Sunday, May 23, 2010

Last Wishes of Mr. P. Tater

Here I lay on this big heap waiting for someone to pick me. Without using actual words, I plead pick me, pick me, each time another person walks up to this huge pile of brown bulk, with odd shaped red colored things on the left and odd shaped goldish colored things on the right. You have no idea of the competition among us; each doing whatever is necessary to be chosen, from rolling over on each other to standing straight up towards the ceiling with all eyes open wide and a grin from one eye to the next that says "I'm the best".
Finally given great honour. I am chosen. Off to new adventures; a new family to call my own and hopefully a nice warm place to rest after such hot competition; no need to worry about not being wanted.
Short ride to my new home; bounced around a bit in this bag; out of the car; up the stairs; home at last! Oh no, my new mom just put me inside this very cold place; I thought sure I would be able to spend my remaining days warm and comfy. Oh well I can only hope now they don't have one of those dreaded things that attack the likes of me; poking, prodding and picking out my eyes; please please spare me that!
Hours pass, it's dark in here, I'm almost frozen when finally the light comes on and gratefully I feel myself being lifted up and out of this cold prison. Warm hands feel so good. I am placed gently down again upon a hard surface; it's very light here; I hear water boiling, sizzling of the frying pan, a ticking sound; I'm in the kitchen. It seems I will soon have served my purpose, hopefully in a dignified manner but alas I note that is not to be either, as I glance over and see it; long, shiny, curved, sharp. As I pleaded to be chosen I now plead to be spared the humility of having my skin cut, sliced, poked. I face the most horrible, dreaded fate of all our species. Shuddering in horror I watch, helpless and defenseless, as she picks it up, presses it against me and begins to take long lines of that tender beautiful tanned skin from my body.
It is an honour for me to provide nourishment to my new family but I was so hoping to be able to do it in my jacket. Why did she have to use that awful gadget on me? Couldn't she have just washed me lovingly, wrapped me in a foil blanket and placed my in the oven?......after all I'm Mr. P. Tater.
Meet Mr. P. Tater (served his family well).
(Writing prompt from

1 comment:

Linda J said...

Love the fun of it! I especially like the line that you repeat at the end... "he served his family well..." lol

mr. p. tater indeed :O