Fruit Salad and the Zombie Apocalypse

As a person with a pretty firm grip on reality, but also a love for the celluloid adventures of the undead, I have come to the conclusion that the zombie apocalypse is finally upon us.

First, let’s set the record straight. I am about as far away from a tree-hugger as Kanye West is from a genius. I would much rather have an animal served medium rare on a plate with a baked potato and A-1 sauce than one frolicking around in my back yard. I get most of my daily fruit intake from jam (I prefer jelly-my wife buys jam-I live with it-marriage is all about give and take) in a sticky love fest with a generous helping of God’s greatest creation, peanut butter. So “Fruit” is a term that generally goes unused unless I am discussing the laundry and is followed by the words “of the Loom.” As for veggies, I agree with Garfield creator Jim Davis, “Vegetables are a must on a diet. I suggest carrot cake, zucchini bread and pumpkin pie.” Couldn't have said it better myself.

So being the kind of guy who would attempt to eat a Goodyear radial if it was deep fried and slathered in Ranch dressing, you’d assume that genetically-altered food would a “no biggie” on the list of things I’ll eat. I mean, it’s just food, right? Hmmm, I’m not really sure on this. Okay, I’ll admit that if broccoli could be genetically engineered to taste like bacon I’d probably be all over it, but in most cases I’d pass. I even went back to eating real butter after I found out that margarine is one molecule away from plastic.

I also read somewhere that scientists have created, for lack of a better term, a new GMO fruit they call the Arctic apple. Does it grow in the snow? I don’t think so. It is manipulated to not turn brown. Sounds good, but how do I know when it’s rotten? Nothing worse than a mealy apple. Well, maybe finding half a worm after taking a bite.

I believe genetically altering our food could quite possibly have some dire consequences down the road. Eating food that has been Frankensteined into some “thing” that never spoils conjures up images of the walking dead in my mind. Of course my mind sees spiders when I stand at the bathroom sink and stick my bare feet under the cabinet. Crazy, perhaps.

No comments from wife, hairdresser or psychiatrist.

K.G.