“A potluck! Whatever you bring, bring fruit.”
The announcement came as no surprise:
His brother was on the planning committee.
Aiming for some humorous response,
He tried to say he’s a little bit crazy
“Can I just bring myself, because I’m a fruit?”
The room filled with the laughter
Of men, mostly twenty-somethings,
And the few women giving the announcement.
“That worked better than expected,” he thought.
Then, too late, he realized it was “fruitcake”
Not “fruit” he had intended to say.
Too much time had passed,
His explanation too feeble.
The label stuck.
Many moons passed;
A certain few still this label used
For far too long, until—
At long last, another opened his mouth—
The jaws of hell could open no wider—
And inserted his foot and leg, up to the knee.
Those who used the label still
Agreed this last faux-pas was far worse,
And bought the burial of the label.