Avocado Bravado

Avocadoes are apparently among the most cherished of vegetables, if something with a fat content higher than beef can be called a vegetable. Americans consume mountains of these things in the form of guacamole dip, in the process sending billions of otherwise innocent corn chips to meet their fate in the curved talons of their cruel maker: Freeto The Terrible.

Beware the avocado seed however. It is not edible and is a bitter little ball of incipient badness.

California produces so many avocadoes that the profits could run a small country. This huge economy has resulted in the inevitable marketing crusade, with an Avocado Commission, an Avocado Society, and an Avocado Kids group. 43.6% of American households buy avocadoes each year. Just stop, OK?

Yet demand still far outstrips supply. Neighbors have begun to steal each other’s fruit, with intimidation and violence threatening to further erode the thin veneer of our civilization. Instituting internecine warfare over this sinister and subtle fruit seems ludicrous even for our benighted species, but Mr Supply and Mr Demand care not the coin of their realm.

In conclusion, not only does the avocado have a disgusting soft texture and bland taste, it is contributing to the breakdown of our society. And lest we not forget, entire generations of kitchen appliances owe their evil green souls to this profane produce.

The Avocado: Fruit of Satan.

Two More Things I Don’t Really Like

Beer. This one is weird, because long ago I liked beer. But too many went down too fast while I was too young. Too bad.

Reality TV. Don’t get me started. These made up fantasies pose as some kind of reality, the carefully planned and scripted reality of TV. There’s more reality in a work of fiction or the Jerry Springer Show, or so I’m told he quickly adds. In this New Sell Realism Market anything apparently goes as long as there is a viewing public willing to watch and a cunning sponsor to act as the bank. This form of ridiculous television is so tenuous and vapid that it has to keep raising the bar in order to keep an increasingly somnambulant viewing public from lapsing into coma. Studies show that unconscious audiences are 42% less likely to buy soap than living audiences, making it crucial to keep them awake with Dead Celebrity Kickboxing.

Stephanie Continues To Question The Universe

Tropic of Capricorn and Tropic of Cancer: What are they and why are they called that?

The Earth is tilted with respect to the imaginary plane that contains both our planet and the sun. Because of this tilt, it might be cool to find out where on Earth the Sun can be directly overhead when it’s 12:00 noon local time. In the Southern hemisphere latitude 23°30′ marks the farthest south this occurs, and it therefore is thought to define the southern boundary of the tropics. It happens around December 22, the summer solstice for the Southern Hemisphere. The term Capricorn comes from the Latin words caper [goat] and cornu [horn] and is the name given to one of the 12 constellations in the zodiac. The constellation Capricorn would have been directly overhead 2000 years ago on December 22, when those that like to name things lived.

Tropic of Cancer is the same idea only in the northern hemisphere, at latitude 23°30′ north. This is the northern most point where the sun is directly overhead (once a year around June 21), and marks the north edge of the tropics.

What does this particular latitude have to do with Cancer?

It turns out that on June 21st, if you look up at night you will find that the Sun’s path will take it through constellation of Sagittarius the next day. However, if you lived around 2000 years ago you would have seen constellation of Cancer.

The Ancients got dibs.

Watch Ya Doin’?

My brother gave me the best watch I ever owned. I was 19 and had just completed the NAUI scuba course in Hawaii, when he presented me with a Seiko diving watch. From that point onward my relationship with watches would head into an alarming and rather permanent decline. Case in point: My 9-year-old $14 Casio bit the dust last week. The watch was working fine but the various clasps and hinges that held the band together finally fell apart. I can’t wear those flexible metal watchbands because they rip out the little hairs on my wrists, making it appear that I’m into some dark form of recreation requiring handcuffs. Young shelled out $18 for a replacement, which should hold me till retirement and beyond, although in my case retirement might just be beyond.

I believe that as long as there’s sunlight digital watches will continue to run. If we ever end ourselves in a noisy nuclear whimper, the only things left will be the cockroaches, the reptiles and our forever optimistic digital watches, carefully timing the apocalypse until darkness falls.