Ficklebob: A Public Service Announcement To Pickles provides, for the first time, a window into the life of a humble pickle, the pickle's place in modern society, and what happens when a pickle goes off the rails.

The narration is as follows:
I was born a pickle. I swear. I flew right off my mother’s vine and into the dill barrel. And I had a happy childhood at first. I played tong dodger and swam in the brine pool with all the other new pickles. But when I was only a few days old, a group of older kids convinced me to have my first drink. My first vinegar sour.
They said it would make me cool as a cucumber. It’d make me one of them. It burned going down, but soon I got this feeling like my warts were all tingling. Then my warts were all numb. And I wanted my warts to be numb all the time, because, ya know, it just seemed easier. It was easier to be one of them while someone else was still providing all the vinegar sour I could suck down. I didn’t think about what would come next.
How soft and weak I would become. How my beautiful color would turn into a putrefied yellow. How I would beat my breast trying to feel something, anything, only to vomit a torrent of rotten seeds. I was ruined.
But the farmer sold me anyway. He knew my time had passed, but it was late in the season. Few fine specimens were leaping off the vine and into the barrel now. And it had become more popular to be a salad cucumber, a sandwich cucumber, even a sea cucumber. I think the farmer knew. And barrels of pickled carrots, beets, peppers, and eggs showed up in the neighborhood. Kids were tugging on their mothers’ hands to be given a pickled egg on a stick. Can you believe it?
When my time came to be stuck, I barely even felt it. Right through the stomach. All I could think of was how hairy the farmer’s hands were, and why didn’t he shave them. The girl who bought me, her hands were smooth, and they gripped the little stick with glee. Until she took a closer look at me, yellow, speckled, ruined me.
“This isn’t a pickle,” she said. “It’s a banana!”
She held me all the way home, but refused to take a bite and see. She wouldn’t listen to her mother, who threatened to throw me out the window. A stinking piece of ruined flesh. I could only be what she said I was, what she saw. But she resolved not to waste me. I would be a milkshake. A delicious strawberry banana milkshake.
She plopped heaping scoopfuls of ice cream into the blender, along with milk, and slices of me. I wondered why she didn’t notice, didn’t see my lack of nutrients, my lack of anything, as she decapitated with glee.
And then I was pulverized, mulled through mounds of frozen dairy, and poured into a cool glass, topped with a striped straw. A new delicacy. She sat on the steps in the sun and sucked me down, so fast I don’t think she blinked. Until her eyes were frozen, her insides frozen, seized with strawberry sour me. And up her pink esophagus I came, barely melted, sloshing as she ran for the trees. It was as I ejected from her mouth, into that winter afternoon, onto the icy pavement, that it first all became coldly clear. My father was a cucumber, my mother was a cucumber, I come from a line of cucumbers; what did I think I could be?

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