Bringing the Granny Smith Economy to its Knees: A Deposition

by vinnyhaddad

Counselor, what you’re focusing on, here, is a red herring. This little fender bender that this little plaintiff (sir, I’m sorry, but you are terribly tiny, frighteningly so [I have been prejudiced for certain smallnesses and so I say ‘little’ with no malice, none whatsoever, believe you me]) is not the real issue. The real issue is uncovered by the throwing of the apple. I threw it. I didn’t want to admit at first, that is, of it being an apple, since said apple cannot be located for submission into evidence (I may or may not have destroyed said apple after said throwing). At another human being (not the plaintiff, to be clear [my God, who would choose such a small man as a target for the throwing of an apple? Only a masochist]). Through my car window. The apple, that is. It’s difficult to admit that it was an apple, mainly because there is likely no admissible explanation to throw a partially eaten piece of fruit at another human being. Except. Well, let me put in plain words who the victim truly is.

The apple was too-ripe, green, Granny Smith. It was sour and mealy and overall dissatisfying, which I feel, on its own, could stand as a legitimizing factor to my throwing of it. But the truth of my victimization is much more profound and complex, therefore I simply cannot allow the sour, mealy, and overall dissatisfying (yet well-placed) nibble that preceded the throwing to be my defense. In truth, my actions could be traced as far back as the moment of purchase, where I immediately experienced significant buyer’s remorse. Significant. You see, I purchased (if said apple could be submitted into evidence you would clearly see) an organic piece of fruit (compared, that is, to the “normal” apples that all those imperialistic Wal-Mart loyalty shoppers, which is most likely all of you, would purchase). Eliminating the environmentally deleterious effects of pesticides is not economically equitable (mainly because of the volume of said imperialistic Wal-Mart loyalty shoppers as compared to the volume of said conscientious consumers like myself who visit locally sustainable farmers’ markets [support of said local businesses returns approximately three-times more money to the community than similar purchases at all those insufferable chains], leading to some cockamamie far-too-easily accepted liberal capitalist logic of supply and demand that results in the monetary victimization of said conscientious consumers despite the fact that organic apples require only the earth we stand upon to flourish and not some ill-advised, Monsanto-funded, government-subsidized, decade-long research project of insecticide-resistant insects). The price differential between the organic and “normal” apples was sixty cents ($1.49 per pound versus $.89 per pound [a price comparison which spurred an intense, yet lopsided cost-benefit analysis {far too many negatives were posed by the eating of potentially genetically modified, pesticide-doused, polystyrene apples that require multiple rinses (wasting even more water [a little-talked about global disaster is impending by the overuse of said water, are you imperialistic Wal-Mart loyalty shoppers in attendance even aware of that?])}]). Since it was a singular apple that I purchased (whether or not said purchase was made for the sole purpose of throwing will be protected under the fifth amendment, so don’t ask), my faded and crumpled receipt (time stamped 4:08 P.M. July 21st, 2012 [a cursory knowledge of Detroit roadways would indicate that this grocery trip is going to put me directly into the north-south rush hour on Interstate-75 {created back in 1968 when the Detroit riots incited a white-flight that I am now an inheritor and, as one can clearly see, also a victim}, yet it is the more in-depth and pertinent knowledge of the day and time would show that a Detroit Tigers game was getting out at the same time and throngs of now alcohol inhibited said imperialistic Wal-Mart loyalty shoppers were elbowing their way onto the interstate {one of whose inconsiderate over-sized vehicles attempted to elbow its way into the ten and a half-foot gap between my vehicle and the plaintiff’s, positioning himself in the path of my throwing motion (perhaps an already-begun motion, again fifth amendment), as I shouted, “You fuck, you fuck” (and in the interest of avoiding verbal repetition) “You dunderhead” (a word I had previously never uttered, but unendurable victimization has its limits)}]) indicates that it cost $0.76. According to my modest calculations, this singular apple weighed a shade over a half-pound (.543 pounds to be exact [or 8.688 ounces {a conversion that proves necessary later on, I swear it}]). Although, as I astutely noticed at the time of my selection, the weight was distributed unevenly to one side of the stem (yes, the side that I bit into in order to make my throwing of it more accurate, hence its partially-eaten quality alluded to earlier). There were no dimples or brown spots (thereby squelching the argument that we need scientifically modified genes in order to make aesthetically pleasing [and also, if I can return to the subject of weight, physically fulfilling] fruit). Needless to say, it was nothing specific to the apple as such that put me into the state of buyer’s remorse. It was, as it turns out, the sticker, which betrayed the location of its picking. Seattle, Washington. Further, there was nothing specific to Washington that irked me (except that okay, yes, that snot-nosed bitch and her grocer moved out there without so much as a good-bye). It was that it was located exactly 2,345 miles from my current location, Detroit. Or maybe not my current location per se, but location from town center to town center (Interstate-94 West to Interstate-90 West straight-shot [approximately 38 hours driving, 46 hours factoring in pee-breaks and pre-approved organic food stops, 47.48 hours factoring in the throwing of fruit out of a window and enduring the appallingly inefficient questioning of a pre-diabetic, jelly-filled police officer). I was attempting to be a conscientious consumer, doing my part to be a steward of the earth and reduce my carbon footprint, paying approximately 67.5% more for my singular piece of organic fruit. But the fossil fuels to travel that distance alone offset (in a disproportionate amount I might point out) the benefits of just buying a locally grown Macintosh apple. And then there was the until-now unmentioned moral quandary of supporting a frontrunner family of apple like the Granny Smith, whose questionable techniques of manually-forced-via-grafting reproduction that weeded out less sensually desirable yet more genetically diverse and virally-resistant apples (a process that makes whole orchards susceptible to single strains of viruses [a truth which found out would bring the whole Granny Smith apple economy to its knees]). All of which, needless to say, factored into the said cost-benefit analysis. With the exception, unfortunately, of said revelatory sticker. Because my attention was diverted. By thoughts of said snot-nosed bitch and her said grocer. And yet, what I have delayed, here, is to say that the throwing of my apple, as it turns out, was as impotent as my conscientious decision to purchase that Seattle-based (fucking Seattle), environmentally venomous organic fruit.     

The thinly veiled truth is that I have hid behind my apple-talk. The apple was just the tool, the extension of self, that I launched, weight perfectly distributed, towards my car window (I am here subtly editing an earlier telling [my respect for your discerning eye has forced me into divulging the more personally embarrassing confession of this story, that I threw the apple now towards my window and not through my window, proving the little fender bender to be a red herring {feel free to stop me now, this confession is cruel and unusual punishment in itself}]). For those who may be included in the select group of inside-of-car-apple-throwers (a Venn diagram would show significant overlap with conscientious consumers, so do not think that I am alone) may understand that the torque produced inside of a car is altered drastically by dint of being inside of the car (taking into consideration the awkward turning of the body in the seat towards the rolled-down passenger-side window [coincidentally, in this case, facing said alcohol-inhibited imperialistic Wal-Mart loyalty shopper]). Against all of my better judgment and high standards for peer-reviewed, thoroughly foot-noted research, my more detailed elucidations of torque necessarily rely on the following amateurish physics siphoned from Wikipedia (foundational knowledge was a squandered opportunity of youth [yet here, again, I must point out that I was victimized by a physics teacher who’s catapult-a-water-balloon experiment lacked proper safety precautions {a water-balloon whose green color now seems serendipitous, as does my inability to recall the knowledge transferred in that agonizingly topical lesson (and yes, if you were concerned, the water balloon did prove unburstable as its green latex skin smacked into my nose, causing me to involuntarily cry [I will never forget the smile that crept on that oh-so-humorous physics teacher’s face])}]). Which is to say, the magnitude of torque being a cross product of the length of the lever arm (my gangly extension measures out to .93 meters [a calculation made difficult by my only having in possession a yard stick and not a meter stick {fucking American system of measurement} but whose conversion is necessary for any further calculations) the force applied (limited by the imbalanced ratio of gangliness to muscle ratio of said extension) and the sine of the angle between the position and force vectors (virtually immeasurable due to the gangliness of said extension). And yet, twenty-five years carrying said gangly extension at my side has allowed me to factor in said variables in my throwing motion naturally (giving me adequate accuracy in a strictly regulated environment, but precipitously drops off with the introduction of more variables).

Whereas the astute among you may have already projected the variables that altered both the force applied and the angle between position and force vectors end, we have in attendance a considerable number of imperialistic Wal-Mart loyalty shoppers that I must speak down to (ignore, for a moment, that these variables were ‘unforeseen,’ even to me, I hope to be pardoned by the state of mind that perpetual victimization has on man [note, again, the smallnesses. Plaintiff, I’m sure you understand]). First, to the organic Granny Smith apple. The hybrid between the Malus sylvestris and M. domestica apples (we should ban all physics classes in favor of more productive classes on urban farming and agriculture [resulting knowledge acquired would prove more helpful in the creation of a humane society in the event of an apocalypse {yet not one from the likely scenario of global water crisis (please shop locally)}]) includes 10.39 grams of sugar per 100 grams of apple, as well as an underestimated .041 mg of Vitamin B6 (all nutritional facts used are nondescriptly attributed to Granny Smith apples writ large, and not to the obviously superlative organic sector, giving a frustratingly large potential variance [the ominous impotence of my calculations is palpable {much like the impotence of my throwing, the impotence of my efforts at being a conscientious consumer, and the impotence in pleasing that Seattle-based snot-nosed bitch (yet I doubt that grocer is doing much better as she was cold as a witch’s titty in bed [the visual image of said witch’s titty is not unlike the green, sour apple I held in my sweaty palm, right down to its not-so-centrally-located brown stem])}]). Using the conversion rate of 3.5 ounces per 100 grams (reminder: said apple was 8.688 ounces), we can determine that my organic Granny Smith contained within it an estimated 25.79 grams of sugar and a full .102 milligrams of Vitamin B6. And but so whereas my single bite from said apple was initially meant to produce an apple with a more equal weight distribution, I unknowingly boosted the force with which I threw it by metabolizing approximately .889 grams of sugar and .003517 milligrams of Vitamin B6 into my bloodstream (estimating, of course, that my well-placed nibble consumed 1/29  the weight of said apple [a man with more machismo may be able to eat an apple in less bites, I, regrettably, cannot]).

Furthermore, my all-naturally-stimulated gangly extension at the awkward angle with which I was forced to position my body in my car seat caused my right hand, in the act of throwing, to graze the leather headrest of my car seat (the mustachioed used car dealer failed to notify me of how excruciatingly hot and moist leather seats get in the August sun [further failing to notify me that the air-conditioning was broken {before you suggest that this oversight was my fault, may I draw your attention to another faded and crumpled receipt in my possession that indicates the purchase and time of the 2001 Honda Odyssey (most miles per gallon in its class), 12:43 P.M. February 2nd, 2012 (who reasonably checks the air-conditioning in such a circumstance? Reasonably? That mustachioed bastard should have said something. His mustache concealed his deception. I, regrettably, cannot grow a mustache. And so I can conceal nothing in this deposition)}]). The shock of heat from the scalding leather, as well as the sweat accumulated on my palm in that sweltering steel torture chamber, altered the angle of trajectory as well as the force exerted (two variables that I had spent the last twenty-five years of my life regulating, due to said unfortunate gangly extension) were crucially altered, causing the apple to whistle violently towards the window, crash into the lower-right quadrant of the frame (angular momentum and force applied causing the apple to spurt its juices [also scalding] in every direction), ricochet ferociously off the windshield, down towards the dashboard, and into by delicate and cosmetically restructured nose, bringing to a head better-left-uncovered memories of a similarly green, similarly wet yet unimaginably durable water balloon. My foot stamped violently in frustration, pressing the gas pedal, and lurching my 2001 Honda Odyssey the said ten and a half feet (a reasonable distance between vehicles in said traffic) into the little plaintiff’s little vehicle (the forest green 1998 Fiat Punto seen in her photographs [fucking green]) causing some minor damage (that skillful Photoshop work is not fooling anyone). And so, as you can see, this accident, while primarily the apple’s fault, illustrates that this little plaintiff’s misfortune (‘little,’ again, is meant endearingly, so stop looking at me with those beady eyes, they have only become beadier during the course of this deposition, as if you haven’t been listening at all, I share in your trauma and your smallnesses) is only a decoy from the true pain-givers.

I would now like to introduce my countersuit against the following: my mustachioed used car dealer (for selling a car good for only three-seasons) , the trucking business (for agreeing to transport apples such an absurd distance), Wikipedia contributor rj86 (whose deficient explanations of torque were inadequately footnoted and littered with grammatical errors), an alcohol inhibited imperialistic Wal-Mart shopper (who saw fit to lunge his unconscientiously purchased over-sized Toyota Tundra in between myself and the plaintiff), a pre-diabetic, jelly-filled police officer (for the emotional trauma of staying on the side of the freeway for 1.48 hours to discuss fruit), and a now Seattle-based grocer. Among others that, in the interest of time, and word economy, I will avoiding listing here, but you know who you are (you snot-nosed bitch).

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