Avocado? More like, AvocaDON’T.

GIVEN its mushy, green poop texture, I’m gobsmacked there could be a shortage of avocados in Australia. Warning: Opinion

food background with fresh organic avocado on old wooden table, top view, copy space

My fellow Australians. If you are reading this now, it means I have been murdered.

... because as soon as this gets published, Sydney’s inner-city Brunch Cult will be demanding my head on a pike.

But despite the risk, I can no longer keep quiet about the great travesty that has flooded our nation.

Australia, just admit it: avocados are the worst.

This filthy plague has gripped our fine nation — and our Instagram feeds — for far too long now. All I see on social media are hundreds upon hundreds of photos of green poop-textured mush contaminating everything in its path.

Last year, it was revealed as the most pinned food trend on Pinterest. Haughty, smug and self-righteously convinced of their overpriced worth — avocados are the Gwyneth Paltrow of fruit.

For a moment, there was a drought. Poor growing conditions — i.e. Mother Nature’s way of telling us to stop consuming this abomination — saw an avocado shortage that led to skyrocketing prices and a national crisis best expressed through signs like so:

Yeah, I’d really prefer the cash.

Thank God.

But last week, it was announced that the drought had been broken. In coming months, 68,000 tonnes of this filth is expected to flow into supermarkets.

And woe betide anyone who opposes its infiltration.

It goes like this: I’m in a cafe somewhere, vulnerable and helpless, just attempting to enjoy a mush-free, already-overpriced-because-this-is-Sydney meal.

“The Big Breakfast, please!” I tell the waitress with a smile. “But please, no avocado!”

“The Big Breakfast with MORE avocado!” she smiles back, making a firm note in her pad.

I clear my throat, and hesitate. I must be strong about this. “Um - n - no. I said NO avocado. Like, zero. None. I um ... I don’t like avocado.”

The waitress looks at her notepad, confused. She looks back at me. She looks at the notepad again. She then stares up at me in wide-eyed terror, the reality of what I’ve told her finally sinking in. And then... and then she steps backwards in horror, before disappearing entirely.

I’m pretty sure my face is now on their permanent blacklist, with a green slush photoshopped around my mouth to put them more at ease.

I just don’t understand the craze, nor the fact that they cost way more than they’re worth. Like, mate, you’re a fruit, not a gold-encrusted ancient artefact. Wait — is it even a fruit? Or is it a vegetable? Does it count as sweet or savoury? Is it meant to be mashed? Why does it make my upper palette itch like crazy? Why does it look — and taste — like a giant alien testicle? (Fun fact: ‘avocado’ actually does come from the ancient Aztec word for ‘testicle’.)

Its texture is discomforting and it tastes like nothing. It’s blander than a Bill Shorten speech, and more overhyped than a Malcolm Turnbull comeback. The closest thing I can relate to its taste is flavourless rubber. Extra-soft, chewy flavourless rubber. Kind of like if you microwaved a piece of Lady Gaga’s wardrobe and ate it.

Now look, there are certain things that people will either eat or avoid, and that’s the end of the matter. With mildly exotic foods like sushi or oysters, people will agree to disagree, and the matter is dropped.

But there is something eerily and aggressively cult-like about our nation’s fascination with avocado. When I came out to the newsroom as an Avocado Hater, the reactions were instant and borderline violent.

“This horrible announcement has made me see you in a different light.”

“I no longer trust your opinion on anything in life ever.”

“You’re dead to me.”

Someone even sent out a mass email demanding a dozen avocados be left on my desk, so as to forcefully convert me.

And of course, there’s the condescending remark of: “They’re an acquired taste — your palette is just not mature enough. When you’re more refined, you’ll appreciate its flavour.” I assume these are people who always get a side of gravlax when they’d prefer bacon, and quietly beg their bartenders to sweeten their Negronis with orange juice when no one’s looking.

I now live in a constant state of morning-appetite-induced fear. I can’t help but wonder if I’m alone here, or if there is secretly a tribe of silent sufferers out there, terrified of surrounding judgment every time they’re out for breakfast.

Australia, it is time to end the madness.

Or at the very least, pick a less gross food to fawn over in future.

Now if you’ll all excuse me, I will be hiding from the mob with my bedroom curtains drawn. Call me when there’s another shortage.

Follow Gavin on Twitter at @GavinDFernando.