Crashing Fruits

Between the farm and the moving company I was working a few weeks at a grocery store, slinging fruits and veggies. Picture me in this white uniform, stretched to its limits by the muscles it had to contain. The customer traffic was regular until this middle-aged guy strolled in.

I was casually stacking watermelons when he strolls over, eyes glued to my biceps. The uniform was doing its best to hold it together, but my muscles were playing hardball. Dude doesn't even pretend to care about buying fruits. Nah, he throws me this offer—three times the regular price for every fruit I can crush with these biceps.

Challenge accepted.

First up, an unsuspecting apple. I snatch it from the pile, hold it in my hand, and with a flex, the apple never stood a chance. It's like my biceps had their own gravitational pull, and the apple just caved.

The sound was crisp, both from the apple crunch and maybe a bit from the stretched uniform protesting the flex show. I couldn't help but grin as the middle-aged guy watched, probably questioning his life choices at that moment.

The uniform was a trooper, but you could practically hear the seams whispering, "Is this really necessary?" It was like a mini spectacle in the grocery aisle—fruit demolition, brought to you by biceps and a uniform hanging on for dear life.

The grocery store drama continued with a plot twist that involved watermelons and my mighty quads. So, this middle-aged dude, still recovering from the apple-crushing spectacle, throws another curveball. He's like, "What about a watermelon? Can your quads handle that?"

Without missing a beat, I decide to make it happen.

I position the watermelon between my legs, a moment pregnant with anticipation. The fruit rests in the calm before the storm, unaware of the muscle hurricane about to hit.

Cue the flex—my quads engage, every fiber of muscle standing at attention. The uniform, stretched to its limits, provides a front-row seat to the impending spectacle.

As the pressure builds, the watermelon feels the squeeze. It's like witnessing a slow-motion collision of forces. My quads, like sculpted pillars of power, exert an irresistible force upon the unsuspecting fruit.

The uniform, already showcasing signs of surrender, barely holds on. The fabric strains, protesting the sheer power unleashed within its confines. But this moment isn't about the uniform; it's about the clash of muscle and melon.

The watermelon gives in. In a burst of slow-motion glory, it succumbs to the mighty quads. Juices erupt in a celestial dance, creating a temporary masterpiece of destruction.It's like a Hulk-level collision of forces, juices splatter, and for a moment, it's like I turned the grocery aisle into a fruit battlefield.

The quads, having executed their fruity feat, relax as the remnants of the watermelon settle. The uniform, now resembling more of a statement piece than a work garment, stands as a witness to the triumph of muscle over melon.

It's a glorious mess of juicy victory.

The middle-aged guy is standing there, equal parts impressed and bewildered. I was fired the next day.