Let me read your mind: I need a Rasta Banana. It's your best idea yet. How could you resist. Five feet of neon yellow with a shit eating grin? It's a Match.com profile to die for. It's a few carnie dollars away from being yours. Follow your dream. They're at the fair. Hundreds of them. Go there. Go there and win yourself a Rasta Banana. You deserve it.
Why wouldn't you? One second you're throwing rings at a rigged carnie game, the next you're getting mad props from fat men eating cheese. Do you feel the change? This is your transformation. The moment that banana touched your fingers, you became a winner, you became a Fair God. You will never be the same. The glory of the Rasta Banana cannot be cleaned. Carry the banana with pride. It is your trophy, your key to the heavens. Forget fun, you have but one concern now: fitting your spoils of victory into your car.
How could you resist? Rasta Banana makes you better. Strangers see you and they know that you are a winner. A winner of fair games. There is no need for introduction, the Rasta Banana represents your best traits: your love of Jamaica, of reggae, of potassium. Friends seem less interesting, work bores you. The world just seems dull. You look at old pictures, and you do not recognize yourself. It's amazing how much you've changed. All you were back then was a knight without his armor, a macaroni without its cheese. You were a banana without its dreadlocks.
Where do you put it? What a Rasta Banana lacks in craftsmanship, it make up in spunk. It makes the home, alters the feng shui, it immediately turns any old room into a room with a Rasta Banana. Rasta inspired restroom? The banana broom closet? It does not matter. You are a designer, a visionary, a dude with a fair prize on display. People will see it and stop in their tracks. "Yes," you'll say before they even open their mouths, "that is my muse, that is my Rasta Banana." And they will look upon it with awe. Open concept kitchens are out, Rasta Bananas are in.
What's there to regret? You won it on a whim, but you will never get sick of Rasta Banana. It defines you. When the sun is out, you carry the banana outside. It looms over your days, its dreads tangle into every aspect of your life. Strangers identify you as the Bob Marley Fruit Guy. Lovers give you ultimatums, moving is a bitch. But you fight through. You never waver, never wish for a different life. No, this is what you earned. You aren't sure if you're soul mates or if your soul is just a synthetic sweatshop produced anthropomorphic banana. These matters do not concern you. This bond is forever. It cannot be broken. Someday you will die, and as they pile earth on your grave, your loved ones will whisper in hushed tones unable to understand just why or how you crammed such a robust stuffed banana in a casket. So at night, when the banana is smiling endlessly in the dark as you try to sleep, remember that you wanted the Rasta Banana. Remember that you fought for it.
Hows about you, me, and five uncomfortable minutes in my basement apartment next to the dusty Christmas tree that's still up from my last visit with my estranged children.
The Upper Kitchen Cabinet Where Your Roommate Keeps His Food: You’ll 'need the footstool' to reach your roommate’s 'fine selection' of 'stale cereal,' but he'll never notice if 'only a little is missing from each box.' Feel less guilty by reminding yourself that Jeff 'acts weird around your girlfriend,' and always 'asks about her.' What a 'creep.'
This ain't your daddy's globe...! .... or is it?!
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