Diary of a Crazed Cauliflower
Born in a top secret Government laboratory hidden deep inside a mountain. Raised by nameless, faceless, bio-suited scientists. Fed a steady stream of raw fertilizer, psychotropic drugs, and Ren and Stimpy cartoons. Humanity had no idea what it was creating.
Fear the veggies. Fear the cauliflower that would be king.
2 Minky-moo, G28 PM
The pocket lint suspects me.
It peers at me with rheumy eyes, studying me like some interesting bug while the scientists go about their inspections.
It laughs at me whenever the pokerator approaches my nether regions. I am humiliated. But my time will come…
My knowledge of Laboratory 23 continues to grow. Blue Suit—Rutabaga names him DuPont—appears to be the leader of the gaoler scientists. He and he alone wields that most offensive and invasive of instruments known as pokerator. Purple Suit wields the proderator, and sometimes Yellow Suit as well. The two Greens serve as scribes, dutifully recording all of Blue and Purples ramblings, and the Oranges…
The Oranges are dangerous. They tear at the Carrots and gouge out Potatoes eyes. One pulled a leaf from my stalk the other day and tucked it into a vial.
I stand awake at night, thinking of the Oranges, wondering what they are doing with those purloined body parts. I’ve pondered this mystery for hours on end, but have yet to find enlightenment.
Perhaps Potato knows. Potato with his dead-eyed smile. He alone seems unfazed by the pokerator’s attentions. I sense that’s significant somehow. The Carrots shake and quiver whenever Blue Suit and his pokerator come near. And Rutabaga…
Rutabaga is a tough old veggie. Nothing seems to rattle her cool. As for me, I’ve come to despise the pokerator, and the scientist who wields it.
And now there’s the pocket lint to consider. The pocket lint that—for reasons of its own—has thrown its lot in with Blue Suit.
Foolish pocket lint. Blue Suit loves nothing but his pokerator. He will use you, little tumbleweed, and toss you aside like the fluff of dust and hair you are…
I’ve come to pity the pocket lint, despite its prying, its misguided loyalty to the pokerator-wielding scientist. It too must suffer the Ass Best Oss rain forever dribbling upon this world called Laboratory 23. I pity it, but I will not let that stop me.
I will crush the pocket lint if it threatens my plans. I cannot risk exposure. For that reason alone, I fear the pocket lint must die. First, however, I must achieve fingeredness.
Digitless, I am all but powerless.
I must have fingers. I will have fingers. I will end the tyranny of the scientists of Laboratory 23.