Grapefruit - Grapefruit

Following the blistering success of my previous fruit-based entries of Mandarine and Pfirsich, I’m struggling to find anything even slightly interesting to write about this one. Drop the first letter and the meaning is instantly more hee-larious and morally questionable. Is it possible to rape fruit? Is fruit actually alive? Or is it dead the minute it’s wrenched off its tree by an immigrant worker in southern California? I genuinely don’t know. Could performing a sex act with a banana or orange or pineapple ever be considered rape? Or if it is dead would that make it be some form of produce-necrophilia? Well I just don’t know. Either way, this is making for a truly horrendous piece of writing that is frankly a ghastly waste of time for both writer and reader. So to get back on topic, I’ll simply state that grapefruits for me are neither tastefully, nor sexually attractive and as a result never end up in my shopping basket. They’re like grapes with a devastating cancer that’s turned them yellow and grown exponentially. Grapes soft are sweet, grapefruit is sour and hard. Just like my uncle Jim. He’s a boxer, not a rapist. This is clearly going nowhere else, so it’s time to use my linguistic ejector seat. Well, it appears to be jammed, so I’m going down with ship - the ship that mixes more metaphors than a food processor stuffed with political speeches and Star Trek dialogue.