Asperger's syndrome

Something disturbs me as I scoop the flesh out of a kiwi cut in half. The remnants look oddly like a fat man's scalp covered with sparse patches of stubbly hair. Have I just eaten the green brains of some sad middle old aged man who, in the midst of a mid-life crisis and deep enerving loneliness, drove him to sign up for some online swingers service?

My life is boring. My hair is greasy. The roof of my mouth hurts because I ate some mediocre three bean chili that was too hot.

Now on to his friend, his numbskull companion.

Now on to the juicebox that wails in scales.