It was a turnip. Big fat fettid gritty root

It was a turnip. Big fat fettid gritty root vegetable. It sat on the Starbuck's counter, pointing it's weird wiry little root tip thingy at

a sign that read "Try Our Tangy Turnip Tea". The hipster behind me in line said, "I like my turnips underground." I nodded, but I was a little stuffy, so I ordered a Tall Turnip.

The chai-ista smirked. "Pip pip, a Tall Turnip for the antique road show." I buried him and the hipster behind me right there and then, under the linoleum. "Enjoy your turnips."

"I like turnips," one person spouted, but I was already out of the chai-teria. His complement of me went unnoticed, and my endless series of man-rages would not be subdued until my

lust for raw tubers was sated. My secret violent obsession with rooty foods was difficult to suppress at the yearly Vegan Jamboree. I lurched past the stands of carrots, cassava,

broccoli, and many other vegetables with a heavy heart, fighting the urge to molest them with all my will. Suddenly, I glanced up and saw- a girl. A girl made of vegetables.

The vegetable girl ran a carrot finger through her radicchio hair - lush waves of purple and pearly white - which fell to her Swiss chard shoulders. She smiled with beet-red lips

in & swirled 'em round & round. My eyes rolled back in ecstasy. It suddenly struck me so funny that my mom had to force me to eat my vegetables when I was little. Vegetable Girl

she called me. Was my nickname. But I wouldn't consume them. They were rather unedible, by four-year-old standards.