And after he left she said, "I can't think of anyone who reminds me more of dead fruit. He enters like, say, a dead pineapple. He shakes your hand like a dead mango, then sits down like a dead kiwi. He talks about politics like a dead tangerine and about sex like a dead grapefruit. Finally he gets up and leaves like dead cherries."

I couldn't disagree with her. He was, in fact, precisely like dead fruit.