Raisins are generally good. They're sweet, chewy, handy to throw in a bag. I can see why people like them; I've been known to eat them myself. I do not, however, understand Axel's obsession with the raisin. He'd pick raisins over ice cream any day. If there were a raisin fan club, he'd run for president. If someone offered to fill a baby pool full of raisins, providing a sun-soaked opportunity to roll in dried fruit and gorge himself on their chewy goodness, he'd dive right in. He'd like nothing better than to be king of the land of raisins, sporting a cardboard crown adorned with sundried grapes.
The most accurate comparison to his love of raisins is a slightly unstable celebrity stalker's feelings about his target. Raisins are perfection. They deserve all of the awards that dried fruit makers association can give out; they sure should've beat the sundried plum for snack of the year. He'd have all the California Raisins action figures, still pristine in the box. He would also woo the raisins' publicist, in an attempt to get closer to the raisins, and threaten the raisins' security team for keeping him at a distance from the object of his adoration. Then, eventually, the raisins would do something to shake his love for them - spend too much time with a pack of walnuts, or shrivel and dry up - and he'd turn all of his pent-up anger toward the raisins, tossing them to the ground and stomping on them.
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