• what is the sound of one potato baking, frying, boiling, mashing? Why so many questions rolling around in my potato-shaped head? I can't seem to get a fix on the real problem. Potatoes revolve around my skull, Pounding strange noises and banging unusual beats. Sometimes, in a nightmare, I married a beautiful spud. But she scorns me, she leaves me for a yam. Damn those yams. Sweet potatoes are not the same thing as yams, are they? Either way, these potatoes are taking my soul, squirrelling it away for a rainy day. I can't seem to feel my feet, buried deep down in a potato patch. "Where are my clothes?" I thought to myself. I wear a moth-eaten potato sack, and goggles made from potato skins. How did it get like this? When did these potatoes become such a significant part of my life? Again the questions come, like a torrent, like a deluge.
    And when I'm old, the only thing I'll be able to eat, toothless and weak, will be mashed potatoes.
    Damn it. I hope there are no potatoes in heaven, or hell, wherever it is I go.