|Pure evil, in carrot form (pic: SAHIP)|
Imagine my shock when I opened the fridge door with the wholesome goal of making a nourishing, vitamin-rich, family values-inspired soup, only to be confronted with this naked display of hardcore penetration by two rutting root vegetables of the same colour and the same grotesque phallic shape. And once caught, did they stop, cry out in shame and then scuttle for separate vegetable drawers? No, they unblushingly continued to interlock right in front of my eyes, as though the watching gaze of a third party was mere fuel to their unspeakable lust.
I could have shut the door, sealed off the fridge with duct tape, dragged it outside, doused it with diesel, and then set the whole loathsome device aflame. After all, the fridge is culpable too in this seething tale of seedling seediness, having provided the sluttish food items with the cold den of iniquity for their vile, whorish behaviour.
Instead, though, I began to scream at the procreating produce. Would they stop this filthy thrusting right now? They didn’t. Were they at least married? Silence, so one assumes that they were not. Were they at least boy and girl carrots? Once more, the lack of response indicated nothing but guilt. In fact, later research revealed that carrots as a race are, revoltingly, of a single gender, neither male nor female. So, pretty much like transsexuals then, which tells us all we need to know.
I rushed for a pair of rubber gloves, then with a feeling of rising, righteous nausea I grabbed the sinners and threw them into the sink. But so deeply ingrained was their lust that not even a blast of cold water could prise them apart. In the end, it took a half hour of hell in boiling liquid before I could soften their ardour and rent them asunder. How I wish now I’d left that pan simmering for eternity as a lesson to other wayward vegetables. But I could not resist draining the water and then stamping on the carrots until they were nothing but a mushy pulp in no way resembling a brace of lusty swordsmen in the final act of swollen mutual conquer. At last, normality was restored.
What if it had been one of my kids who had opened the fridge and discovered this heinous congress? True, my kids would never, ever think of looking for something to eat in the vegetable drawer, but my point stands up strong and solid as a fully grown cucumber strutting into a bar full of soft, ripe tomatoes. How will America look if we elect Obama for another four years? Carrots won’t just be covertly embracing in the relative secrecy of your fridge. Oh no, they’ll be wickedly shafting each other across the fields of America’s farming heartland. They’ll be hard at it in the back of delivery trucks in dozen-a-bunch orgies of pre-gratin gratification. And they’ll be openly and obliviously rubbing up against each other on the shelves of our supermarkets, and probably inviting the celery, the spuds and the onions over too for some kind of sick, trans-vegetable melange of satanic, four-course intercourse.
That, my friends, is exactly how Obama’s America will look in 2016.