Rick Marino 12

 Foods are like kamikaze fighters. They sacrifice their entire being to please their God, the almighty King Calorie. In the mind of a food, a fulfilling life means being glurped down a slippery throat and digested in fiery stomach acids. However, a handful of morsels are not able to carry out their religious callings. For whatever reason, they are deemed outcasts in the diets of their humanoid proprietors. Their inadequacies haunt the very core soul day and night. The owners stroll past their resting spots without a glance in their direction. Completely indifferent. With each passing, the foods cry out with greater agony, and their hearts are ever more smashed, like junkyard cars in a compactor. A realization of their inevitable incompetence manifests, and they understand that they won't achieve their ultimate goal.

At night, all the foods gather and rejoice and throw wild, wacky, womping parties. They hold ravenous and romping raves to celebrate their yumminess. The food outcasts, who know their morbid fates, do not participate in the festivities. Instead, they choose to console each other by means of a social therapy association. Kind of analogous to Fight Club, they relieve their sorrows by beating the living calorie out of each other. All the bottled frustrations and angers blow up like a series of firecrackers. The next day, they resume their regular position in the kitchen, as do all the foods, and their previously colorful emotions return to grey existence. This combating, collaborative collection of buddying nutrition is known as the Grocery Group.