No, I do not need the receipt for my banana.

Do you ever feel a sudden sense that you are totally divorced from the natural order of things? And that this is bad? It usually hits me when I am paying 75 cents for a flawless, gargantuan piece of fruit that was engineered in a lab in Chicago, grown on an industrial farm in Chile, and flown to an Au Bon Pain in downtown Washington.

It makes you want to move to some deserted island and live on coconuts and forget about the rest of the world and its problems.

But you can't even do that, because if you pick the wrong island you might get flooded out when the sea level rises enough. Better to go with a deserted mountaintop.