My generation loves the avocado. In fact, we’re willing to ruin our futures for it. But why? I think I have a clue, and it’s to do with the habits of our parent’s generation.
The avocado. Nature’s greatest predator. If the dire sound of the media klaxon is to be believed, not only will they keep you under the boot of your landlord forever, they’ll also place you under the unfeeling gaze of the triage nurse when you try to explain that you’re merely the latest victim of the “avocado hand” phenomena.
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Let’s be honest. If an avocado were people, we’d all be in an unhealthy relationship. They’re only good when they want to be, for a finite window, if not, too bad, they’re a drain on your finances, and here’s a dangerously unpopular opinion: they don’t actually taste that good. They’re lazy in the only department they exist to provide. Taste. Sure, when in a crowd they are spectacular, but without the safety of the group, the avo is a bit shit. Like the archetypal bully in every movie, without their gang to back them up, and the harsh light of judgement upon them, the love interest invariably ditches them. Roll credits.
I was tasked to write a piece that spoke about the condition of “avocado hand”, but I believe it to be the indigestible pit of the larger issue. For the sake of covering one’s toast: one particular doctor is reporting that he treats up to four patients a week – fellow citizens who were unable to keep the knife on the husk, and thusly dug it into their palm. (*cough* Natural selection.) Yadda yadda yadda, now we might see warning labels on avocados.
Now to the crux of the issue.
I believe the avocado to be the smoking of our generation. Something we know adds nothing meaningful to our lives, a financial burden, but something that absolutely annoys our parents, and thusly there is the appeal. Rebellion.
So why? Rebellion is cool, man. Movies told us so. James Dean had his trademark darts, such much so, that due to popular lore, his cigarette was expunged by the emergency services long after it’s owner expired. Cool cool. So, we stand against the walls of supermarkets, lips pouted, eyes narrowed, palms bleeding from accidental cuts. Cool cool. Omertà. That’s cool.
We pride ourselves on our choice, and our ability to choose the right avocado. We do it, because we can handle it, there’s nothing in a book that’d teach you how to pick a perfectly ripe one. It’s all instinct. It’s all about feel. And when we squeeze that Hass, man. Phwoar.
Yes, there’s a chart that shows you the ripeness, but we ignore it, just like our parents did with the tall letters that read SMOKING KILLS.
It’s our choice, so fuck you, you don’t get it, I want this more than a house. If I could eat seven million of them, I would. You can’t eat bricks and mortar. But, Dad, I ask you, how many mortgages could you buy with the two packs a fortnight over 30 years? Let he who is without stupid impulse, type the judgiest headline.
The great thing about it is if it wasn’t the avocado, it’d be something else. The durian, perhaps. Maybe the next generation’s filthy habit to annoy us might be the cantaloupe. And annoy us it will, because it makes no sense to us, and because it ain’t no avocado.