The Secret Society of Artificial Potatoes is proving to be quite voluminous in their correspondence with us here at the Federal Bureau of Foreign Culinary Relations. We received another letter just today:
As you surely know from my previous proclamation, I represent the Secret of Artificial Potatoes. You recently dismissed my concerns about the well-being of artificial potatoes, and in doing so, you have succeeded in raising the ire of artificial potatoes throughout the world. Your likenesses, at least as they are imagined by artificial potatoes, have been burned in effigy and your names are second only to “yam” as the worst profanities in the artificial potato vernacular. Nevertheless, I’m writing to you one last time to see if you will change your minds.
As you can see, our situation has worsened significantly since my last letter. Our enormous red-chili feet have been painfully jammed into shoes that are eight sizes too small, apparently because consumers were disturbed by the sight of enormous red-chili feet. We’re also being forced to wear an onion hat and onion rings while we desperately try to juggle cloves of garlic. Can you imagine how hard it is to juggle garlic while your feet are being crushed? And did you know they Photoshop our tears out of the picture so we look happy? Of course we’re crying; our feet hurt and our clothes are made of onions. There’s also the matter of those skimpy onion rings that barely cover our potato parts. It’s downright humiliating.
I strongly advise you to take our plight seriously and not continue to dismiss our dilemma. I have managed to prevent the other artificial potatoes from declaring all-out war on you, but I doubt I can control their wrath if you refuse to help us yet again.
T. Thomas Tuber
I’ve been held captive by talking fish. I’ve been stalked by a vast soursop conspiracy. In fact, I’ve been stalked by the Vast Soursop Conspiracy. I’ve had to defend myself against (former) East Mangoustani assassins using only soap bubbles. Wong Lo Kat sends me threatening-yet-flirtatious text messages in the middle of the night. And to top it all off, Croatian clowns are trying to break down my door right now. Clowns, from Croatia, who probably want to make me into some new, mysterious chocolate flavor. They’re coming to get me, right this moment. I can’t sleep because the clowns will eat me.
You, on the other hand, are not even a real potato. Not. Even. A. Real. Potato. Write me back when you’re being cyber-bullied by the leader of the worldwide kung-fu cat mafia. Because that is a legitimate problem.
Mildly negative wishes,