Holey, Holey, Hoooley, Taaater Almiiighty.

Po-tate-o, po-tot-o, I can't call the whole thing off.

To make all yon readers aware, today's entry will be far more video-based than any other previous entry. This is mainly due to the great links friends and family have been sending me and I wanted to share with all of you in between my ramblings. You have been made aware. Knowledge is power!

I've come to the realization that I've had some sort of religious obsession with potatoes for quite some time now. I've had friends that have been nice enough to make me aware of this fact. They have kindly pushed certain videos in my way so that I've finally had to face this addiction. I think "Dinosaurs" has expressed it best.

Honestly, if you don't want to watch the whole eight minutes, don't. 3:09 through the end of the little TV program was what I laughed at. :)




So, I've been practicing Potatoism for some time now and am a rather jubilant convert. I mean, just look at our hymns. Who wouldn't want to sing something like this?



To close this session we've had together, I'd like to ask that you all please rise for the for the Potato's Prayer.

Our Potato,
Who art on our plate,
Hollowed be thine insides.
Thy mush be stuffed,
Inside mine gut,
From earth though it tastes like heaven.
Give us this day, alongside bread,
all fortified nutrients,
so that our colons won't trespass against us.

Lead chefs not into small platefuls,
just deliver you; we'll eat full.
For thine is the mushroom, cream sour, and bacon,
for ever and ever.
Say when!

Ah, soul food. I know I feel better. How 'bout you?

To science!

Height: the majestic 5'0" of a choir director.
Weight: the 123 lbs of the Holy of Holies.

Next stop, the Pope Mobile,

Rini

P.S. - How I felt trying to write the Potato's Prayer:


Now that it's over, I really like it. Like the girl at the end. In the middle was me in the middle. You get the picture.

Is It Still a Stalk If He Can't Walk?

I miss the potatoes.

The halfway mark was yesterday. I think my stomach may be slowly imploding and/or devolving into a black hole of some sort. In order to attempt to supplement my dire need for crunchy things, I've turned to celery, which isn't nearly as salty or as tasty as Mr. Lay, but I thought I'd give him a chance.

Celery and I have known each other from near infancy. Or rather, my near infancy; he's much, much older than me, but I've been told that he's really quite a catch so I'm trying not to mind. After all, he's tall, slim, has a bunch of friends (which really speaks well of him, I must say), and has very strong fiber of being. A true gent with undeniable freshness.

He's not nearly as fun as Mr. Lay, though. He doesn't dress as nicely. His hair is always askew. Many times he's rather dirty. It takes some work to really make him enjoyable. Is he really worth the effort? I'm sure all the doctors and fitness trainers are nodding their heads "yes", but I am no physician. Mr. Lay comes ready to go, and, most of the time, I don't want to take all the steps necessary to make Celery edible. I have to wash him. Come on. Isn't that something you do after you've been married all of your life and the other partner can't do it anymore? Isn't our relationship a little premature to involve sponge baths at this point?

No matter the way I slice it, poor Celery can't seem to measure up. Celery fries, Celery cubes, Celery...celery sticks. He tries to spice things up with peanut butter, but honestly, it's just not doing it for me. Geez. Mr. Lay comes in barbecue. Sour cream and cheddar. He can be wavy OR un-wavy. Celery is just... a crunchy stick. It's not his fault. He was just born that way. I just hope he doesn't end up stalking me after all of this is over.

Only two more weeks, Mr. Lay! Two more weeks of this painful separation, and then... the rest of our lives.

Science is for those bold of heart!

Height: a rather dashing 5'0".
Weight: a delicious 124 lbs of cupcakian wonder.

Yes, I said "cupcakian". I just made it up this very moment. I'm assuming it is one who either is or is among the cupcakes. Your challenge is to use it tomorrow in everyday conversation. i.e.: "My word! That purse is so very cupcakian! Wherever did you get it?"

Ever so pleased to expand your vocabulary,

Rini

Home, Home On the Range.

I love potatas! And commercial breaks (when they're silly, that is).

Here's a word from our friendly sponsors at Tate's Ranch!

Howdy, folks, and welcome to the hard, hard life of a potato cowhand.

We are the "Ranch" in yer Ranch Dressing. If you've got the dips, we've got the chips. Here at Tate's Ranch, we hand-raise your potaters in free-roamin' envir'nments, providin' the greenest 'xperience they could poss'bly have. We're as green as a Grinch in a cabbage patch on Christmas. We're as green as a gecko bathin' in green beans. We're as green as a hippie with a recyclin' symbol tattooed to his o' her forehead. Green. Like money.

We even get yer potatoes nice, healthy exercise by chasing 'em around with a lasso.

So make sure that you're gettin' your potaters from Tate's ranch, where a happy potater, is a mashed potater.

A horrible commercial, I know, but I don't have too many other sponsors. At least they mentioned the Grinch and got me into the Christmas spirit! There's something I have to look forward to, since Thanksgiving will obviously not be the same without Mr. Lay and his family and friends. Oh well. I'm going to have to come to terms with this at some point! (Or deny it forever. But who's keeping track? *shrugs*)

Make with the science, already!

Height: the rip-snortin' 5'0" of a thoroughbred cowgirl.
Weight: a grand and mighty 124 lbs, and that was after eating like 3 tacos.

...now I want Ranch Dressing. Sheesh. If Mr. Lay was a cowboy, he'd serenade me by a campfire with a guitar and give me wildflowers he'd picked fresh on the job, not torment me with thoughts of Ranch flavored Ruffles. Well, this is the half-way mark. Not too much longer shall we be apart!

'Til next time, cowpoke,

Rini