Liquid Wisdom

THIS MONTH’S TOPIC: FRUIT

Is it August already? Gee, the summer really flew by. Well, before it’s all over, I’d like to take a moment to give some mad props to the unsung heroes of summer: the summer fruits. Yes, you heard me correctly. All year long we eat apples, bananas, pears and oranges. Sure, they’re good and good for you, but they’re always in season. In other words, they are the whores of the fruit world. But for a few months each year, this produce monopoly is broken, and we get to unleash our taste buds on some truly delicious shit. I’m talking about supercrunchy blueberries; tender and tart strawberries; sweet, juicy plums and peaches (which are really plums in need of a waxing). And, hey, let’s not forget the melons. We’ve got honeydew, cantaloupe and watermelon. Ah, watermelons, so yummy and chock-full of antioxidants and racial innuendo.

But while I sing the praises of summer fruit, I must admit that there are a few that I don’t like—for instance, tangelos. There’s so much wrong going on with the tangelo that I don’t know where to begin. Let’s start with the name. Say it out loud: TAN-jell-o. It sounds like a she-male stripper, but, sadly, it’s not. It’s just another man-made abomination, a half-tangerine, half-grapefruit. It’s a freak fruit, the Frankenstein of the produce world. Should we be playing God, people?!

Oh, sorry, was I just ranting about fruit? I guess what I’m really trying to say is that all these juicy and nutritious treats wouldn’t be available to us if it weren’t for the people who grow and pick them. In most cases, they are immigrants. And some are illegal.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking: Hey, Mr. Bleeding- Heart Showbiz Fucker, what do you know about the immigration problem in America? What do you know about illegal workers’ rights or working, period? Well, you have a point. I’ve got a sweet job. I get paid to travel all over the country, get drunk and say dick and pussy for a living. I’m living the American dream. You’re right, I know immigration is a very complicated issue. There are pros and cons on both sides. But all I know is I wouldn’t be able to do anything without these so-called illegal helpers. Let me explain.

From the guy who drives me to the airport to the woman who checks my ID at the gate, everything I do is somehow made possible by the labor of people who are new to the U.S.A. And it doesn’t end there. When I land, the process starts in reverse. After I do my job of telling dick-and-pussy jokes, I like to unwind (translation: get drunk and hit a strip club). It’s in places like these where I’ll meet some drop-dead-gorgeous Eastern European chick who says in broken English that I remind her of some friend back home. Then we end up spending the rest of the night laughing, singing and dancing till last call or until my credit card is denied.

At that point, I usually stumble back, blind-drunk, to pass out in my hotel, where a few hours later I’ll wake up nude with porn blaring from the TV and what I hope is a melted Snickers bar lying next to me. “Hello, housekeeping? I need more towels.” Talk about real jobs; cleaning a hotel room has got to take the cake. I know that a lot of people who are against immigration say, “They are taking jobs away from real Americans,” but let’s face some facts: People in this country will not do anything filthy or dirty unless they are on a reality TV show. It’s kind of weird to live in a country where people will eat shit but won’t clean it up. But that’s the way it is here.

So I say welcome to all newcomers to our country. And thanks for the towels. Well, enough gabbing. I gotta pack and hit the airport. See you around.