Tamalehawk's life-long tendency of eating grapes until he gets a serious grape-ache and then mustering up some kind of inner strength to keep eating more blooms into a full-blown habit in the spring months. There is just never enough room for all the grapes he needs to eat, and as his wing muscles gently vasodilate, beak agape in a kind of grape paralysis, he wonders if there were any strays left in the bottom of the crisper that could be fervidly foraged.
Each grape session sparks stark images of the most powerful grape challenge Tamalehawk has had to date; one that tests the very limits of your will by posing a single, haunting question: Can you eat 100 grapes in a minute? The scope of the task seems manageable, even laughable in its apparent modesty. You want to stand up and proclaim, yes, of course I can do that, any person with any shred of focus can achieve this lowly goal. It is this very hubris that contributes to your inevitable demise. You go in half-cocked, shoveling in wing-fulls at a time into your manic mandibles, spurred on by the ticking of the stopwatch. It's not long before that colander of innocent grapes looks like a bucket of tiny, live grenades.
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