This story was thought up the fateful day that Sarah *waves* sent me
the wav file of a certain quote from Live at the BBC:

"We brought you the flowers!!"
"Oh good!"
"And the GRAPES!"
"Ooh, I like grapes!!"
Hear it!


SO! Without further ado:

~~FLOWERS AND GRAPES~~


Ringo sat on the couch, plucking the round, shimmering grapes off the branch one by one and popping them into his mouth. "Mmmm…"
"Ringo, are you in the grapes again?" Paul called suspiciously from the kitchen. Ringo quickly stuffed the bunch of purple grapes under the seat cushion.
"NO! No, certainly not! No, no grapes here, no…" Ringo cried, twiddling his thumbs furiously. Paul poked his head in, wearing a chef's hat and looking at him suspiciously.
"Well, those grapes are addictive, y'know, so stay out of 'em, y'hear?" Ringo nodded, his blue eyes wide with mock-innocence. Paul just grunted and returned to the kitchen. Just then, John walked in his door, stumbling over a large sausage that lay in the doorway.
"What in bloody 'ell is that???" He exclaimed, staring at it wide-eyed. Ringo looked up from his seed catalog, which happened to be opened to the page displaying the grapes.
"Paul's cooking again."
"Oh. I'll call the fire brigade then." John responded, throwing the sausage over his shoulder and heading for the kitchen. George waltzed in his door, carrying a huge vase of flowers.
"I brought the flowers, John!" He called, putting the three-foot vase on the floor and rearranging the four-foot bouquet that protruded from the top. Ringo stared at it in awe.
"Oh good…" He breathed.
"Ringo, you stay away from these flowers," George warned, standing between the bedazzled Beatle and the beauteous bouquet. Ringo leaned around George, taking a huge whiff and giggling. "I like flowers…" George stared at him strangely.
"You've been in the grapes again, haven't you? Didn't we warn you about those? Bad Ringo! BAD!"
Ringo slunk away, pouting. He crouched in the corner where no one could see him, pulling a few grapes from his pocket and munching away happily, giggling. Suddenly, someone snatched away his glorious grapes.
"RINGO! NO GRAPES! We know how you get when you eat grapes!" Paul chided, waving the grapes around for emphasis as Ringo looked on in horror.
"But…"
"NO BUTS!" Paul stomped off, taking Ringo's grapes with him. Ringo whimpered, creeping back to his bed. He looked forlornly at the bouquet of flowers that stood next to George's bed. Standing up quietly, he slunk to the vase, burying his nose in the flowers and inhaling deeply, feeling giddy. George burst from the kitchen with a spatula.
"Ah HA! Gotcha!" George proceeded to smack Ringo many times with the spatula, driving him back to his own section of the flat, pouting.
"Oh, c'mon Georgie! Just one sniff!"
"I don't know what's come over you tonight, lad…either you've been in the grapes or someone's laced me flowers with cocaine while I wasn't looking…ooh!" George ran over to the bouquet and took a good whiff, but nothing happened, to his disappointment. "Damn. You've been in the grapes, haven't you?" Ringo nodded bashfully, playing with his bed sheets as George looked on disdainfully.
"There should be a Grapes Anonymous or something for whackos like you…" George headed back to the kitchen, spatula in hand.
Paul had managed to find a frying pan large enough to accommodate the giant Polish sausage, and John was helping by mashing the potatoes. George started grating the cheese as Ringo skipped in, giggling madly. John turned to him, hands on his hips. "C'mere lad."
"Eh?"
"Come…here." Ringo slunk over to John, who promptly smelt his breath. "It's the grapes. Ringo, me lad, you need help. This grape addiction has gone too far. Marijuana is one thing, but GRAPES? Ugh."
Paul pursed his lips. "We could always take him to the psychiatrist…"
"What would the press say?? If it gets out that Ringo's addicted to grapes, we'll be pelted by grapes onstage!" George exclaimed, pouring the shredded cheese into the frying pan.
"Grapes are softer than jellybabies, GEORGE." John cut in. George stuck out his lower lip.
"It's not MY fault I like jellybabies…" He pouted.
"Well, it's not MY fault I like grapes!" Ringo exclaimed, composing his first understandable phrase of the evening. The other three stared at him in shock.
"But…but Ringo…these are grapes we're talking about here! They're bloody dangerous! You need help! I mean, what if you decide to try…" John gasped. "CELERY??? My god, it has to stop before you try anything worse!!" John exclaimed, ending the argument.

The next day…

The three Beatles dragged their drummer, kicking and screaming, into the psychiatrist's large brick building. After they waited for Paul to finish flirting with the pretty receptionist, they carried him up to the third floor of the building, getting lost only twice and ending up in the midst of a shock-therapy session with high-voltage electricity. As they neared the psychiatrist's office, Ringo managed to break free, running screaming down the corridor until they managed to catch him on the roof and sedate him with a few poison-tipped darts. Slinging the dazed drummer over his shoulder, John returned to the office, dumping Ringo into the chair and leaving him alone with the psychiatrist. After Ringo woke up, the psychiatrist told him to recline on one of those nifty couches and started testing him with the usual: ink blots.
"And what is this?" Dr. Glockenspiel asked, holding up a black blotch. Ringo licked his lips.
"A grape."
"And this?"
"A bunch of grapes…"
"And…this?"
"A tall, cool glass of sparkling grape juice!" The psychiatrist sighed, putting away the inkblots.
"Ringo," He started, speaking in a thick German accent. "You are suffering from what is known as anafluograpeaneogenialuminousgreatunagrapaliciousonomy." Ringo stared at him blankly. "It means…you're addicted to grapes."
"Oh…why didn't you just say so?" Ringo asked incredulously. Dr. Glockenspiel sighed again, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers in front of his sharp nose.
"I don't know of any cure for this disease; it is very rare indeed. I'm afraid you'll have to see a specialist."

And so…

Ringo sedated and slung over his shoulder, John entered the building labeled "Grapes Anonymous: center for the cure of anafluograpeaneogenialuminousgreatunagrapaliciousonomy. Apply within." Unable to believe his luck, John chatted with the cute receptionist until Paul and George showed up, and they headed to the back room for the group therapy session.
"Hello hello hello friends!" A bouncy, slightly fruity-looking middle-aged man greeted, jumping up and down excitedly. "Isn't it wonderful to make new friends??" He asked the motley group sitting on the floor in front of him like a kindergarden class.
"Yes, Mr. Pineapple," They chorused, staring at the newcomers. Ringo started to wake up, so John dumped him onto the floor next to a large balding men dressed in black leather with "Hell's Angels" written in bright red letters on the back of his leather jacket. Ringo slumped onto his shoulder, half-awake. The man looked at him disgustedly, nose wrinkled. John, Paul and George slunk out, unnoticed.
"Right! What's your name, friend?" Mr. Pineapple asked far too cheerfully. Ringo groaned, sitting up slowly.
"Me name's Ringo, and I'm not your friend." With that, he slumped back onto the Hell's Angel and fell asleep, snoring softly and drooling on the man's shoulder. Mr. Pineapple put his hands on his spandex-clad hips. "Well, SOMEone woke up on the wrong side of the sunshine!"
The Hell's Angel growled menacingly at Ringo, who awoke with a shocked look on his face. "Now now, Bruno, be a good Hell's Angel," Mr. Pineapple chided gently. Bruno grunted as a sort of agreement, and Mr. Pineapple smiled cheerfully as Ringo scooted farther away from Bruno.
"Who wants to go first? Now, don't be shy, we're all friends here!" Mr. Pineapple declared, clapping his hands twice. A woman of about twenty stood up slowly. Mr. Pineapple smiled at her. "Mary, good, you feel like talking. We're here to listen," He said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She shied away, and he took it off. "Sorry…"
"Hi…I'm Mary…"
"Hi Mary!" The group chorused, even Ringo.
"I've been addicted to grapes since…since…" Mary started sobbing, and Mr. Pineapple put an arm over her shoulder.
"It's ok, Mary, let it out, we're all friends here. Just let it go, let it floooow…" He soothed, and Mary soon calmed down.
"I've been addicted to grapes ever since my last boyfriend made me try some at a party one night…*sob*…and I haven't been able to pass up a grape milkshake since!" Mary burst into tears again, sitting down and weeping quietly into her handkerchief. Mr. Pineapple looked at her sympathetically, then turned back to the circle.
"Thank you very much, Mary. Now! Who's next? Ringo…? Would you like to join our happy family?"
Ringo couldn't take it anymore. With that, he leapt up and raced out of the door, crashing into one very surprised John.
"John! JOHN! I'll never try grapes again, I swear! I swear, I'll never, EVER look at another glass of grape juice as long as I live!!" He sobbed, blowing his nose on John's sleeve. John cocked one eyebrow, then gingerly patted his sobbing band mate on the back. Paul and George came back from the snack machine, holding up a bunch of grapes.
"Hey Ringo, these are pretty good! Want one?" George offered a grape to Ringo.
Ringo took one look at that grape and ran screaming from the building. The other three looked at each other and shrugged, following him down the hall.


Email the author or I'll sic my Ringo on you!!