Mostly rambles, few brambles
Ronnie Roberts, the morning show host, was absolutely beaming, seemingly awed that she had lived long enough to witness a brand-new fruit. The paradigm of apple, banana, orange, and so on had been shattered by this new genetic splice, and her mind was now but a quavering mass, gushing and trying to find its sea legs in this brave new world.
Sure, I get it. You want your viewers jazzed for any guest—even if, like the previous segment, the guest is a putrid glut of anti-charm and famous only for their accounting software. Still, I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Big freaking deal,” I said aloud, my arms crossed so tightly it was overtly apparent that I was nowhere near applause, “like I really care if this new li-mon will change the way they make Sprite.”
I asked if any of my fellow tire shoppers could believe this dreck. One greasy-mouthed goon started to say he suspected he was being gouged on a new set of Michelins. “No,” I said pointing at the preening scientists on the television, “I mean these drips.” That was when everyone stopped making eye contact with me and went back to their newspapers and phones. I took this as my cue to talk louder. “I’m no harlot,” I stood on my chair now, gesturing with my free coffee, explaining that there wasn’t anything that a praise-trollop like that wouldn’t tout. “I keep chaste; I’m saving my acclaim for the right achievement.”
I had paused here, just in case the six other people waiting here wanted to applaud my bravery. They didn’t, so I figured I should keep soapboxing. “If we are giving standing ovations for all these loser fruits, Ronnie, how are we going to honor the scientists who create the uberfruit: the inexpensive, immortality-granting superfood that tastes like pizza?” I would be pretty disgusted with myself if my hands were too sore from clapping, my legs too tired from ovating, and my nipples too weary from exposure when that fruit was announced.
Ronnie was still prattling and I made a disparaging guttural sound, sort of like booing mixed with a retch. “Sir,” the clerk stepped inside the room and looked directly at me. “I told you twice now,” he said, annoyed, “your car has been ready for twenty minutes.” I could feel the audience turn on me. Michelin Guy led the charge. Not an actual charge, more just an onslaught of scowls.
I said I would stand down. “Know this,” I continued as I found my jacket, “I’m no prude—they day they develop even something close to that uberfruit I’ll be dancing, hooting, clapping, flashing my soon-to-be-immortal nips to any honored scientist willing to take a gander at this all-you-can-ogle buffet.”
“Sir, please,” the clerk said as he hustled me out.
Michelin Guy started to applaud the clerk. The room joined him, all truly willing to applaud for just about anything these days.