Let’s get one thing straight up front: I don’t like tomatoes.
I know, I know, for some of you that’s akin to me saying I don’t like rambunctious kittens, or action movies, or long walks on the beach at sunset. Although, now that I think about it, an action movie starring rambunctious kittens set on a tropical island would probably suck, too, so maybe some of you are just taste-deficient in the first place.
“Not like tomatoes!” people exclaim. “Why, they’re the perfect food! Antioxidants! Juicy goodness! Healthy eating! The benefits are endless!”
Morons.
In the first place, tomatoes are The Devil’s Fruit[sup]TM[/sup]. Satan himself crafted this wily thing. If botanists argued and debated for years over whether to classify something as a fruit or a vegetable, it obviously had nefarious origins – and, quite possibly, shape-shifting powers.
Secondly, the damn things are all gooshy when you slice them open. They always look like they’re not quite done evolving. What the hell is that goop in the middle of a tomato, anyway? It’s like some sort of freako vegetable semen.
Try this: The next time you’re having a cookout, ask people what they want on their hamburger. “How about some mayonnaise? Mustard? Onion? Cheese? Freako vegetable semen?” I defy anyone with half a brain to answer “yes” to all those questions. If they do, they’re probably just stopping by your cookout for a few minutes; they’re actually on their way to pitch a tent at the box office, anxious to be the first to purchase tickets to “The Fluffy Matrix of the Blue Lagoon.”
My parents, God love them, tried very hard to make me eat tomatoes. They would even eat tomato sandwiches when I was a child. Mom would go into the garden, pick a tomato, and hack its Satan-colored flesh into slices. Then she and Dad would put some mayonnaise on two pieces of white bread, slap a couple of tomato slices in between them, and munch away. I would watch the bread turn pink as they ate; the evilness that was the tomato would begin tainting the pure goodness of Wonder Bread. A more apt demonstration of the way sin invades our pure souls can’t be made.
Of course, Satan can (and often does) outsmart himself. The tomato, his most perfect evil creation, can actually be used for good. Take, for example, ketchup. Or salsa (if it’s not too chunky). Or spaghetti sauce. So clearly the tomato can, and sometimes does, serve a useful purpose.
Normally my crusade against The Devil’s Fruit[sup]TM[/sup] goes well. I have long since given up hope of converting those under the thrall of the tomato; the blind fools can’t see that they’re just lapping up the Semen of Satan in baseball-sized carrying cases. But I am usually able to keep my own body free of such pollution.
Recently, however, I met a wily agent of the Forces of Darkness in the guise of an O’Charley’s waitress. Mrs. Sauron and I decided to eat out, and we chose O’Charley’s as our destination. As we placed our food order, I was careful to mention that I didn’t want tomatoes on my salad. I always do this cheerfully, careful to enunciate my desires, so the waitperson knows what I do and do not want. I also bring along my .410 shotgun and lovingly caress the stock. “Now, there won’t be any tomatoes on my salad, right?” I always ask, smiling as I rub the burled wood. Normally this impresses upon them the need to get my salad order correct.
Not this babe. She was probably a lieutenant in Satan’s Tomato Army. When she brought my salad, she plunked down in front of me a few measly strands of lettuce quivering under a veritable mound of tomatoes.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I asked for no tomatoes on the salad.” She looked at me strangely, but took the salad back. My wife, who enjoys tomatoes, cackled at me and passed the time by placing hunks of tomato in her mouth and saying “Honey, look!” then squishing them between her teeth.
The waitress returned. I looked up in anticipation.
I swear by all that is good and holy, there were more tomatoes on the salad than before. I sat there, dumbstruck. Finally I found my voice.
“Ma’am, I don’t want tomatoes on my salad.”
She spoke with all the impertinence one would expect from a Servant of Darkness. “You said you didn’t want bacon.”
I looked at my wife; she looked at me. Tomato juice dribbled down her chin in silent, poignant mockery.
“No, I didn’t,” I said, struggling to maintain my calm. “I requested no tomatoes. Twice. I have no quarrel with bacon, but tomatoes are an abomination. I want a salad with no tomatoes.”
She flounced off in a huff. My wife, always solicitous and caring, eager to make my every moment on the earth as perfect as possible, announced, “You know whatever salad she brings back now is gonna have some really special ingredients in it, don’t you?”
So for the third time, a salad is set before me. No tomatoes are immediately visible. I thank the waitress, and pick up my fork.
And notice all the tomato goop clinging to the lettuce. The wench has simply flicked that plethora of tomatoes off the salad, leaving their vile snail-trail of putrescence behind.
I ate bread, instead.
One day, we 'mater-haters will have our revenge on you foolish and misguided Servants of Evil. We will build a world where tomatoes are NOT automatically placed on sandwiches, or hamburgers, or salads. We will build a world where justice reigns, where good taste stands tall and proud, where the Scourge of the Tomato is but a distant memory.
Then, and only then, will kittens be able to frolic peacefully on the shore as they fire automatic weapons at each other.