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The Perilous Truth About Avocados: Nature’s Most Overrated Fruit
An impassioned plea for sanity in a world gone guac-crazy

Let us begin by acknowledging an unfortunate truth: we, as a society, have fallen hopelessly under the spell of the avocado. What was once a humble, relatively obscure fruit has now been elevated to near-religious status among brunchgoers, wellness influencers, and anyone who has ever used the word “holistic” unironically. But behind that creamy green flesh lies a dark and slippery truth—one that no one wants to admit. It’s time we faced the facts: avocados are a menace. Yes, I said it. A menace. And not in a charming, endearing kind of way, like a puppy chewing on your shoelaces. No, avocados are the smug, overpriced, green-tinted con artists of the produce world, and it’s high time we held them accountable.

Let’s begin with the most glaring offense: the avocado’s ridiculous sense of self-importance. Somewhere along the way, someone decided this fruit wasn’t just tasty—it was holy. Suddenly, every meal needed avocado. Breakfast? Smash it on toast. Lunch? Add it to your Buddha bowl. Dinner? Slice it atop your salmon like a crown of emerald validation. It’s not a side dish anymore—it’s a symbol. A declaration. A gastronomic virtue signal. “Look at me,” the avocado says, nestled delicately on your plate, “I care about my body. I recycle. I’ve definitely mentioned my therapist at least once this week.” It’s insufferable. And the worst part? We believed it.

Then there’s the pit. Ah yes, the avocado pit—a giant, spherical punchline at the center of every Instagrammable avocado moment. You open this fruit expecting abundance and receive, instead, a tiny crescent of usable food flanked by a stone worthy of mythic legend. No other fruit dares to waste your time this way. You don’t slice open a banana and discover a golf ball lodged inside. Yet we tolerate this audacity from avocados like it’s charming. Spoiler: it’s not.

But perhaps the most sinister trait of the avocado is its temporal tyranny. You never really own an avocado; you merely borrow it for a short, chaotic period of ripeness. Today it’s rock-hard and impossible to slice. Tomorrow? A mushy, brown travesty that tastes like disappointment and missed opportunity. There’s a brief, mystical window—roughly twenty minutes on a Tuesday afternoon—where the avocado reaches peak perfection. Miss it, and you’re left sobbing into a compost bin, wondering where it all went wrong. It’s less of a fruit, more of a dramatic performance art piece.

And let’s not forget the economic implications. Once a simple garnish, avocados now command the kind of reverence (and price point) once reserved for fine wine or rare truffles. A single piece of toast adorned with avocado can cost as much as a minor surgical procedure, especially if it’s sprinkled with sea salt flakes harvested by blindfolded monks during a lunar eclipse. Restaurants charge these prices with a straight face, and we pay them—because somewhere, deep in our green-smeared hearts, we’ve been convinced that this is normal. It is not. It is madness.

Environmentally speaking? Don’t get me started. Growing avocados requires obscene amounts of water—hundreds of liters per fruit—and contributes to deforestation in areas where local ecosystems are already under siege. But of course, this is conveniently ignored. After all, that creamy green dollop on your toast comes with a tiny basil leaf, so it must be ethical. Right?

Let us also consider the avocado’s social implications. Nothing screams “I do yoga and talk about my trauma at dinner parties” quite like an avocado rose. It is not a food; it is a lifestyle statement, an aesthetic choice that gently (or not-so-gently) implies superiority. You can’t just eat one in peace. No, avocados must be photographed, filtered, and captioned with something earnest like “nourish to flourish.” Heaven forbid someone actually enjoys a breakfast quietly without telling 3,000 followers that they’re #blessed.

In conclusion, the avocado is not your friend. It is an opportunist. A green, seductive symbol of everything we’ve let spiral out of control in our pursuit of curated wellness and culinary prestige. It’s time we put the avocado in its place: back on the occasional taco, where it belongs. So next time you’re tempted to drop $17 on an avocado-themed brunch plate, pause. Reflect. Ask yourself: am I hungry, or am I just chasing validation in the form of a glorified forest pear?

Choose wisely. Your banana is waiting.