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


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


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.)

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