Cantelope, Or Can they?

Timing is everything. Just three days ago I took Teddy for his golf cart ride, up the street, left at the bank, right behind the warehouse, through the third bay at the car wash, onto the lawn edging the highway, left to the parking lot and I was at the fruit stand. One of the the thrills of driving a golf cart is getting to places you really can't legally go in a golf cart.
At the fruit stand, we were greeted by the proprietor who noted the fine looks of my dog, and my golf cart, and, I'm assuming, me.
We purchased a huge Indiana cantelope for $3, and when I inquired about the price of a bell pepper, he insisted I just take one; I guess he really did think I was hot.
Yesterday, I returned alone in my truck, to see if it was me, the dog, or the cart. I selected a cantelope and handed him $3, and he said, "Take another one, they're two for $3 today." Oh My Gosh. It must be me or my truck. I glanced back at the gleaming beauty of my '95 Toyota, and returned my eyes to him and was about to thank him for the major discount and he mumbled, "Yeah, they're a lot smaller today." Sure, I thought, smaller.
On my way home I stopped at my daughter's house. Her husband met me at the door, saw the cantelope and said, "Oh no! Don't eat that! They're recalling all cantelopes grown in Southern Indiana! Two people have died from eating them!
I returned home, rejected and humiliated. Here I thought I was hot and it turns out the cantelopes are as hot as stolen watches. Then it occurred to me. Maybe my dog is ugly and my golf cart is a piece of junk. Maybe I'm NOT hot. With nothing much to live for, I ate some cantelope.