Live by the watermelon, die by the watermelon.

This ficticious, in no way PC, but totally based upon actual events is meant to illustrate two things:

So my friend Marvin gives me a call and wants me to come over to check out this new fried chicken recipe his momma’s momma gave him. Being the cool brother I am, I hoped in my Caddy and was right on over. Of course not before I stopped off at the corner store to get some of that fine malt liquor and gin & juice everyone adores so much. When I arrived Marvin and Big Willy were in the middle of a heated game of dominoes, while Little Willy was shooting some hoops with Condi from down the block.


Man, the scene was all set. Laid out before us, was the biggest gosh-darned feast I’ve seen north of the Mason-Dixon. And Marvin’s mamma’s mamma’s recipe for fried chicken was spicy, nice and spicy just the way everyone likes it. Went perfectly with some of that fine cornbread stuffing and collard greens we gots up here. Anyways after polishing the rest of malt liquor, us gentlemen decided to relax over some grape soda. Damn that was one perfect night, save for dessert. We had some nasty-ass watermelon. Not ripe at all.

1) No one wins when stereotypes are involved.
2) Bad watermelon is dee-friggin-gustin.

To paraphrase my boy Jason, “This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. Your whole day is based upon the sweet, juicy nectar that only seasonal summer melon can provide. And just like that, the biggest disappointment of your life, this time with the bitter, bitter taste of stale nothing in your mouth happens.”

And to think I even shopped organic. Damn, melon like that makes you not want to get up in the morning.