Terrence, The Talking Banana
by: Robert Zimmerman

Well, today, I decided to go out and do something fun with my life. I wasn’t exactly sure what that would entail, but I set out anyway. At first, I just aimlessly wandered around the town on foot, walking up to strangers’ houses and asking about the meaning of life, but I got tired of being pelted with two-week-old, rotten vegetables and shot at with potato guns after a few hours so I sat down on the edge of the sidewalk. As I sat there thinking of what I could try next, the idea spun down from the sky and crashed into my head in the form of a football… then a baseball… and a tennis ball and so on. It seemed a few of the neighborhood children had decided to use me as a target for some game. I later figured out they had named the game “Kill Bob: Volume 3”, so I abruptly unsheathed my hidden katana and hunted every last one of the children in my bloodthirsty rage. Before I disemboweled the last one, I said, “I’ll see you again… in the sequel!” Then I went off to pursue my original goal… and to evade the police and several emergency vehicles.

Anyway, I had made up my mind – I would become a sports legend, much like Almon Gallup, the bass and keyboard player for The Cure, must be. The first step in my plan was integral to its success. I ran home to find my jet-propelled cane and blasted off to uncover just what sports were. I talked to many people and I was even privileged enough to interview the ones that didn’t run away after I plummeted from the sky and landed a few steps in front of them. The general response I got was that these “sports” were a display of athletic ability. When I asked a few people if they thought I looked like the type of person that would excel in them, most of the people laughed and handed me a quarter and said they thought I would be a great comedian. My general response to that was, “Gee, thanks, that’s exactly what I asked about. Please excuse me.” I’d walk a few paces past them, then spin around and switch on my cane and fly straight through their torsos. The looks I got after doing that a couple of times were great – a mix of shocked eyes and gaping mouths and twitching eyes, mouths, and the dialing of 911 on a cell phone. Since I had my answers, I teleported myself back into my room.

And there I thought, sprawled out on the bed, for several hours. Eventually, I was inspired by a completely unrelated stray thought. I built the idea into a sport and decided I would become its famous inventor overnight. Having developed a very well thought out set of rules and equipment for the sport in roughly thirty seconds, I skipped downtown like an uppity schoolgirl and purchased a magical, speaking banana, a pair of pliers, a box of nails, a pogo stick, some matches, and several other supplies that were integral to my plan. And by purchased, I mean used my girlish charm and flaunted my femininity to obtain the items for free of course. Then I went home to construct a video explaining everything.

First, after turning on the camera of course, I opened the box of nails and hammered twelve of them into the ground in a circular formation with the pogo stick. Then, placing one hand on the ground, I bent the nails to a ninety-degree angle with the ground, holding the pogo stick with one hand and still using it for a hammer. Then I got the talking banana and nailed him (his name was Terrence, by the way) to the floor while he screamed and whined about his peel getting dirty. As he sat there, bleeding his smoothie-like blood, I peeled away the portion of his peel that wasn’t nailed down with the pliers. And, for the final part of my new sport, I let the banana get within an inch of his life and then I proceeded to eat him in a very slow fashion. The entire point of this sport is to make the banana’s death as slow and painful as possible.

After I cleaned up the mess, I proceeded to write up the rules and fliers to publicize my new sport. Within minutes of my posting the first flier, I received calls from several people, all of whom wanted to learn more about my invention, so I told them to meet me at my home. I ran back up as quickly as I could only to find that no one was outside waiting for me, so I slowly walked inside, dragging my heels and hanging my head. As soon as I opened the door, I was put in handcuffs and it was explained to me that I had been reported to the police for the murders of seven children, six grown men, one elderly woman, and a magical, talking banana… although they later admitted they only got the warrant because I actually ate the banana. So I was put on death row and executed.

So here’s the moral I see in all of this: if you want to look for something fun to do, don’t eat a talking banana. Ever. Nothing good can come of it.