Pears: my frank opinion

I just ate a pear and I feel the need to say something about it, no matter how pointless.

You know you don't eat pears. They are almost like a fictitious food product, invented for children's coloring books or plastic food bowl displays. You might catch a glimpse of one on fire, drenched in bourbon or chocolate sauce on one of those chipper, one-note Food Network shows like "Sugar Rush," but that's as far as you and this dumpy-shaped fruit have taken things in the last decade or so. Don't try and tell me otherwise-- you'd only be lying.

Problem number one is clear: there is no way of telling whether a pear is ripe. Even if you happen to guess correctly when you go to cut it and you're able to get the knife through, it rewards you by tasting like an apple that someone soaked in Captain Morgan dregs from a frat party, and then dropped in the sand. Which is not entirely bad, but a little disconcerting. Why not just have an apple? Those are always ripe-- no guessing. (Unless they are red delicious, in which case they are mushy, and remind you of sad, uneaten bag lunches abandoned under the back seat of a school bus.)

I guess that is all I have to say about pears. It seemed when I was eating the darned thing that there was a whole mess of comments to make about the experience, but here I am, and I've got nothing. What does that say about pears?

Exactly.