Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Spud

Fine. I’ll write a poem that’s not erotic.
I’ll write about potatoes,
plain old potatoes,
rough, dirty potatoes,
hard, dirty potatoes,
dirty, dirty potatoes,
with their smooth curves
that so perfectly fill the hand,
so firm,
so round,
so…

…so hungry.

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Published in: on June 9, 2011 at 11:31 pm  Comments (2)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Le Patrone

What can one say about the potato king, really? Well, he’s the king of potatoes, obviously. And he doesn’t like it if you pronounce it poh-TAH-toh. “It’s tae as in hay, not tah as in far…” the court liaison advises you before your audience with the king. There are many rules for meeting the king, of course – some may sneer at the kingdom of potatoes, but in the end, he is still a king, and a king must have etiquette and ceremony. Most of these rules seem arbitrary and unnatural, but that, ultimately, is the point. Etiquette, after all, was invented to distinguish the gentry from the nouveau riche; what better way to achieve that than with rules that make no sense?

And as creators of nonsensical rules go, the potato king is unquestionably a master.

It takes all your concentration to keep the spoon balanced on your nose as you curtsey to the king. You worry that you wobbled too much on the way back up, but the king seems satisfied.

Sure, some people call him crazy. But you just curtseyed to a man who declares himself king of all potatoes, so who are you to judge?

Published in: on May 19, 2011 at 8:23 pm  Comments (1)  
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