I detest people who, when faced with an array of dessert options, order the “fresh fruit”. Let’s see. We have a pile of chocolate-coated chocolate topped with chocolate. A torte of some sort that’s as dense as a Russian novel. A splendid, foot-high pie baked by Tibetan monks who only surface from their meditation once every 22 years to bake this one pie. Salma Hayek on a silver platter, not sophomorically and moronically drizzled with chocolate, heaped with whipped cream, and topped with a maraschino cherry — just alone in all her delectable glory. Yeah, “fresh fruit” really cuts it.