Carrots
Picture the scene. Zapiola is a discontented Large Evil Supermarket shelf stacker during the summer break of his first year at university. He's being messed around on the hours he's working, furthermore he's missing out on spending some quality time* in bed with his newly acquired girlfriend, and in addition he's quite badly hungover.

So there he is, dutifully stacking carrots and trying not to allow the vile mixture of last nights beer and dry roasted squirrel kebab overcome his already churning gag reflex, the blood coursing roughly through the veins in his temples, causing a thin sheen of sweat, cold cold sweat, to shimmer gently accross his forehead. At the same time he's having to wear a t-shirt with the Store Logo on thats several sizes too small as apparently they don't usually have staff over 6ft 3. Oh and he's desperately hoping that he can get away for a few days of what his grandmother terms 'rumpy-pumpy' with aforementioned better half**.

Carrots are, by definition, orange tubes, ranging from small to large. The salient point being, they are basically orange, look like carrots, and most sentinent human beings raised in the UK have probably come across them at some point during their sojourn in this flitting hell we call life.

So, there he is, stacking carrots, trying not to be sick, and thinking 'other thoughts'.

Intruding into this mildy queasy yet at the same time pleasureable train of thought is a well dressed woman of about 50. She does, however, stink of urine, have teeth that seem to be more an optional extra that she bought from Halfords, and extends her vicious claw and grabs Zapiola's arm.

"Boy, where are the carrots?"
"Well madam, right here" quoth he, indicating to the two shelf display full of orange vegetables and gaudily festooned with signs proclaiming 'carrots'.
"Boy, are you sure those are carrots"
"Erm... yes."
"Where are the carrots!"
"Erm... right here... under the sign that says carrots. You can tell which ones the carrots are, because they're the ones that look like carrots."
"Well, I shall be forced to believe you. But if you've been lying to me and these aren't carrots then I shall be forced to speak to the manager about it."

With that the lady picks up several carrots and, glaring viciously at Zapiola, puts them in her basket and stalks off. Zapiola breathes a sigh of relief, and turns back to stacking carrots. A few minutes later she's back, suspiciously eyeing Zapiola, before slinking off again. Over the course of the next hour or so the crone would appear every few minutes, glaring harshly at Zapiola and muttering underneath her breath.

Zapiola was glad when his shift was finally over and started drinking on the bus home.

The general public should be culled on a regular basis.

*definition of "quality" time may vary
** turned out to be an entirely undeserved cognomen for the faithless harriden. Breathe... breathe...
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 22:54, 5 replies)

Hmm
Powervator distrusts anybody who speaks about themselves in the third person.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 23:02, closed)

So do
I usually...

but gin and slightly out of date minced beef curry have given me temporary delusions of grandeur
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sun 7 Sep 2008, 23:14, closed)

The population should be culled
but... how exactly to go about it in a non-humane manner is the question.
(fisherOfApples123 -=destroyer of toilets=-, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 1:02, closed)

i could understand if they were particularly anaemic carrots
they might then have been mistaken for parsnips, but how can anyone not know a carrot when they see one?
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 1:16, closed)

When she asked you if you were sure that they were carrots...
... you should have replied "Maybe they are, maybe they aren't. Personally, I just don't carrot all."
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Mon 8 Sep 2008, 1:44, closed)