One line from an old, wrinkly grape killed me: “I’ve been avoiding the compost for 300 years. I’m tired, kid. Let me be soil.”
Brendan (the bagel) forms a doomsday cult. Sammy (the sausage) tries to unionize the fruit. And Barry (the other sausage, yes, there are too many characters) discovers a mysterious bunker labeled “WMA.”
🍆🍆🍆🍆½ (four and a half eggplants – would rot again)
There’s a three-second cutaway to a loaf of sourdough performing a one-bread play about Waiting for Godot . No one laughs. It’s devastating.
If you came for dick jokes, you’ll be confused. If you came for anarcho-food philosophy, you’ll be fed.
Inside? Let’s just say it’s not a spice rack.
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