If I eat one more mashed potato I WILL DIE. I need you to stop.
I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t I just eat the potato in another form? Jokes on you, spud – no matter how you put a potato in your mouth, when you chew, it becomes a mashed potato. There’s no two ways about it.
You ever do something that you thought would be a good idea and then it turned out to be awful? Well, that’s where I am. I signed up for one of those farm co-op things. You know, you pay a monthly fee, they drop off fresh produce at your door – it’s a great thing. I was hoping for celery, radishes, lettuce, carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, avocado, artichokes, and other healthy things to satiate my appetite.
Well, I guess I should have read the fine print. I signed up for a co-op out of Idaho – a state that has yet to produce a United States president I might add – and you have done nothing but send me potatoes by the truckload. Not even once a month either – like, once a week. I’m swimming in potatoes. I haven’t seen my son in three months. Either he moved out at the age of twelve or he is buried underneath a mountain of potato skins wondering what girls look like naked.
You don’t even want to know what my poop looks like.
So I need you, the entire state of Idaho, to stop producing potatoes. A man can only take so much starch before he starts dreaming up wild fantasies of burning an entire state to the ground.
Please. Give me back my son.