Melon. The other horseman of the Apocalypse. / by laurel


This one is a long time coming

On Saturday I was enjoying a leisurely lunch at one of my new favorite Long Beach establishments. The sun was shining, we were sitting in the lush back patio and I was sipping a Blue Moon while perusing the menu. The choices! The food! Soup, salad, or fries! In short: It was the perfect meal with the perfect people on a perfect day. I'd venture to say that somewhere Lou Reed was crooning an ode to that very day, and butterflies and hummingbirds were actually exploding from all the perfection (and if you've never seen a butterfly explode from perfection, well, my friend, you haven't LIVED). 

But then Jess pointed out an item on the menu that managed to bring the whole day to a screeching halt. Jess, seriously, girl. Why'd you have to bring up the M Word?

Mike looked at me sideways a moment after witnessing my reaction to the M Word. Mike, could it be that you have not heard my thoughts and feelings on the M Word? Have you not born witness to the inherent emotional baggage that comes along with such a discussion? Clearly you have not.

"Mike," I said, taking a sip of my Blue Moon. "I am vehemently opposed to melon."

"Whoa," He said.

"VEHEMENTLY." I said. 

I realized that this violent opposition is only common knowledge in some circles, and that of all the various and senseless items I choose to ruminate on in this very blog, melon has not, as of yet, been one of them. 

Well. May it be known that I am vehemently opposed to melon. Mike may have also at that point made mention that my opinions overwhelm him, or something to that effect, but I didn't hear him because I have selective hearing these days, and typically I choose not to hear any semblance of a complaint that my opinions on such important matters as fruit and pleated trou are overbearing. 

What? I'M SORRY I CAN'T HEAR YOU, I'M TOO BUSY BLOGGING AND BEING OPINIONATED.

Now where was I?

So Melon. Maybe I should address Melon directly (notice how I am now capitalizing the word. See, this personifies it. Makes it personal. Oh yeah, I'm going to TAKE IT THERE). 

Melon,

You are a useless excuse for fruit.

I don't expect you to be too dejected over this revelation because you have no heart. Or rather, no pit. In fact, what you have is a mushy array of seeds that look like human guts, and Melon, that's just gross.

You are inexpensive, which is why you proliferate even the best fruit platters and salads, you cheap whore of Babylon. Yes, I'm talking to you, evil Jezebel of the Fruits. You tantalize people with your girth and relatively inexpensive fruit-per-slice ratio. You make people think of things like Summertime and BBQ's and the Fourth of July and screaming eagles of American freedom, but it's all a LIE, Melon. It's a lie because instead of offering up the succulent, ripe flesh of your innermost core, what do we get on that fruit platter? MASSIVE HUNKS, mercilessly chopped away far too near your bitter outer rind. We get cantaloup and honeydew that tastes as bland and unappetizing as packing peanuts. 

Honeydon't, Melon. 

We get fruit platters promising variety: Pineapple! Watermelon! (for all intents and purposes, I exclude watermelon from the category of Evil Melon)Grapes! And if we're lucky, the most hallowed and revered and coveted of all the fruit platter options: Berries.

Berries, I love you. (And you most of all, Raspberries. I reserve a special little place in my heart for you, and don't you ever forget it. I pledge to you my eternal and unerring devotion).

Yes, we are promised all those things when we spy a fruit platter or a fruit salad at a church picnic or a family potluck. But what do we really get? We get melon, in disproportionate amounts. We see strawberries scattered atop the glacial mass of melon and we think, "Lo! What's here: strawberries! My, how I love strawberries on a warm day!"

But one need only to take the top strawberry from the pile to see the deception lurking just below the surface: Indeed, that iceberg consists entirely of MELON as deep as the ocean. Or at least to the bottom of the bowl. Whichever comes first.

And you KNOW, Melon, you know that people at church picnics are ruthless. There is an unspoken one-strawberry rule when the fruit platter is so unfavorably disproportionate, but you know that even Jesus followers don't follow all the rules, Melon, and when all is said and done, what are we left with?

You.

Yes, you, you bland and unappetizing idiot-fruit. 

In short, I find you deplorable. When I go to a restaurant and order the seasonal fruit plate or bowl or side-of-fruit-instead-of-wilted-lettuce,-please, I expect variety. I mean, I live in Southern California, whose lovely climate breeds most of the best fruits and therefore, in theory, should offer almost every fruit 'in season,' year-round. But no. Do you know what 'seasonal fruit' is code for?

It's code for CHUNKY PILE OF CRAP. That's you, Melon. Because that's all there ever is. Just you, you, and more of you. Infuriating piles of you. One pale orange or green square after the other. And despite having this knowledge of Seasonal Fruit parlance, I find myself disappointed each and every time I hoped for a strawberry and instead got a stupid bowl of you

So here's to you, Melon. I hope you rot in the bottom of my sink disposal and poison all the cockroaches living down there with your stink and your ever-present unfavorableness. Because I don't just dislike you, Melon. I loathe you.

The pesticide to your baffling popularity, 
Laurel