Dear Idaho


Dear Idaho,

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.

Your Friend,




Travis Marsala

Author: Travis Marsala

Travis Marsala is half of the writing duo Not Your Mother's Baby. He likes string cheese and cereal for dinner. Check him out on Twitter @travis_marsala.

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