The Great Avocado Uprising

It all started with a simple grocery run. Greg just wanted an avocado. That was it. A single, ripe, reasonably priced avocado. Maybe some chips. But fate, or perhaps the avocados themselves, had other plans.

The grocery store looked normal when he entered—fluorescent lights flickering, muzak playing a mind-numbing rendition of Don’t Stop Believin’, and aisles filled with unsuspecting customers, blissfully unaware of the impending chaos. Greg walked confidently to the produce section, grabbed a plastic bag, and approached the avocados. That’s when things took a turn.

The avocados were watching him.

Not metaphorically—literally. Each one had a single, unblinking eye embedded in its dark green skin, following his every movement. He reached for one, and it blinked.

Greg yelped and stumbled backward into a pyramid of oranges. A stock boy in a vest labeled Dale, Philosopher-King of Aisle Six appeared beside him, shaking his head with the weight of a man who had seen too much.

“Ah,” Dale sighed, adjusting his name tag. “You’ve disturbed the Avocado Council.”

Greg blinked, still sprawled across the floor. “I—I just wanted guacamole.”

Dale leaned in, his expression grave. “Then you must negotiate.”

Before Greg could process the sheer absurdity of what was happening, the avocados rolled toward him in unison, forming a semi-circle. One, larger than the rest, wobbled forward. It was slightly overripe but exuded authority.

A hush fell over the store. The elderly woman selecting bananas put them down and shuffled away. A toddler pointed and screamed, “THE GREEN ONES SPEAK,” before being hurriedly wheeled off by his mother.

“You dare lay hands upon us without tribute?” the Avocado Leader boomed, its voice both regal and slightly condescending.

Greg blinked. “What?”

“You must prove yourself worthy,” the Avocado Leader continued. “Or face the trials.”

Dale solemnly handed Greg a single tortilla chip. “Your test begins.”

The fluorescent lights flickered, and suddenly Greg was no longer in the grocery store but standing in a massive arena. The air was thick with the scent of lime and cilantro. Spectators—cabbages, onions, and a rather judgy-looking tomato—filled the stands, watching with morbid curiosity. A massive tortilla chip loomed in the center of the field, trembling with anticipation.

“You must dip, Greg,” Dale’s voice echoed from somewhere beyond space and time.

The Avocado Leader gestured to a bubbling lake of guacamole. “One chance. One dip. If your ratio is perfect, you may claim your prize. If not…”

The tomato made a slashing motion across its throat.

Greg gulped. He knew the stakes. Too much guac, and the chip would break. Too little, and he’d be exiled from Avocado Kind forever, doomed to a life of mediocre store-bought dips.

He took a breath, crouched, and—dipped.

Silence. The arena held its breath. The chip emerged, perfectly coated. The viscosity was flawless. The guacamole did not drip, nor did it overwhelm the chip’s structural integrity. A cheer erupted from the produce stands. A head of lettuce fainted. The tomato wept, its acidic tears splattering onto the ground.

The Avocado Leader bowed. “You are worthy.”

The fluorescent lights flickered again, and Greg was back in the store. He was holding a single avocado, perfectly ripe. The other shoppers were moving as if nothing had happened.

Dale gave him a solemn nod. “You have done well.”

Greg, dazed, stumbled to the checkout, still clutching the avocado. His hands trembled as he placed it on the conveyor belt.

The cashier, completely unfazed, scanned it and handed him a receipt.

“That’ll be $37.99.”

Greg screamed.