I have peeled the perfect banana.
Not a bruise on it’s firm white body. Nothing prematurely eviscerated from it’s completeness.
This is worthy of a sacrificial tribute to the God of Sugar Crisp.
I have liberated this fine fruit from it’s confining yellow skin so that it may suffer the harshness of being slowly and methodically sliced into equal wheels of its former self.
It will be indefensible against the primeval Ginzu knife.
Falling gently onto the mystical formations that the God of Sugar Crisp has aligned in my sacrificial bowl, the banana’s wonder-stricken prayers will be drowned by the pasteurized nectar from the field beast.
The God of Sugar Crisp will be pleased. He will serve his master well today.