The big news announced this month is that scientists have sequenced the entire genome of the avocado. You know, that’s the green, creamy, pear-shaped fruit (botanically a berry by definition) with the alligator skin and the big round pit, available at your local grocery store. We now have a complete genetic map of how nature assembles the avocado, which gives us insight into what controls the development of that tasty green foundation for guacamole.

My enthusiasm, however, is muted as the genetic map doesn’t personally give me any insight into the avocado’s inner workings. I can’t read the map. I wouldn’t even know how to fold it and I’m pretty good at folding road maps.

Somehow, I was left behind by the genetic revolution and if I had this incredibly valuable map in my hand right now showing me the structure of every gene in the avocado, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I would need a geneticist’s GPS to get from one place to another but, as I tread water in the sea of ignorance, I wouldn’t know where I am or where I’m going. It helps if you know the difference between a genome and a garden gnome. It’s a shame really. Pearls before swine.

And yet, we consider ourselves so civil and unified that when scientists achieve this breakthrough, we claim that WE now have the information and WE are better off for it and WE will use it for the betterment of the world. Too bad we think “as one” only when it comes to things like avocados and not when negotiating political peace.

Luckily, somewhere, someone knows what to do with all this information. They can figure out which genes control pest resistance, drought tolerance and probably the grocery store price. It makes the avocado accessible to modern-day, genomic-assisted breeding technology, or “genetic engineering” if you want to use a polarizing term.

While the avocado’s genome map is big news, the bigger news might be why this huge effort to unravel its genetic identity was undertaken in the first place. I mean, no one is rushing to fund the mapping of my genome, but then I’m not a $13 billion industry.

It seems that the avocado people might know that their climate-sensitive fruit may need some fast genetic tweaking to survive the predicted climatic changes, even though we all know that climate change is a liberal-socialist-democratic manufactured crisis thoroughly supported by inconvenient scientific data. Real money and research never go to bolster conspiracies like climate change, but I guess they just made an exception in this case. Traditional selective breeding takes too long with the avocado. In the time it takes to breed a variety more tolerant to climate change, it may be too late to save the avocado industry.

All that aside, I would like to put in a request to the geneticists in charge not to mess with the flavor and texture of this buttery fruit. It’s a great piece of work: easy to peel and a dream to cut (except for the 8,900 hospital visits a year from avocado-cut–related injuries), it transports well and ripens after picking. It has more potassium than bananas, contains nearly 20 vitamins, it’s low in sugar, contains fiber and is high in monounsaturated fat which, as of this writing and before any studies come out to the contrary, is considered “good fat,” which helps lower “bad cholesterol.”

The one flaw in the avocado’s design, if I may suggest it be corrected, is the enormity of the pit, which takes up valuable space that could instead be occupied by the smooth green edible stuff. This issue is not new. Back in 1977, the Hollywood Movie “Oh God” featured George Burns as God (I know…) who admitted that in creating the world, one of his few mistakes was making the avocado pit too big; “…you try,” he remarked.

Geneticists have made papaya and plums disease resistant, apples that don’t brown when cut, corn with increased drought resistance and soybean oil without the trans fats. Surely it wouldn’t be too much to ask to make the avocado pit smaller.

On the plus side, the pit is so big now that it’s not a choking hazard, so that’s a consideration.

Next we’ll have to address the flaws of the common garden gnome. I don’t like the gritty texture and they really should taste much better than they do.