Pineapple. It’s a funny word and a funny fruit, and I’m pretty sure I don’t like it. I don’t like those sharp points or those pointy leaves, and I don’t like how it always turns up whenever there’s a baked ham in the oven. I’m just naturally suspicious, and pineapple’s a little too yellow for my liking. Call me crazy, but that’s just how it goes.

“You can’t have ham without pineapple,” my wife tells me, “it’s tradition.” But she’s in on the conspiracy and I know it. You know what I mean. She’s got shifty eyes, the sort that…well, you know, shift. And it seems like she almost never wants to have sex anymore. “If you love pineapple so much, why don’t you go sleep with it?!” I scream, which is usually when my wife shoots me in the thigh with a tranquilizer gun we keep beneath the kitchen sink for just such an emergency. It doesn’t take me long to recover — I think we may have to up the dosage — but it’s usually long enough for my wife to get the pineapple rings out of the can and out of my sight.

You know what else I don’t like? Apricots. I don’t know why — they’re pretty tasty and never did anybody no harm — but there’s just something about them that rubs me the wrong way. I don’t like getting rubbed the wrong way. Get rubbed the wrong way often enough and you’ll start to chafe. Pretty soon you’ll need special pants. My wife says I should stop rubbing myself with apricots altogether, but like I said, she’s got shifty eyes. If I don’t rub myself with apricots, nobody’s going to do it for me.

I once dreamt of building an enormous apricot-rubbing machine that would fit over my shoulders and keep my hands free for other pursuits, but my wife said that the smoke from the exhaust hose would frighten the dog and that I’d just end up setting my testicles on fire again. It’s hard to secure funding for something like that in this day and age. I’ll admit that the prison record doesn’t help. Chase just one potential sponsor around the room with gardening shears and you might as well kiss your dreams of apricot industry goodbye.

My wife doesn’t let me near the gardening shears anymore, which is just as well all things considered, but my crusade against fruit has continued. Not against every type of fruit of course — apples and pears and plums are okay in my book — but against those weird and freaky varieties that you won’t find at the corner grocer, unless of course the corner grocer is some sort of sick pervert. Lately, most of my attention has been focused on pineapple, which is probably why we’ll soon have to invest in new darts for the tranquilizer gun. I’m starting to think maybe I need a hobby.