You Guys Have Funny Taste

Little-known sad facts about odd potatoes who lack names: They'll snuggle up to anything in an effort to fit in.

They bow before stone idols, begging for somewhere to belong.

They tend to be runaways.

They will hock your china if you aren't careful.

They try to pair up with unsuitable eggs.

They identify with anything called hens and chickens.

They look for love in all the wrong places

consoled only by cats like Kate here who practice active listening techniques

and put up with the odd nuzzle.

BUT

Floggers have blown to the rescue!
In the spirit of camaraderie and ridiculousness, worthy souls have gathered here today in the sight of God and everybody to join together a nameless crazy potato, rescued from the compost heap just in the nick of time right before it became mashed, YES! I said we are gathered here together to join this oddest of potatoes, veritably shaped by the adversity it has endured in the slings and arrows of the compost heap, truly a garbage dump if you want to know the truth, YES! Can I have an AMEN? I said we floggers have done the spiritual equivalent of circling the wagons around this poor little spud, proving once again that COMMUNITY can accomplish what mortal Self cannot, and what is that? you ask, I will tell you: we can touch the stars! YES! The stars, I tell you! The dark matter of this universe is ours to bridle and steer into tomorrow, and at our helm, ladies and gentlemen, rides the Unknown Tater! And he shall be known among us! Amen! We are gathered here together to join this most hapless, yet surely most fortuitous, spud of unknown origin, whose ways are not our ways, YES! who is indeed as far removed from our ways as it is possible to be removed and yet still be within the circle of holy wagons, we shall join this very potato to the name we bestow upon it with pride. It is with great pleasure, thereby and heretofore, that we baptize, this very day, this most unusual and splendiferous of spuds, whose gender and genealogy we cannot know, indeed perhaps should never know, and shall consider henceforth without prejudice to be a neutral party, YES! we baptize thee, oh weirdest spud, in the name of all that is holy to potatoes everywhere, with an equally, indubitably weird NAME:

YUKON CORNELIUS, THE VENTURING POTATO!

(P.S. I voted for Spud.)

Fried Po TAH toh

Don't you look incredibly yummy...
My crazy little potato, who grew oddly against the odds in the compost heap, pines for a name. Too embarrassed to leave home without a moniker, he/she/it got acquainted with the household today. Some meetings went better than others.


The little spud paused to offer an opinion on the newest member of the clan: my second manuscript of poetry. The potato-ette thinks it needs more work. I almost made hash of the stupid twit.

The poor thing wonders if it could grow up to become this:


Let's name the small fry today. Here are the choices. Please vote for one.

Animus, sings Spirited Dianne

Spud! growls Titus the Worthy Canine

Spudnik, pronounces Lorenzo the Worthy

Spudkins, hollers Glenn not of Luckenbach

Tater or Scallop, drawls Brian the Blog Wonder

Tuber or not tuber, ponders Technobabe Hamlet (Tutu for short)

Leslie, chirps Magpie, neutral for he/she/it

Hope, whispers Marion, for it grew against the odds

Abbyration, dares Monkey Man

Masher, cries Jacob, who says it's a dog

Chip, opines Syd from his sailboat

Yukon Cornelius, the Venturing Mountain Potato, says Great Scott

Albert, roars Totalfeckineejit

Dinner, chimes in Carrie Burtt

And Rule #62 is still in force: Thou shalt not take thyself too seriously.

Help! Name the Crazy Potato

My odd little friend went to church yesterday.

He/She/It went to an AA meeting in the basement. It was an open meeting, so potatoes could come too. Unfortunately, nothing interesting happened. There were no arguments, no one took offense at something someone said and stomped out, the newcomers were calm. People were pretty much just... sober.

Later, for excitement, I let the potato meet a friend of mine who wishes to be unidentified, for a quick cuddle. However, it came up in conversation that the potato had no name. That was an awkward moment for everyone.

So let's name the little scudder. If you have a name you'd like to toss into the ring, let me know and I'll post it. I think we should vote on this pretty quick. It's a young potato and easily scarred emotionally, if you know what I mean. Today it was called a "duck." Then it was called a "french fry." There's too much uncertainty, I'm afraid. Look at yesterday's post to decide what the little tater looks like and let's get this settled once and for all.

Poet Di, who loves her muse, votes for "Animus," which means something like "motivating spirit of a masculine nature." Could go with "Anima," for a feminine twist, but that sounds uncomfortably close to "Enema." What about Ani-Muse?

Titus the Worthy Canine goes for poetic simplicity with: "Spud!" Lorenzo, in an astonishing display of synchronicity, sends us into inner orbit with "Spudnik." Brian, meanwhile, takes time from his own prodigious poetic efforts to get down and dirty with "Tater" (or maybe the more culinary version: "Scallop").

"Tuber or not tuber" is Technobabe's nod to Hamlet, with "tutu" for short. This one from Glenn, "Spudkins," is flavored by his recent trip to Luckenbach, Texas. What about "Leslie"? Magpie got all "fried up" over that all-purpose name for he/she/its. "Hope," says Marion, is an appropriate moniker for a little potato that grew against the odds (and became very Odd itself!). Speaking of Odd, Monkey Man votes for "Abbyration" and you'd better not ask him what that means.

Finally, remember Rule #62: Don't take anything too seriously today if you can help it.

My Crazy Potato

Sometimes life is way too serious. I found a solution for that.

This is my crazy little potato. It volunteered to grow in the compost heap. I found it the other day when I yanked out the potato greenery, which was dying because my dear one threw in a load of grass clippings and they were really cooking.

What do you think it looks like? I think it looks like a seal. And I've made it my new pet. It's going to travel around in the next few days, and I'll show you where it goes.

In the literature of Alcoholics Anonymous is something called "Rule #62": Don't take yourself too seriously. I've just finished four serious tasks: listening to a sponsee do her Fifth Step, getting my novel ready for critique at a writers conference, selecting poems to enter in the state poetry contest, and writing to the American Civil Liberties Union to ask if they'll take on a civil rights case for my mother on behalf of people everywhere whose Advance Directives are ignored by hospitals. (Sigh.) Now it's time to invoke Rule #62.

Me and my crazy little potato shall sally forth into the day and see what it brings.