While driving in Los Feliz recently, my car was struck by a runaway avocado that bounced off a rickety fruit truck while my vehicle passed it. I saw it coming, but didn’t have enough reaction time to swerve. The result was a loud noise and a hole in the driver’s side headlight of my 2001 Pontiac Grand-Am.
There wasn’t enough time to turn around and get the license plate of the prick who doesn’t know how to secure the fruit with one of the biggest, hardest seeds known to man while he drives 10 miles above the speed limit. I did, however, have time to be thankful that the avocado didn’t bounce up another foot and smash through my windshield, which could have potentially killed me.
Like all people, I’ve envisioned how I might leave this world. Most of these visions involve me dying while engaged in a threesome with two women who didn’t make the cut to be one of Charlie Sheen’s goddesses. In none of these scenarios has a fruit of any kind been involved, unless you count an alcohol induced nightmare in which I was killed by a coked out Andy Dick.
Thankfully, the damage was minimized to my headlight. A mere flesh wound for a car that has survived a cross-country trip, two rear-endings, and countless sexual disappointments by its driver.