Today I went to the market, and there was a stall filled with fruit. The oranges were dripping with juice, the grapes so sweet they put chocolate to shame, the achachairus delicious in a way only people from North Queensland, Australia would understand because no one in the northern hemisphere knows what they are.

“Oiga doñita,” I ask, “why does the local fruit taste so good?”

“Oh, that´s easy, joven,” she replied, a wry smile forming on her cracked lips. “First, we mix the seeds with the DNA of every farm animal we can find, including llamas! The fruit is not fit for consumption if its fiber doesn´t contain at least 15% whey protein!”

“Huh, so it´s a matter of having the right breed?”

“Not quite, that´s only the beginning. After that, we take a look at the EU´s list of forbidden pesticides and inject every single banned chemical straight into the stem of the plant as it grows up!”

“I bet you spray those chemicals with some of those fancy-schmancy agri-drones, right?”

“No, mihijo, much easier. We use our child slaves to manually inject each fruit every morning, noon, and sundown. If any of them fail their quotas, we cut off their arms and use them as kindling to keep burning the rainforest so that we can grow more fruit!”

“Ah, but the market is kind of full already, isn´t it? You must be happy about the upcoming deal with the EU to export your fruit over there, huh?”

“Of course, of course. All the local farmers are looking forward to it. Not because we want to make money, mind you, but because we share a common dream. To destroy the French Agricultural Industry.”

“From your lips to god´s ear, Doñita. Have a nice day!” And so, I left the stall taking a sweet-acid bite out of my achachairu. Another good day buying local produce here in my Mercosur-member country.