A local Miami man broke the mould this father’s day, handing the (basbeball) gloves back to his dad so he could teach him how to catch. The Plantain caught up with Ángel Saxon (the chiselled, snow white man writing this article who has a supreme dislike for the first person) to learn more about his very special mission.>”You just don’t realise what the little things mean until they’re gone”
“As a true, Hollywood-style American, my fondest and warmest memories of my dad from childhood involve learning to catch a baseball on our perfectly mowed, middle class front lawn” recalled Ángel wistfully in a strong British accent. “It was the foundation of our relationship. I thought it was something we would always have in common. But then the Alzheimer’s came.”
He paused.
“One day I threw a ball at him and I guess he no longer knew how to catch it. It hit him straight in the side of the head. Shortly after, he forgot who I was. You just don’t realise what the little things mean until they’re gone. That’s why I’m teaching him how to catch again. Even if he doesn’t appreciate that I’m his son, I know playing catch together will always be special for both of us anyway.”
I asked myself if he had any regrets.
“The denial,” Ángel whispered regretfully. “I always pretended my dad would be around forever, to catch balls – or me, whenever I fell. I never wanted to think about the possibility of him dying, not while he was still not dead. Why even acknowledge that could happen, right? Thing is, you forget that people can disappear from your world, even before they disappear from theirs.”
Just before I left, I asked Ángel if he felt like the experiment had any impact.
“He did have a rare moment of clarity for a few seconds today,” Ángel said. “I was rearranging the flowers on his desk when he made a strangled kind of noise. I turned around quickly, and found him staring at me. His eyes shone, and he looked at me with a look I’ve been craving to see for years now. It took every ounce of my strength to not burst into tears just then, to savour the moment instead. I said ‘I love you. Happy father’s day.’ He smiled at me, and said ‘I love you too. Sorry I forgot to buy you a card.’”
Ángel Saxon is a staff writer for The Plantain.

By Ángel Saxon
Universal theme park in Orlando will be opening an exhilarating new ride based on the infamous US-1 highway in South Florida, it has been announced. Representatives of the much loved family friendly park have officially confirmed the news after months of excited rumours and rumblings amongst theme park aficionados.
“We’re thrilled to finally confirm this breathtaking new addition to our lineup of attractions,” Tom McPlainsuit, a representative for Universal, told The Plantain. “Our audiences have been clamouring for a new thrill ride at our property, and this one really delivers,” he added.
“As with all our licensed properties, we aim to bring both the fun and the authenticity for our audience, which is why US-1: The Ride is a spinning rollercoaster operating at breakneck speed. Much like the real US-1, guests to our park will be tricked into believing they are in control of the ride, but this will of course be a very complex illusion.”
>”We made sure that the ride experience has all the adrenaline of the real thing.”
“We’re very excited about this new property as it contains groundbreaking new elements for a rollercoaster thrill ride. Guests to our park will step into specially leased carts mocked up as overpriced German cars, and will be submerged in an exciting and also terrifying world played out by other carts operated by an advanced AI.”
“The ride will effectively be randomised each time, with an assortment of hazards playing out around the riders including random heavy braking, simulated drunk and/or texting drivers, mirrorless and signal-free merging, zero lane discipline, peacock interaction events and of course, a faint but very genuine and impossible to ignore sense of death – we made sure that the ride experience has all the adrenaline of the real thing.”
We stopped Mr McPlainsuit in the middle of his breathless pitch to confirm if he had just said that riders actually faced a real risk of death on the new ride.
“As I was saying, this ride is as authentic as it gets,” he added, winking. “We’ve literally thought of everything. We even scrimped on every cost to make sure the construction and build of the ride is as flimsy as possible. The actual feel of the ride itself is awful, I want to assure all fans of US-1 that.”
After the disastrous launch of Universal’s “The Fast and the Furious Ride” which closed two days after it opened, Universal Orlando will be hoping that their new US-1 ride will represent a win for them.
“They didn’t realise how boring the people of South Florida would find a Fast and the Furious ride,” an anonymous source at the park told The Plantain. “They’ve finally accepted that a ride based on the real driving experience in South Florida is far more electrifying than anything The Fast and the Furious franchise depicts.”
Ángel Saxon is a staff writer for The Plantain.

By Ángel SaxonCaucasians across the US have decided to co-opt the traditional Mexican holiday “Cinco de Mayo”, turning it instead into “Cinco de Mayo,” a celebration of the popular sandwich spread, mayonnaise. All over America, gleaming white gazebos are being erected behind gleaming white fences and blue lids are being yanked off pasty white tubs as neighbors gather to celebrate their love of the disgusting white spread.
We asked the founder of this new holiday, Jimmy McBobberson, why he had felt the need to put their own spin on a Mexican tradition:
>”There is nothing whiter than mayonnaise”
“Well, if you ask me, it’s kind of annoying that Mexicans are allowed to have a huge party and get drunk in a way that is socially acceptable two months before we get to do the same for Independence Day. It just kind of feels like they deliberately undercut us, you know? Plus, Mexican-Americans get to celebrate Cinco de Mayo and Independence day, whereas we only get the one. What’s up with that?”
But isn’t this new holiday disrespectful to Mexican culture?
“Look, we’re all about respecting traditions. Cinco de Mayo might be a tradition for the Mexicans, but stealing and adopting other people’s culture is a tradition for us, so where’s the respect for that?”
But why mayonnaise specifically?
“Isn’t it obvious? There is nothing whiter than mayonnaise, both in color and as far as food culture goes. It’s the perfect Caucasian spin on an old and highly regarded holiday. I couldn’t be prouder to be the first to think of it.”
We thanked Jimmy for his time and left him alone to celebrate, not before he showed us his plans for an even newer holiday called “Día de los Oreos”.
Ángel Saxon is a staff writer for The Plantain.

By Ángel SaxonStarbucks plans to forcibly remove black coffee from its menus in all 13000 locations across the US, it has been reported. The news caused an uproar on social media, where commenters took to their keyboards to decry what they saw as blatant colorism.
“You’ll notice lattes and frappuccinos seem to be exempt from this new policy!” a Twitter user anonymously told The Plantain. “And why does it have to be forcible? If they have an issue with black coffee, couldn’t they just sit down like adults and clear it up over a nice cup of… well, you get what I mean.”
>“Black coffee has just been sat quietly on the menu, not doing much”
The Plantain asked Starbucks’ CEO, Kevin Johnson (2017 winner of Time magazine’s “Whitest Name” and “Whitest Face” award) if there was any merit to these criticisms.
“Absolutely not!” he insisted, his eyes darting around the room, his fingers drumming an erratic beat on the table. “It’s all very reasonable and above board. Our customers are increasingly more interested in drinks like the white chocolate macchiato, the soy latte, the non-fat frappuccino… these are the ones that make us the real money,” he gestured, his hands shaking into a frenzy.
“Black coffee has just been sat quietly on the menu, not doing much. Sure, it hasn’t necessarily done anything wrong, but it isn’t bringing in a real profit, and we’re worried that its bold presence on the menu makes our decaf latte drinking clientele uncomfortable,” he jittered, attempting to adjust his glasses but instead scattering them onto the floor.
When pressed for further explanation, Mr. Johnson brushed our reporters aside:
“Look, I would love to answer more of your questions, but I simply must hurry down to Starbucks for a hit of that neat, sweet coffee.”
The Plantain tried to ask him about the accusations of colorism, but Mr. Johnson bolted through the door, shaking and muttering something about “mandatory caffeine sensitivity training”.
Ángel Saxon is a staff writer for The Plantain.

By Ángel SaxonI’m watching a grainy video tape. A man stands alone in a room. He is naked. A woman joins him. She too is naked – yet I find myself drawn to the man.
That man is Donald Trump. I’m watching the sex tape between President Trump and Stormy Daniels that was leaked this Tuesday by the FBI. When I was assigned to watch it by my higher ups at The Plantain, I sighed. “Great, I have to watch the world’s worst human have the world’s worst sex, and then write about it. Why is this my profession? How did I get to this stage in my life? Am I going to die knowing that the highlight of my career was reviewing a mediocre sex tape?” I then proceeded to have a full blown existential crisis.
After thirty minutes of shaking and crying under my desk, I came out (because my boss made me) and reluctantly got to the task at hand. What I saw shocked me to my core.
>There is a quiet dignity in the fold of his testicles
I saw the inner workings of a man who is universally decried as a monster. I expected to see the same person I had learned to hate so much reflected in his every move as a lover – but as the third Hobbit movie taught us all, even the toughest monsters have a soft, fleshy core.
You see, I am drawn to Trump not out of some revulsion, or ardent dislike, or any other negative emotion, but because there is a quiet dignity in the fold of his testicles; there is an understated poise in the way his buttocks lovingly press together; there is a silent scream in the fall of his nipples.
When he makes love to Stormy Daniels – and yes, by god does he make love to her – I am struck that this is a man who I assumed so much of and yet knew so little about. Maybe his spidery way with words and snaky attitude towards the truth is all just a plot to hide the beauty of the man beneath the suit: a vulnerable, delicate human, one who is comfortable softly crying into the arms of the woman he just made love to.
It would almost be crass at this stage to mention Trump’s member, but it is something that defies silence. I consider myself to be mostly straight (except for a five-minute timespan when I was 12) but our President’s cock is a thing that disregards all traditional logic. It’s the kind of cock that you know is going places when you see it. That cock, you will whisper to your friends, that’s a cock to look out for. Sure, it is huge, sure, it has the kind of girth you couldn’t tame with two hands, but more than that it is beautiful. It’s a stunning penis.
The interplay of shades and pigments along its shaft puts all but the finest watercolors to shame. When erect, it twitches slowly up and down with the measured breath of someone who finds comfort, rather than fear, in the concept of mortality. A glorious, kingly vein runs its length, resplendent in the most royal of purples, bridging the gap to the most aesthetically pleasing head I have ever seen on another man’s tool.
I could go on, but I would be wasting your time. My words cannot do justice to what you will see, and what you will feel, if you watch the Trump sex tape. Perhaps that would be something worth aspiring to: to one day be the kind of writer who could commit to electronic paper some manner of material that could adequately convey the majesty of our President in all his naked animal glory.
Deep down, however, I know that I could never transmit such splendor with only the limited contents of a human dictionary. All I could ever hope to do is to convince you to watch it with an open mind, to see the man all over again for the first time. It might just change your perspective on life. You see, I know the truth now: I know that the next time I see him speaking on television I will no longer be listening angrily to the words tumbling out his mouth – I will be staring wistfully at the bulge in his pants.
Ángel Saxon is a staff writer for The Plantain.

By Ángel SaxonA bloodied white rhino horn lies on my desk. My fellow employees from The Plantain crowd around me, a solemn hush blushing their cheeks. I snip off a smidgen of horn with my trusty pocket knife and place it onto the rich mahogany of my workstation, crushing it under the side of my gleaming AmazonBasics blade into a fine, creamy-white powder.
“Go on Ángel,” Christina Fontina, The Plantain’s secretary, whispers awe-struck in my ear. “This is a groundbreaking moment for online print media. You’re about to change everything.”
I take a deep breath, pausing to scratch my goatee and twiddle my mahogany framed hipster glasses, and place a rolled-up, torn out bible page into my left nostril.
I pause. I exhale. I pause again.
The old testament, trembling between thumb, forefinger, and nose, lowers to the neat line of white rhino powder. I take a deep, shaky sniff.
>You might think, expect even, that a pandemonium of sexual energy was unleashed
This was the scene at the offices of The Plantain last Thursday. You might think, expect even, that shortly after the white rhino powder entered my bloodstream through the sleek, white membranes of my nasal cavity, a pandemonium of sexual energy was unleashed. Perhaps you envision a mighty gash torn in my pants where my long dormant member suddenly sprung to life, endangering all in its path. Maybe you even imagine, a slight smile curling across your lips, that I finally succumbed to Christina’s endless flirtations, taking her abruptly over my magnificent mahogany desk to the sound of a rhythmic squeaking of flesh on fine polished wood while our coworkers cheered on in ecstasy. I wish that was the article I was writing.
But it isn’t. The white rhino powder did nothing for my sad little sausage. At first I was patient. But as the hours passed and the crowd around my desk dispersed, I started frantically crushing up the rest of the six-pound horn, desperately chasing a sexual dragon that never materialized.
Finally, I turned to Milo, The Plantain’s CEO, whose idea this whole sorry debacle had been in the first place.
“I thought you said this shit works!” I bawled, my composure decomposing. “I thought you said you had tried this shit ‘like, all the time’ and it was guaranteed to ‘totally fuck my dick up’?”
“Errr…” he said sheepishly. “I don’t know man, maybe your shit wasn’t pure? Did you inhale? You totally have to inhale. I mentioned the inhaling, right?”
I turned away from him in disgust. Another bust in my attempts to waken my slumbering genitalia, sure, but more than that, a savage failure to realize my dream of conquering new journalistic grounds, grounds that could have put me on the map, up there with some of the greats over at Vice News.
Just as well this was the horn of the last male white rhino in existence. At least I can take solace in the fact I paid the heavy price – both figuratively and literally – of having a poacher kill the last male white rhino on earth and deliver its horn to me, so that I could be the one to report that its legendary status as an aphrodisiac is nothing but powdered white lies.
Good riddance, I say.
Ángel Saxon is a staff writer for The Plantain.