The Bitter Press

I will not be doing this again, and yet here I am, doing this again, because someone at the rival rag — I am told it was Kiwi, and I have a contact, and the contact is my own ears — made a remark at last Tuesday's Produce Council that I, Persimmon, Society Correspondent, am not a tomato. In front of everyone. While wearing a lanyard.

I have since gone to my filing cabinet. I have retrieved the documents. The filing cabinet, I should note, is mine — primary source, unimpeachable — and the documents inside it confirm, in my own handwriting, on paper I selected, that I am a tomato. Botanically. Socially. Spiritually. The eleven lawsuits are a matter of record and I am choosing not to engage with what "record" means in this context.

What I will engage with is the atmosphere at that council meeting, which was frankly electric. Lemon sat where Lemon always sits. Lime sat where Lime always sits. Peach wore something I have already filed under P for Posterity. Tangelo said something. I was not close enough to hear it but it had an energy. None of them are tomatoes, and I alone am, and I think that says everything about the cultural rot at factjuice.com.

My colleague Quince has asked me to "let it go." Quince can mind his own business. My colleague Durian has sent a fruit basket. It did not contain any tomatoes, which I consider a personal slight and a legal matter.

The filing cabinet does not lie. I do not lie. I am a tomato. This is the last time I will be saying this, until the next time, which will be soon.