I never thought I'd live to see the day when there would be no more bananas. Honestly, I never gave it much thought. Sure, I guess it might have occurred to me that at some point in the distant future there might come a time when the inhabitants of a space colony on Quasar 5 might wonder what these things called bananas, spoken of by the Ancients as being the Fruit of the Gods, might have tasted like.

But I never imagined that bananas might cease to exist in my lifetime. Yet...there it was. The headline on Yahoo news was quite clear, "Bananas' Days May Be Numbered". I had to check to make certain that I hadn't accidentally wandered over to The Onion, as that is exactly the type of thing they would write about as their humor continues it's dreadful downward spiral.

It seems that the Banana hasn't had sex in years. While I can certainly empathize with the banana's plight, it seems to me that the solution ought to be a somewhat simple one. Two banana trees in a dimly lit room with Barry White playing softly in the background ought to do the trick.

After reading the article further, however, I discovered that it was not that simple. The banana is sterile. While I suppose that Mr. and Mrs. Banana could perhaps adopt some other little plantains, that would not actually solve the problem that we are facing. No more banana cream pies. No more banana splits. No more peanut butter and banana sandwiches. No more banana flavored Quik. In my freshman anthropology class, I had even learned of an African tribe that makes a type of banana beer. I've never tasted it and now it seems I never will.

This is, no doubt, our own damn fault. Now, I'm far from being what one might consider an environmental wacko...but at the same time, I recognize that we have done a lot of harm to this planet...some of it irreversible. And so, the banana will be the latest victim of our hubris.

We've got ten years, so these scientists claim. Ten years left to enjoy this blessed fruit in whatever form we wish. Ten years to find a suitable replacement. Peanut butter and zucchini sandwiches. Eggplant split. None of it seems to work for me.

I can imagine, fifty years from now, being surrounded by my grandchildren and my daughter's adopted android, Timmy, at Christmas.

"Tell us a story, Grandpa!" They will cheerfully shout. "Tell us what the world was like when you were our age!"

I'll lean back in my chair with a far away look in my eyes and smile, in spite of myself. I place little Timmy on my knee, being careful not to spill any water on him, and tell them the story of how, in 2013, I had enjoyed my last banana.