And now, from our 'Vegetables are good for you!' department, here's a little humor you all might relish...
Subject: Life in the Slaw Lane
Source:
It was Cucumber the 1st. Summer was over. I had just spinached
a long day and I was busheled. I'm the kind of guy that works
hard for his celery, and I don't like telling you I was feeling
a bit wilted. But I didn't carrot all, because, otherwise, things
were vine. I try never to dasparagus, and I don't sweat the truffles.
I'm outstanding in my field, and I know that something good will
turnip eventually.
A bunch of things were going grape, and, soon, I'd be top banana.
At least, that's my peeling. But that's enough corn -- lend me
your ear, and lettuce continue.
After dressing, I stalked over to the grain station. I got there
just in lime to catch the nine-elemon as it plowed towards the
core of Appleton, a lentle more than a melon and a half yeast of
Cloveland.
No one got off at Zucchini, so we continued on a rutaBaga. Passing
my usual stop, I got avoCado. I haled a passing Yellow Cabbage
and told the driver to cart me off to Broccolin. I was going to
meet my brother across from the EggPlant, where he had a job at
the Saffron station pumpkin gas.
As soon as I saw his face, I knew he was in a yam. He told me
his wife had been raisin cane. Her name was Peaches -- a soiled
but radishing beauty with huge gourds (my brother had always been
a chestnut). But I could never figure out why she picked him.
He was a skinny little stringbean who'd always suffered from
Cerebral Parsley -- it was in our roots. Sure, we had tried to
weed it out, but the problem still romained. He was used to having
a tough row to hoe, but it irrigated me to see Arte-choke, and it
bothered my brother to see his marriage go to seed.
Like most mapled couples, they had a lot of growing to do. Shore,
they had sown their wild oats, but just barley, if you peas.
Finally, Peaches had given him an ultomato. She said, "I'm hip
to your chive, and if you don't stop smoking that herb, I'm
going to leaf you for Basil, you fruit!" He said he didn't realize
it had kumquat so far. Onion other hand, even though Peaches could
be the pits, I knew she'd never call the fuzz.
So I said, "Hay, we're not farm from the MushRoom. Let's walk
over." He said, "That's a very rice place! That's the same little
bar where alfalfa my wife." When we got there, I pulled up a
cherry and tried to produce small talk. I told him I hadn't seen
Olive; not since I'd shelled off for a trip to Macadamia, when
I told her we cantaloupe -- the thyme just wasn't ripe. She
knew what I mint!
When we left the MushRoom, we were pretty well juiced. I told
Arte to say hello to the boysenberry, and that I'd orange to
see him another time.
Well, it all came out in the morning peppers: Arte caught Peaches
that night with Basil, and Arte beet Basil bad, leaving him with
two beautiful acres. Peaches? She was found in the garden --
she'd be pruned.
Well, my little story is okra now. Maybe it's small potatoes.
Me? Idaho. My name? Wheat. My friends call be `Kernel'.
And that's life in the slaw lane. Thank you so mulch.
It's a garden out there!
-Kip Adota
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(the chorus, which is inserted a few times, is sung by his regular back-up
singers. It goes:
Life in the Slaw Lane
They say plants can't feel no pain
Life in the Slaw Lane
I've got news for you -- they're just as frail as you.)