*A reformed nodeshell providing insight into the insidiously child-proofed mind of Deborah909*
Deborah should know. She was the 909th member of that dread paramilitary force of sapphic love legumes. Chief Commandress Salmonberry Frijole confided in me personally that she was the most promising of them all, just before she was boiled down for burrito filling. Her tight latex jump-suit did nothing to hide her tasty meat for vegetarians goodness. She excelled in all forms of unarmed combat, both in and out of soup or dip. Then it all went horribly wrong.
They were staking out the encampment of a small but dangerous group of armed lentil patriarchal agendists, plotting to increase the already substantial domination of world government by testicle bearing pulses. Through her tiny binoculars she could see their leader D'Mandio, as he strutted through the encampment. His immaculately trimmed moustachio looked somewhat out of place on a lentil, but nonetheless lent him an air of imperious arrogance, and a certain something that said 'I am gods gift to curries'. She itched for the chance to smash his pulpy innards (after soaking him in water for approximately half an hour, rinsing him, covering with boiling water, simmering for about 45 minutes, adding coriander, ginger, cumin, mustard seed, then placed on a bed of rice). She'd never liked rice either. Commie bastards all of them.
Then from nowhere (well, somewhere .... but quite unexpectedly), came the attack. Wave after wave of testosteronal pea paratroopers popped forth from their swooping pod-ships, brandishing flaming bean-sprout swords of death with overt adolescent bravado. Carnage, death and tragedy of can of three bean mix immensity followed. Peas, beans, lentils....Oh my. The ground lay thick with rich tomato sauce and patches of spicier salsa.
Deborah knelt by one severed half of Commandress Frijole; the battle around her had subsided to fitful pockets of stabbing, spud-gunning, mashing, grating and putting in the freezer for tomorrow's breakfast. Frijole's dying words were "Deborah909....D'Mandio has escaped us....find...him...finish....job....now...your hands do the work of 10,000 highly trained lesbian jumping beans".
But the bean they called 909 had spilt enough vegetable juice for a hundred use by dates. She jumped stoically from the battlefield without so much as a backward glance. Happiness wasn't too much to ask for this legume. Somewhere, a vegan restaurant with a quiet little corner table, and a cute broad-bean, was waiting just for her.
Deborah909, you neglect to mention that you are furthermore not a member of the leguminous family. Is there a painful secret being hidden?
To avoid legal wrangling and the use of mace...yes.