that red rash on my foot is scurvy due to a severe vitamin deficiency. So here’s what I’m going to do, my friends. Listen up because I will not be repeating myself.
Blast a little “Slow Ride” by Foghat for mood music.
Cut you fuckers out of your little plastic safety net.
Find the leader of the Clementine Resistance Army.
(AKA the dilweed wearing the UPC code sticker and the smug expression.)
Grab a large kitchen knife for show, then put it away when you gasp.
Start with the leader, then slowly and methodically peel the rind off of
every single one of you glossy orange freaks.
(With frequent pauses to cruelly chortle and/or clean up my work space.)
Shove each evil Clementine section into my mouth until you’re all destroyed and I have a gallon of juice running down my chin and severe intestinal issues.
(There is no Step 7 because I will probably be at Urgent Care.)
So that’s it, Clementines or Mandarin Oranges or Faux Tangerines or Cuties or whatever you pathetic losers are calling yourselves this week. That’s my airtight plan that I’ll be enforcing RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND!! (Or, more realistically, right after the UPS guy comes because I don’t want to miss him and have to deal with their crazy phone system, etc. etc.)
Now kiss each other good-bye, Clementines! Make your peace with the apples and lemons in the fruit bowl and prepare to meet your Citrus Maker in that great orange grove in the sky (or Northern Mexico)!
Because it’s go time, jackasses. IT’S GO TIME.