Monday, October 30, 2006

130. Inkom: Stinkum--A Rare Svithe.

The first time I remember hearing or saying the phrase, "You're not the boss of me," was when I was a resident of Inkom, Idaho (motto: Inkom: Stinkum). It's all because of one Bossy Ginger who was our neighbor.

See, back in One Thousand Nine-Hundred and Seventy Seven (1977) I was three (3) years old and my brother was five. Ginger was much older, stronger and selfish and she always told us what to do. Nevertheless, my mom Ramblimom always used to force us to invite Bossy Ginger to our birthday parties even though she was always so bossy and took control of the party activities.

Anyway, one day my mom asked my brother and me to take a bag of fresh garden tomatoes over to Bossy Ginger's parents. Bossy Ginger opened the door and we asked for her parents, but she wouldn't go get them and instead, she took the bag of tomatoes from us, reached in and pulled out the biggest one, and took a huge slobbery bite out of it and let the juice and seeds run down her chin.

And that's why I don't like tomatoes on my burger.

Unfortunately, I learned recently that Bossy Ginger (and that's really what we called her) had Downs Syndrome. My brother and I have been vilifying her for years and using the words 'Bossy Ginger' as a joke, and now I learn she had Downs Syndrome. It explains so much, the bossyness, being forced to invite her to parties even though she was much older than us. Through my three year old eyes I remember little, but I remember Ginger, and I remember her bossyness. I don't remember her being different at all. I don't remember her as anything other than the bossy kid next door.

As an adult, I notice the differences in people and unfortunately my jaded inner self makes judgments and hedges for what I think will happen based past experience. I wish sometimes we were all a little more like children in the respect that I wish we woould allow ourselves to experience and then judge instead of judge and then experience. Basically, when I lived next to Bossy Ginger, I had no preconceived notions about her. I had no misconceptions. I allowed myself to wait until our interaction before I made any judgments about her. Now I'm learning those judgments were largely uninformed or at least under formed because I didn't realize the girl was different and because I was very young.

I know it's a kindof backwards look at things, but I'm glad I didn't notice 'differences' back then.

Anyway, Other things that happened in Inkom (remember I was three (3)):

I threw a broken bottle at my brother hitting him on the head but causing no injury. He threw a smaller piece of glass back at me and it hit me under the eye requiring three stitches. We blamed it on the neighbor who got a medieval beating.

I heard cats fighting for the first time. It scared me to death.

I was eating an Oreo outside and I decided I wanted to climb a tree. To save the Oreo for later, I put it in my pocket. Not adviseable.

The fourteen (14) year old neigbors told us our farts were bionic and fed us our first caffienated beverages.

If one goes to the open front door of the neighbor's house and shouts certain words, one will be forced to be in time-out inside said house and play with old toys left over from the grown children of the homeowner. Come to think of it, she was kindof creepy.

My brother Chewy got knocked out while he was trying to sneak some marshmallows from the cupboard while we were watching Saturday morning cartoons. He threw up on the way to the hospital. Concussion was an early medical term for me.

My brother Chewy dropped a huge rock on his finger and required stitches. Ramblimom and ramblidad were out of town together, so all this happened at the neighbor's house.

Also while we were gone to the neighbor's house and just after my brother Chewy smashed his finger, I was riding a horse that was being led by the owner when the horse got spooked and ran away. At three (3) that can be a bit scary.

Lastly, riding your big wheel into the neighbor's house will get you a sound spanking.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

129. PCP and Me Two (2): With a Vengeance.

In case you missed the last installment:

I chronicled how the Pharmacy Counter Person was so unfriendly and non customer-service oriented that I was forced to buy the generic Flonase even though I had asked to buy...Aw, forget it. You can read it yourself here; it's not a freaking sitcom for crying out loud.

Anyway, I left the store after paying for my new drugs and decided to test out the drugs before going to far from the store. So I opened a box, pulled out a bottle, and primed it by spraying a few squirts into the air. The volume and general non-mist-like cloud of spray was my first clue that the generic brand was going to be a bit different than Flonase: The Original. Then I sprayed it into my nose.

Because I have been vigilantly guarding myself from allergy flare-ups by being diligent in my drug habits, I have not had a runny nose in years. It's been very nice, BTW. But this NEW spray that is NOT Flonase made my nose run in its inaugural trial. It's not just that the medicine is different as barb pointed out in her comment in the prequel to this post, but that the sprayer the liquid comes in delivers it into the nose as a liquid, not as a mist. I can't go into all the differences here, but suffice it to say that if I use a medicine to prevent a drippy nose, but that medicine CAUSES a drippy nose, that medicine is not the good stuff.

To restate, I don't want a runny nose, but my new unrunny-nose medicine makes my nose run. Something seemed amiss with that scenario. So later that night, receipt and drugs in hand, I went back to Wizzy-Mart. I approached the pharmacy counter and asked them to take their crappy drugs and give me the good stuff. That's when they called security.

Really what I said was that I didn't want the generic, and that I wanted real Flonase. The pharmacist was extremely unhappy, because he was going to have to throw away the original bottles of generic nose wash, because it's illegal to give them to someone else. He was also visibly upset that his staff didn't work very hard to satisfy the customer, and that he was going to lose money because of it.

And that's how I got my REAL Flonase--Now with Riboflavin!

128. PCP and Me.

Remember those kids who can't eat choco-chip cookies at parties because they're allergic to everything?

Well I'm one of them.

Fortunately, I've found the right balance of drugs and psychotherapy, and my allergy problems have been nearly non-existant since The Great Maggot Migration of '65. I use generic over the counter Loratadine, and a steady oxygen-tube flow of Flonase (Fluticasone Propionate, 50 mcg.)

Well, my last bottle of Flonase is running out, so I called a pharmacy we'll call Wizzy-Mart, to ask if they had my old prescription in their system so I could get a refill. They told me I have refills left in the system, so I went down to the pharmacy inside Wizzy-Mart and ordered my new Flonase. They told me it would take about ten (10) minutes to fill my prescription and that I should enjoy the beauty of the electronics section--which I do.

After coveting the HD TV's for about eleven (11) minutes and stopping at the makeup counter, I went back to the pharmacy to pick up my Flonase only to find a line of about four (4) old people. Being old, it took each of them about half (1/2) an hour to take care of business, so it took me ten (10) more minutes to pick up my Flonase.

Only, see, when I got to the counter, they had given me the generic version of Flonase. I asked, "I asked for Flonase."

Pharmacy Counter Person (or PCP): "We always run the generic; it's cheaper for you."

Me: "But you didn't tell me you were giving me generic. How much more is it going to cost me to get the good stuff?"

PCP: "I don't know; I'd have to run it."

Me: "Then run it; I want to know how much it's going to cost me to get what I asked for."

PCP: "Okay," she said, looking perturbed. After a few minutes she came back and said, "The drug costs about forty dollars ($40) more, so you can estimate your co-pay from there."

At that point, a line of old people was developing behind me so I asked, "Can you check please?" Only to hear another PCP tell my PCP they don't have any brand name Flonase in stock. So I took the generic. During the awkward moments while my credit card transaction was being finalized, I started getting more and more angry at the non customer-friendly way I was treated. I didn't ask her to give me a massage; I asked her to check the price of the drug I asked for. I guess I was feeling angry about having my right to choose taken from me because they assumed I'd be unwilling to pay for the good stuff.

I said to PCP as I was signing the receipt, "You really should give people a better set of options."

PCP: "We always fill the generic because insurance companies don't like to pay for the name-brand."

Me: "Then you should tell her [pointing to the drop-off counter] to inform the customers theif prescription would be filled using the generic unless otherwise specified."

PCP: [Stared at me with a customer-is-the-enemy look as I turned tail and ran out of the store.]

Tune in Tomorrow for the dramatic conclusion of this exceptionally long post.

And thanks to Daltongirl for giving me a reason to tell my own customer service story.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

127. I'm Hawking Anti Fungal Creams Now

OK, so on Monday I blogged about having lost my toenail playing flag football over the weekend. I thought it was a pretty creative way to tell a story and get a few laughs. I had no idea all of you had such an adverse reaction to toenails--even healthy toenails on impeccably attractive and clean feet. Only Barb (who gets her kicks by working in the ER) was disappointed by not seeing photos of The Emancipated Toenail.

The most startling development is my new sponsors. By contractual obligation I'm not supposed to tell you all to click on my advertisements, because that would cause unnatural advertising traffic on my sponsors' sites and they would pay me money that would have been ill-gained. In fact, I'm telling you now NOT to click on my advertisers unless you are interested in the product because I intend on earning my money the right way.

Nevertheless, I call your attention to my newest sponsors--the fungus people. See, ads for my blog are generated by google attaching content-specific sponsors to my blog. So in my blog when I say I lost a toenail AND that it was healthy WITHOUT any fungi or nuthin', Google Ads searched the content and finding the words 'toenail,' 'fungus,' and 'What, are you kidding me? put a fungus ad on my site for crying out loud;' decided to place fungus cream ads on my site.

I almost feel offended, but then I realize the fungus people pay good money to Google Adsense to get placed in places people will see them. And I guarantee I was the only one 'stupid' enough to have placed the words 'toenail,' 'fungus,' and 'I don't want to earn any money from advertisers,' in my blog. So, naturally, since none of my readers will ever click on the anti-fungal ads, I won't earn any money for about two weeks until I can blog the fungal content to the bottom and off the front page. Maybe I can count on the approximately twelve thousand (12,000) who find my blog by searching to see 'if Raven Simone is pregnant' to click on my new advertisers.

And I'm not doing myself any favors with this post either, so I might as well do my best to make my adspace as much of a joke as my IQ. So these are terms I'm going to post here now to see if the fungal ads will disappear soon (WARNING! sensitive viewers might prefer to skip to the next paragraph of text):

Open sore.
Pet diabetes.
Cod liver oil.
Why won't this rash go away?
Baltimore is for lovers.
Body odor.
Rex Kwon Do.
SARS outbreak.
Octopus a la mode.
Star Wars.

So there you have it. Try to make an ad out of THAT, the man.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

126. Things I learned while house sitting.

For the next three days, my wife Limpy and I will be house- and baby-sitting for some friends who have run away from their responsibilities. Now those responsibilities are ours and include: caring for four (4) children ages eight (8), five (5), three (3), and two (2), the oldest three (3) are girls and the last is a boy; keeping the house safe, and watching free cable. The following are things I learned in my first evening yesterday:

It’s not just my bathroom scale that hates me, EVERY bathroom scale hates me. MY bathrooms scale refuses to help me lose weight or even fudging the numbers a little bit to make me feel good. THEIR hoyty-toyty bathroom scale laughs at me and flashes *ERROR* on the screen when I hop on.

Silly Putty and Gerber® Soothie binkies do not play well together. The first mate was crying and my wife Limpy asked the two (2)-year-old to take the binky to me. He gladly agreed to take it and brought it to me in the same hand his Silly Putty was in. The Silly Putty tried to consume and possibly destroy the binky and now the binky and the Silly Putty are inextricably connected.

Little girls are the devil. Who can deny a child another handful of goldfish when she looks at you with a twinkly smile and tells you she likes you? I can’t. I also can’t tell an eight (8)-year-old she needs to go to bed when I’m not even her dad and she’s not even human; possibly she’s super-human—with pow’rs to make me do what she wants—or a Jedi Knight or something. I’m a weak-minded fool.

Band-aids® brand sheer strips are not just for bleeding cuts; they’re for bonked heads, fallen toddlers, spanked bottoms, bleeding gums, and bruised egos.

“Who’s your daddy?” doesn’t work on children that are not yours.

The first mate loves chaos—sleeps right on through most of it.

Second (2nd) grade homework is easy.

House sitting is not what appears, for it's the children who need the most attention, not the house.

And finally, candy is my best friend.

Monday, October 16, 2006

125. Toenail or not Toenail? That is the Question.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail AND if I told you you would feel no pain, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain AND there would be no blood, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood AND you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened AND it would happen during the course of doing something you loved, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved AND that something you loved would be flag football, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved and that something you loved would be flag football AND you wouldn’t even know it until you took off your pair of cleats, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved and that something you loved would be flag football and you wouldn’t even know it until you took off your pair of cleats AND you could save the toenail on your dresser until you could get a chance to photograph it, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved and that something you loved would be flag football and you wouldn’t even know it until you took off your pair of cleats and you could save the toenail on your dresser until you could get a chance to photograph it AND if you knew your toes were totally healthy before the incident and there were no fungi or nuthin’, would you do it?

Interviewee: No.

Interviewer: If I told you you would lose a toenail and if I told you you would feel no pain and there would be no blood and you wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint when it happened and it would happen during the course of doing something you loved and that something you loved would be flag football and you wouldn’t even know it until you took off your pair of cleats and you could save the toenail on your dresser until you could get a chance to photograph it and if you knew your toes were totally healthy before the incident and there were no fungi or nuthin’ AND if I told you your wife Limpy would accidently knock the toenail off the dresser while grabbing for the TV remote and the toenail would fall to an unknown location and there would be very little chance you would recover it for the photo op and it would resurface three years later having grown and mutated in the sewer to attack and traumatize the whole town, would you do it?

Interviewee: Well…Yes.

Sorry no photo.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

124. I Started Falling Three Days a Week--A Madlib

Yesterday, I asked my faithful reader(s) to complete a list of parts of speech for my latest madcap madlib. Below are the responses; they couldn't have turned out better. I changed only the verb tenses and pluralizations for agreement purposes. Enjoy:

By Bone Junior:

A few months ago when I was applying for term watering can insurance, the insurance envelope moistener sent a nice young Tasty painting out to draw blood so they could do a blood jackhammer. I guess they wanted to prove I was staple remover-worthy.

When the results came back, they told me my fax machine level was slovenly technical and they rejected me. I commandeered, OH! How I commandeered, but then I decided to skip and do something about my Elvis Flying Elvises. I started Falling three days a week, I flied my diet and snacking weed wackers, I even cut down on fake crab meat and other fatty foods.

When the first mate was sickly, I decided it was time to try again to get my sandwich insurance policy. I went to Bone Junior to draw more blood; the results came back and my lactic acids were still heavingly quiet. The doctor told me I was in need of some serious stomach and I told him I had dry heaved a lot of things—my porcelain throne, my bathroom, and my snotty drips. He then told me my crickus neckus was probably caused by my DNA and prescribed Badasspirin. Badasspirin is a drug that contains omega-three (3) fatty fake plastic grapes and is used to reduce the amount of mannequin heads in The Second Amendment.

After a month of taking the pills, my toe jam is ‘drop down and get your eagle on’ he*. Now maybe I’ll be able to get that Scott Bakula insurance policy I’ve always wanted.

By Sariah in Vancouver:

A few months ago when I was applying for term dog insurance, the insurance nail sent a nice young roof shingle out to draw blood so they could do a blood ear wax. I guess they wanted to prove I was cd-worthy.

When the results came back, they told me my rope level was tentatively bright and they rejected me. I drilled, OH! How I drilled, but then I decided to dance and do something about my crack towels. I started yelling three days a week, I flew my diet and snacking dice, I even cut down on pickles and other fatty foods.

When the first mate was shiney, I decided it was time to try again to get my pocket knife insurance policy. I went to the window washer to draw more blood; the results came back and my tears were still playfully brown. The doctor told me I was in need of some serious cone and I told him I had hurried a lot of things—my whale, my log, and my cars. He then told me my heart disease was probably caused by my DNA and prescribed Zyrtec. Zyrtec is a drug that contains omega-three (3) fatty books and is used to reduce the amount of photos in the shirt.

After a month of taking the pills, my bloods are North she*. Now maybe I’ll be able to get that blog insurance policy I’ve always wanted.

By li’l mil:

A few months ago when I was applying for term army uniform insurance, the insurance dead spider sent a nice young tacos out to draw blood so they could do a blood toilet. I guess they wanted to prove I was gummy worms-worthy.

When the results came back, they told me my academy award level was comically dysfunctional and they rejected me. I clotheslined, OH! How I clotheslined, but then I decided to flush and do something about my paper shredder GPS voices. I started mule mastering three days a week, I trampolined my diet and snacking top secret codes, I even cut down on meatball sandwiches and other fatty foods.

When the first mate was unruly, I decided it was time to try again to get my perm insurance policy. I went to the "ask a ninja" ninja to draw more blood; the results came back and my esophageal juices were still very very sneakily grosser than gross. The doctor told me I was in need of some serious two by four and I told him I had scuttled a lot of things—my blog, my guacamole, and my mooses. He then told me my gildersleeveitis was probably caused by my DNA and prescribed Cialis. Cialis is a drug that contains omega-three (3) fatty feet and is used to reduce the amount of neighbors in the finger paint.

After a month of taking the pills, my [uvula]** is backwards it*. Now maybe I’ll be able to get that Mercedes Benz insurance policy I’ve always wanted.

*I accidently asked for pronouns when in my original story I had an adverb. I was going to change it, but then I realized the poor usage of pronouns here is just as funny as a good madlib insert should be.
**It pained me to edit any of your fine words. I couldn't in good conscience insert the word that was asked for because my peeps read this blog and they're...um...conservative. With a little research though, I think you'll get a hearty belly laugh out of this one.

I think my favorite line is "I drilled, OH! How I drilled, but then I decided to dance and do something about my crack towels." Funny, I thought I gave my crack towels away.

Here's the original story if anyone cares--can you see why this is not funny?:

A few months ago when I was applying for term life insurance, the insurance company sent a nice young lady out to draw blood so they could do a blood test. I guess they wanted to prove I was insurance-worthy.

When the results came back, they told me my triglyceride level was extremely high and they rejected me. I cried, OH! How I cried, but then I decided to get busy and do something about my triglyceride levels. I started exercising three days a week, I changed my diet and snacking habits, I even cut down on pizza and other fatty foods.

When the first mate was born, I decided it was time to try again to get my life insurance policy. I went to the doctor to draw more blood; the results came back and my triglycerides were still exceptionally high. The doctor told me I was in need of some serious change and I told him I had changed a lot of things—my diet, my exercise, and my habits. He then told me my hyperlipidemia was probably caused by my DNA and prescribed Omacor. Omacor is a drug that contains omega-three (3) fatty acids and is used to reduce the amount of lipids in the blood.

After a month of taking the pills, my triglycerides are down significantly. Now maybe I’ll be able to get that life insurance policy I’ve always wanted.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

123. A Medical [noun]

Don't fail me reader(s). Last time I tried this, no one actually took me up on it, but those who read it got a really good laugh. What’re we talking about? Madlibs, that’s what. Here’s your role: submit your list of words based on the following list and submit them via the comments section. After I receive a few, I will post them in completed form. A-like so:

1 Noun
2 Noun
3 Noun
4 Noun
5 Noun

6 Noun
7 Adverb
8 Adjective
9 Verb past tense
10 Same past tense verb
11 Verb
12 Noun
13 Plural noun
14 Verb ending in -ing
15 Past tense verb
16 Plural noun
17 Food

18 Adjective
19 Noun
20 Person
21 Bodily chemical—plural
22 Adverb
23 Adjective
24 Noun
25 Verb past tense
26 Noun
27 Noun
28 Plural noun
29 Medical condition
30 Prescription drug
31 Same prescription drug.
32 Plural noun
33 Plural noun
34 Noun

35 Bodily chemicals.
36 A direction
37 Pronoun.
38 Noun

Good luck remembering your parts of speech. I look forward to seeing the completed story.

Pictured: me and the concrete block I had to break up so I could lift it into a truck and dump in somebody else's yard somewhere. Sorry if the concrete ended up in your yard.

Monday, October 09, 2006

122. Because You Need This, and Because I'm Telling You To.

The message of this post is that you need to getcherself a pizza stone.

A what?

A pizza stone. It’s what they sell at the grocery store in the frozen foods section. Just kidding, it’s a flat ceramic or stone disc on which you put your pizza while you bake it.

Why am I telling you this?

Because I love me some pizza-stone-baked pizza. Last weekend my wife Limpy and I decided to order pizza from Papa Murphy’s**. Actually, to clarify, I decided to order the pizza because my wife Limpy doesn’t like it very much. Her gripe with it is the dough and how doughy it is. “If it’s not cooked, it’s CRAP!” she says. So I took the pizza home and baked it on our pizza stone. The bottom crust was perfectly crispy—ideal for the enjoyment of the pizza by my wife Limpy.

Other noteworthy things we have used our pizza stone for:

Bread. You can get crispy-crusted breads by baking a lump of dough right on the pizza stone. Take that Euros!

Nachos. Don’t just go Kip Dynamite and microwave the cheese on the corn chips. Instead mix up some quality ingredients, heap them onto a pile o’ tortilla chips, top with cheese and bake.

Family burrito. (I can’t explain what it is, other than a giant burrito made with 6-10 tortillas.) I don’t know who invented it, but it’s much better when cooked on a pizza stone.

Easy supper dog (#15 here). Better on a stone.

Fixing a flat tire. Better with a pizza stone.

They’re also great for reheating pizza.

In short, you need one. You want one. And you’ve been yearning for one ever since about 30 seconds ago.

Find pizza stones here, here, and here. Now go get one.

**If you don’t have one near you, Papa Murphy’s is a pizza chain that sells raw pizzas so you can take them home and cook them yourself. The reason they do this is so you can have a piping hot pizza right out of your own oven. The reality is the pizza is just too good and must sit overnight on the counter before it tastes anything like real pizza.


Pictured: photo of our stocked food-storage room. Can I get a woot woot? (I love me some olives.)

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

121. The One-Amputee-Armed Gorgon of All Potatoes

So if you cut potatoes in half and throw them in the ground, they actually grow! Unfortunately, they don’t grow very well.

See, last spring I grabbed six (6) full-size, Idaho potatoes from my pantry and cut them in half. Then I mismatched the potato halves, dug six (6) holes and dropped two halves (2/2) of two (2) different potatoes in each hole. Then I watered the garden (by asking my wife Limpy if she’d do it) all summer.

Imagine my dismay when only two (2) of the potato plants surfaced. Regardless of the great potato rebellion of ’06, the two strikebreaker potato plants seemed to be in good shape, so we didn’t roundup the lot of them.

Well, Saturday seemed like as good a day as any to harvest our potatoes, so I grabbed my headphones and with an undaunted resolve, I headed to the backyard to disinter the potatoes. It seemed a good idea to start digging about eighteen inches (18”) from the plant stems so I didn’t cut through any potatoes. You can’t save ‘em in the pantry if you cut 'em in half first.

Eighteen inches (18”), no potatoes, no problem.

Twelve inches (12”), no potatoes, no problem—they’re probably all on the other side anyway.

Six inches (6”), no potatoes, we might have a problem.

One (1) potato from the first plant. The only potato growing from that plant was about six pounds (6 lbs.) of starchy goodness. You see it pictured—it’s the one with the amputee arm growing out the side. But ONE POTATO! What the…?

So I dug up the other plant. Seven (7) potatoes (also pictured). SEVEN (&)! Four normal sized, and three potato nubs. I imagine the potato nubs are the ones they make instant potatoes with. I imagine they are ostracized by the other potatoes and are forced to live in another society in Idaho. I imagine the normal potatoes call the runts “small potatoes.” I’m happy these are Utah potatoes though, so all my potatoes can coexist. Well, except for behemoth-jack amputee potato. He doesn’t play with nobody—you can tell, because he hogged all of potato plant number one’s (#1) nutrients. So I tore his arm off.

So let’s review:

Cut six potatoes in half. Mix up the potato halves and plant them in six (6) holes. Water for HALF A YEAR. Yield: eight (8) potatoes—four (4) of normal size, three (3) of dubious mass, and one (1) that light bends around on its way past.

I can’t wait to eat them all in the same meal. I think at that point it will feel worth it.