It’s not paranoid if they’re really out to get you. In this case, I have proof: apple stickers.
I’m stoked. I’m about to take my pit bull on a stroll through my Malibu neighborhood before weaving down by the beach. He usually does his business behind a bush but I grab a bag just in case; I’m a conscientious neighbor. I wrap his leash around my neck; there’s no need to strap it on him until we are out in the world. He’s well behaved and wouldn’t harm a rabbit (perhaps that’s a bad example now that he munches on rabbits regularly).
Before stepping out, I remember how much I appreciate a snack on my jaunts through the ‘Bu. I’m sure there is a gorgeous pink lady available to accompany me. The fridge pops open, and there she is in all her perfectly symmetrical, multicolored beauty. Sweet and dense, just how I dig ‘em. I scoop her up and we’re off.
This day couldn’t get any better. I’m fairly confident that the bright yellow bird perched on the branch of the Quercus agrifolia (coast live oak tree) is looking directly into my eyes while crooning Lynard Skynard’s “Simple Man.” Flashing a flirty smile back, I pick up my pace as my confident companion (the dog, not the pink lady) hits his stride.
A half mile in, my stomach begins to rumble (you knew this was coming). My date has been wonderful, but it’s time for her to go down. Crisp, tart, angelic…Mozart plays in my head as the flavors explode. Pure bliss. Foos’ steps are in perfect rhythm with mine. I go in for my second bite.
Scratch. Needle. Record. Sticker.
WTF. Now my flow is ruined. I look for a trashcan to rid myself of the evil energy of the label. It has no business infiltrating my space.
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. -Eleanor Roosevelt
That’s bullshit, Eleanor. I feel inferior to the version of myself from five minutes ago, and I gave my blessing to no one.
Just for you, my dear readers, I sat in the lotus position and chanted for 30 minutes. Meditating on the mysteries of the universe is all well and good, but I’m trying to figure out why every individual apple must have a sticker. I have the answer, which I will now share with you.
Folks are evil. They’re fulfilled by my frustration. They laugh at my anguish.
Okay, we’ll be serious for a moment. To find the real reason, I partook in some research. From hlntv.com:
Stickers on conventionally grown produce have four digit numbers. Organic produce labels have five digit numbers and they always start with a “9”. Genetically modified produce labels also have five digits, but they always start with “8”.
Arggghhhh. I’m angrier now than when I thought it was a conspiracy. Labeling the grocery store shelves is plenty; I don’t need the reminder when taking a bite. Speaking of which, I’ve inadvertently eaten a sticker or two. Who can I sue?
Fruit stickers are edible! Should you peel them off? Yes. But, if you happen to eat one or two it’s not a big deal. They’re actually made out of “edible paper” or other food grade materials with that possibility in mind! Even the glue is food grade. The FDA says so.
Ooohhh, okay. If the FDA says so.
I feel better now. That’s what friends are for. Thanks for listening.
Kap

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