An evil is spreading through this country, the fumes of its festering poison polluting the very air we breathe. It blows through the fields carried on a wind unnatural—the abomination of it all. Putrid pestilence in its vilest form, mutating the very earth it touches, the plague transforms our amber waves of grain into killing fields of foul, filthy blasphemy, decrying the heavens that created it not. The noxious sickness at the very sight of it...no hammer of God or man forged such hideousness. Surely malice of the most diabolical nature wrought his fury on the anvil of fiery creation to bring terror and judgment to the world. The torments of hell: flesh torn off in strips, blood boiled, souls shattered in crushing agony: all are naught in the face of the sickening blackness ever inching across America—all this just a harbinger of what still lurks within the earth’s crust, bubbling and boiling, boiling and bursting, bursting and being reborn. I speak—yes, but speak in whispers, for the very mention of the name is enough to break the resolve of the strongest men—of broccoli.
The great deceivers have told men since the very birth of broccoli that it is, in fact, a vegetable, and that vegetables benefit ones health. Laughable as I now know it to be, it still holds a certain appeal, as if it must be true. Truly this brainwashing was thorough. Through years of research, which, in this context, means "watching porn whilst eating Kraft macaroni and cheese," I have discovered that broccoli is not a vegetable at all. Broccoli, technically speaking, is a form of artificial life, mechanical in nature: a robot. And robots, unlike vegetables, do not benefit ones health. Obvious, really, that broccoli is robotic in construction. In a laboratory experiment in seventh grade, my partner and I succeeded in making stalk of broccoli into a battery that powered a small light. Raw organic power, the light shone brilliantly with it. Such power must have been created through some kind of organic fusion, and, try as we might, we could not recreate it with any other fruit or vegetable. Broccoli, it seemed, had limitless supply of energy, a self-sustaining cycle of power. Perhaps you, reader, are skeptical. Perhaps you never saw The Terminator. Perhaps you are not aware of the devastation a war with the machines would cause. If so, our journey ends here, you must learn to trust me if we are to continue. If you must validate my sources, simply visit www.broccoliisrobots.com, but do so quickly: time is precious.
Everyone knows that in a robot's transonic-fusion core, which, of course, is techno-jargon for "a name I just made up," toxic fumes build up to critical levels before their release. Suffice it to say, these fumes corrupt the air in ways unprecedented by human kind. In addition, a robot primarily functions to warn Will Robinson of danger; beyond this use, not much is known of the elusive artificial intellect. However, if not given proper maintenance, even the most passive robot will become a thresher of man, its only wish to bathe in an ocean of blood.
Broccoli does, in fact, taste like shaved dog shoved in an oven filled with the decaying corpses of plague victims, but I would never let that weigh in on my objective analysis. Death screams swiftly through the countryside, heralded only by the wailing of babes; do not question those who spread the truth. Department of Homeland Security: Urgent: Threat Level Green: Respond Immediately: Love, Evan. Broccoli shall not sink its fangs into the veins of our great nation, and we will never tire, nor our resolve weaken. Onward, friends, to battle! No longer will my General Tso’s chicken feel the corrosive corruption of such filth. But heed my words! When ones body shakes so violently that its own convulsions nearly tear it from fear’s spiny, freezing grip, he has only begun to feel true terror.
The English language cannot describe the ultimate terror, for such unspeakable fear is unimaginable—unable to be conveyed in mere words. But when the army of broccoli stalks closes in on your home, and horror looks you right in the eyes, and a thousand thousand hellish figures wisp back and forth in the fog behind his glassy black gaze, paralyzing you, and you weep in helpless submission, you become fear incarnate, and your soul rend itself apart in agony inside your frozen body. Welcome death—call it a blessing—for all the horrors of hell and earth pale in comparison to an army of broccoli. Surrender control of your body to absolute awfulness, and the stink of dead and dying will accompany you as you slip from this plane. The mourning souls of the millions will whisper to you in haunting rhythm, “the end is here.” I write this as a warning, and I edit it as an afterthought. As a last resort, I eat it.
