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This whole story refers to the ultimate question: Can you own a potato?
The original answer to this very serious matter was devised by the ancient Greeks who felt, on a whole, that is it virtually impossible to own a potato unless you have grown it yourself from seed.
One instance, which you will all remember of course is the infamous fable of Dave Capsiari. Dave, or crab face as his close friends liked to call him, would often swim semi-naked in pools of a blue liquid called shawadywady for thrupney-bits.
On one occasion however, the shawadywady had all but disappeared. Improvising, Dave immediately rushed to his local Jessops to buy a potato. On arrival he was informed by the shopkeeper, who spoke in, for some reason, a heavy Jamaican accent, although he was clearly from Canada and was therefore a little hot in Greece, of the fact that he was not wearing any clothes, and that he was in a camera shop, not a super marché. The accent on the e, he thought, confirmed his suspicions that the shop keeper was not Jamaican. He decided to hold up the store screaming about how Canadians and French people are actually the same. The only exception to this rule is, of course, Celine Dion, who, although claiming she is French-Canadian, is actually a yellow-brown cockroach-cum-seal-boy-rat-face.
After an intense three-day siege, Dave was ready to give up. He had taken fifteen rolls of film containing nothing but shots of his tightly-clenched buttocks and had them all developed by a friendly assistant named Terl. Little did anyone know he didn't actually have a gun but instead an oversized novelty phone secreted away in the Canadians Jockstrap, which was just as frightening. Even the Canadian was unaware of this piece of information, which was surprising, even though he was no longer wearing said item of clothing for it had been mysteriously removed in a shipping accident last spring.
Dave, feeling the cold from lack of potato's and sleep, put his hands in his pockets, and felt a strange object at the bottom. Stroking it gently with his butter-covered knees, he finally discovered, after many hours of deliberation and several hearings later, that it was in fact, a new potato. Thrilled with this news, he leapt in the air. His manhood flung dangerously in the air and smacked Terl in face. The impact of this caused him to explode in the usual casual fashion. The police, who were obviously dressed in leopard skin thongs, á lá Cat Slater, as was the style at the time, stormed the building. A short, fat one named Bunty, visually proved that Terl was dead by slapping him about his naked body repeatedly with his manhood, which was quite a feat, considering its size.
After much deliberation, they decided amongst themselves that Dave had died of Hysterical Pregnacy, and had transformed into a new potato. He had, in fact, ran out of the door when they stormed the place, as the smoke blocked them from seeing. Dave was blind so he knew his was by smelling a rat he had planted several days earlier in a fish and chip shop.
Dave decided to flee the country and settled down with a wife, kids and dog (all the same person) in a small shanty town on the outskirts of Cape Town. He made his way violently robbing any passersby while his wife-cum-kids-cum-dog wondered if it was only shepherd's pie in their knickers or did the shepherd's pie have a few mateys.
Dave's parents, oblivious to the fact that their beloved son hand actually escapes out a back passage, treated the new potato as their son and visited him regularly in prison (when it wasn't in solitary for violating the monkey in the shower)
One day however, disaster struck when the potato casually exploded into a fine quality mash mixture. On hearing this news, the parents rushed to the prison hospital only to find they were too late for he had already died. It was a sad day for Dave's parent's, who were still unaware that he was busy having the time of his life molesting young seagulls when they thought he was dead. The day was made even worse when the prison warden refused Dave's parents access to the corpse for he had "special needs and duties he had to perform".
Five days later the warden and the potato had mysteriously vanished off the face of the earth. The parent's sued the government for all they're worth and lived happily ever after racing young virgin hamsters in a small pub just south of Donegal.
T
he moral of this story is, you can't like own a potato.
The original answer to this very serious matter was devised by the ancient Greeks who felt, on a whole, that is it virtually impossible to own a potato unless you have grown it yourself from seed.
One instance, which you will all remember of course is the infamous fable of Dave Capsiari. Dave, or crab face as his close friends liked to call him, would often swim semi-naked in pools of a blue liquid called shawadywady for thrupney-bits.
On one occasion however, the shawadywady had all but disappeared. Improvising, Dave immediately rushed to his local Jessops to buy a potato. On arrival he was informed by the shopkeeper, who spoke in, for some reason, a heavy Jamaican accent, although he was clearly from Canada and was therefore a little hot in Greece, of the fact that he was not wearing any clothes, and that he was in a camera shop, not a super marché. The accent on the e, he thought, confirmed his suspicions that the shop keeper was not Jamaican. He decided to hold up the store screaming about how Canadians and French people are actually the same. The only exception to this rule is, of course, Celine Dion, who, although claiming she is French-Canadian, is actually a yellow-brown cockroach-cum-seal-boy-rat-face.
After an intense three-day siege, Dave was ready to give up. He had taken fifteen rolls of film containing nothing but shots of his tightly-clenched buttocks and had them all developed by a friendly assistant named Terl. Little did anyone know he didn't actually have a gun but instead an oversized novelty phone secreted away in the Canadians Jockstrap, which was just as frightening. Even the Canadian was unaware of this piece of information, which was surprising, even though he was no longer wearing said item of clothing for it had been mysteriously removed in a shipping accident last spring.
Dave, feeling the cold from lack of potato's and sleep, put his hands in his pockets, and felt a strange object at the bottom. Stroking it gently with his butter-covered knees, he finally discovered, after many hours of deliberation and several hearings later, that it was in fact, a new potato. Thrilled with this news, he leapt in the air. His manhood flung dangerously in the air and smacked Terl in face. The impact of this caused him to explode in the usual casual fashion. The police, who were obviously dressed in leopard skin thongs, á lá Cat Slater, as was the style at the time, stormed the building. A short, fat one named Bunty, visually proved that Terl was dead by slapping him about his naked body repeatedly with his manhood, which was quite a feat, considering its size.
After much deliberation, they decided amongst themselves that Dave had died of Hysterical Pregnacy, and had transformed into a new potato. He had, in fact, ran out of the door when they stormed the place, as the smoke blocked them from seeing. Dave was blind so he knew his was by smelling a rat he had planted several days earlier in a fish and chip shop.
Dave decided to flee the country and settled down with a wife, kids and dog (all the same person) in a small shanty town on the outskirts of Cape Town. He made his way violently robbing any passersby while his wife-cum-kids-cum-dog wondered if it was only shepherd's pie in their knickers or did the shepherd's pie have a few mateys.
Dave's parents, oblivious to the fact that their beloved son hand actually escapes out a back passage, treated the new potato as their son and visited him regularly in prison (when it wasn't in solitary for violating the monkey in the shower)
One day however, disaster struck when the potato casually exploded into a fine quality mash mixture. On hearing this news, the parents rushed to the prison hospital only to find they were too late for he had already died. It was a sad day for Dave's parent's, who were still unaware that he was busy having the time of his life molesting young seagulls when they thought he was dead. The day was made even worse when the prison warden refused Dave's parents access to the corpse for he had "special needs and duties he had to perform".
Five days later the warden and the potato had mysteriously vanished off the face of the earth. The parent's sued the government for all they're worth and lived happily ever after racing young virgin hamsters in a small pub just south of Donegal.
T
he moral of this story is, you can't like own a potato.
Evidently it wasn't, winning GAD and all.
So, JBH, what game are you getting me?
So, JBH, what game are you getting me?
So, echoing my matey WS
"this is vastly underrated"
"this is vastly underrated"
?
But of course. How could I forget?
Surrealism walks into town on its head and spanks the monkey. Excellent!
This is great, however I am thinking far too heavily about my impending carrot mash to actually have any to say about it.
This whole story refers to the ultimate question: Can you own a potato?
The original answer to this very serious matter was devised by the ancient Greeks who felt, on a whole, that is it virtually impossible to own a potato unless you have grown it yourself from seed.
One instance, which you will all remember of course is the infamous fable of Dave Capsiari. Dave, or crab face as his close friends liked to call him, would often swim semi-naked in pools of a blue liquid called shawadywady for thrupney-bits.
On one occasion however, the shawadywady had all but disappeared. Improvising, Dave immediately rushed to his local Jessops to buy a potato. On arrival he was informed by the shopkeeper, who spoke in, for some reason, a heavy Jamaican accent, although he was clearly from Canada and was therefore a little hot in Greece, of the fact that he was not wearing any clothes, and that he was in a camera shop, not a super marché. The accent on the e, he thought, confirmed his suspicions that the shop keeper was not Jamaican. He decided to hold up the store screaming about how Canadians and French people are actually the same. The only exception to this rule is, of course, Celine Dion, who, although claiming she is French-Canadian, is actually a yellow-brown cockroach-cum-seal-boy-rat-face.
After an intense three-day siege, Dave was ready to give up. He had taken fifteen rolls of film containing nothing but shots of his tightly-clenched buttocks and had them all developed by a friendly assistant named Terl. Little did anyone know he didn't actually have a gun but instead an oversized novelty phone secreted away in the Canadians Jockstrap, which was just as frightening. Even the Canadian was unaware of this piece of information, which was surprising, even though he was no longer wearing said item of clothing for it had been mysteriously removed in a shipping accident last spring.
Dave, feeling the cold from lack of potato's and sleep, put his hands in his pockets, and felt a strange object at the bottom. Stroking it gently with his butter-covered knees, he finally discovered, after many hours of deliberation and several hearings later, that it was in fact, a new potato. Thrilled with this news, he leapt in the air. His manhood flung dangerously in the air and smacked Terl in face. The impact of this caused him to explode in the usual casual fashion. The police, who were obviously dressed in leopard skin thongs, á lá Cat Slater, as was the style at the time, stormed the building. A short, fat one named Bunty, visually proved that Terl was dead by slapping him about his naked body repeatedly with his manhood, which was quite a feat, considering its size.
After much deliberation, they decided amongst themselves that Dave had died of Hysterical Pregnacy, and had transformed into a new potato. He had, in fact, ran out of the door when they stormed the place, as the smoke blocked them from seeing. Dave was blind so he knew his was by smelling a rat he had planted several days earlier in a fish and chip shop.
Dave decided to flee the country and settled down with a wife, kids and dog (all the same person) in a small shanty town on the outskirts of Cape Town. He made his way violently robbing any passersby while his wife-cum-kids-cum-dog wondered if it was only shepherd's pie in their knickers or did the shepherd's pie have a few mateys.
Dave's parents, oblivious to the fact that their beloved son hand actually escapes out a back passage, treated the new potato as their son and visited him regularly in prison (when it wasn't in solitary for violating the monkey in the shower)
One day however, disaster struck when the potato casually exploded into a fine quality mash mixture. On hearing this news, the parents rushed to the prison hospital only to find they were too late for he had already died. It was a sad day for Dave's parent's, who were still unaware that he was busy having the time of his life molesting young seagulls when they thought he was dead. The day was made even worse when the prison warden refused Dave's parents access to the corpse for he had "special needs and duties he had to perform".
Five days later the warden and the potato had mysteriously vanished off the face of the earth. The parent's sued the government for all they're worth and lived happily ever after racing young virgin hamsters in a small pub just south of Donegal.
T
he moral of this story is, you can't like own a potato.
The original answer to this very serious matter was devised by the ancient Greeks who felt, on a whole, that is it virtually impossible to own a potato unless you have grown it yourself from seed.
One instance, which you will all remember of course is the infamous fable of Dave Capsiari. Dave, or crab face as his close friends liked to call him, would often swim semi-naked in pools of a blue liquid called shawadywady for thrupney-bits.
On one occasion however, the shawadywady had all but disappeared. Improvising, Dave immediately rushed to his local Jessops to buy a potato. On arrival he was informed by the shopkeeper, who spoke in, for some reason, a heavy Jamaican accent, although he was clearly from Canada and was therefore a little hot in Greece, of the fact that he was not wearing any clothes, and that he was in a camera shop, not a super marché. The accent on the e, he thought, confirmed his suspicions that the shop keeper was not Jamaican. He decided to hold up the store screaming about how Canadians and French people are actually the same. The only exception to this rule is, of course, Celine Dion, who, although claiming she is French-Canadian, is actually a yellow-brown cockroach-cum-seal-boy-rat-face.
After an intense three-day siege, Dave was ready to give up. He had taken fifteen rolls of film containing nothing but shots of his tightly-clenched buttocks and had them all developed by a friendly assistant named Terl. Little did anyone know he didn't actually have a gun but instead an oversized novelty phone secreted away in the Canadians Jockstrap, which was just as frightening. Even the Canadian was unaware of this piece of information, which was surprising, even though he was no longer wearing said item of clothing for it had been mysteriously removed in a shipping accident last spring.
Dave, feeling the cold from lack of potato's and sleep, put his hands in his pockets, and felt a strange object at the bottom. Stroking it gently with his butter-covered knees, he finally discovered, after many hours of deliberation and several hearings later, that it was in fact, a new potato. Thrilled with this news, he leapt in the air. His manhood flung dangerously in the air and smacked Terl in face. The impact of this caused him to explode in the usual casual fashion. The police, who were obviously dressed in leopard skin thongs, á lá Cat Slater, as was the style at the time, stormed the building. A short, fat one named Bunty, visually proved that Terl was dead by slapping him about his naked body repeatedly with his manhood, which was quite a feat, considering its size.
After much deliberation, they decided amongst themselves that Dave had died of Hysterical Pregnacy, and had transformed into a new potato. He had, in fact, ran out of the door when they stormed the place, as the smoke blocked them from seeing. Dave was blind so he knew his was by smelling a rat he had planted several days earlier in a fish and chip shop.
Dave decided to flee the country and settled down with a wife, kids and dog (all the same person) in a small shanty town on the outskirts of Cape Town. He made his way violently robbing any passersby while his wife-cum-kids-cum-dog wondered if it was only shepherd's pie in their knickers or did the shepherd's pie have a few mateys.
Dave's parents, oblivious to the fact that their beloved son hand actually escapes out a back passage, treated the new potato as their son and visited him regularly in prison (when it wasn't in solitary for violating the monkey in the shower)
One day however, disaster struck when the potato casually exploded into a fine quality mash mixture. On hearing this news, the parents rushed to the prison hospital only to find they were too late for he had already died. It was a sad day for Dave's parent's, who were still unaware that he was busy having the time of his life molesting young seagulls when they thought he was dead. The day was made even worse when the prison warden refused Dave's parents access to the corpse for he had "special needs and duties he had to perform".
Five days later the warden and the potato had mysteriously vanished off the face of the earth. The parent's sued the government for all they're worth and lived happily ever after racing young virgin hamsters in a small pub just south of Donegal.
T
he moral of this story is, you can't like own a potato.