Thank New Daily Show Host Trevor Noah, If You’re 1 Of These 3 Americans!

It’s about TIME! Do you realize how many times I have heard you people speak and wanted to tear my hair out??? A lot, that’s how much! This is why I don’t have the dreadlocks I was destined to have.

{Ben’s Note: Woah, woah, woah! What the fuck do you mean “YOU PEOPLE”?}

Here’s a test. Read the following words out loud: “NIKE”… “AUNT”… “ZEBRA”. Easy, right?

If you’re one of these 3 people, you are “YOU PEOPLE”, and I hate you. Fix Yourself:

1. You read the sports apparel name as “ny-kee”. -_- Oh, you did? When did you learn to ride a “bi-kee”, huh? Think this will get a buncha “li-kees” when you share it with your dumb friends on facebook-ee? WELL, DO YA, PUNK-EE?

2. Your parent’s sister is actually a small disproportionately strong insect. She lives in an ant-hill, and serves the collective will of the colony. Why else would you pronounce her title like that?  You should be pronouncing it like the delicious pastry “croissANT”. On another note, French is idiotic too. Way dumber. Let’s just surrender that battle of pronunciation and hope Americans have a plan to help.

3. Ever met a chick named Debra? I bet you did, and thought “I’ll have NO problem pronouncing THAT girl’s name. Debra… Debra Debra Debra Debraaaaa”  Then, you were smacked in the head with a stupid stick, and when you saw this striped animal, your brain forgot how to pronounce her name, and that’s why you should thank my fellow South African, Trevor Noah for restoring your speech and pathology here:

Potato Of The Day Episode 100

Potato of the Day Episode 1Remember this? Probably not. It’s been a long time. A real long time. That was the FIRST Potato Of The Day. That’s where this nonsense all started. A Snapchat of a Red Idaho Potato just straight chillin’. Remember it now? Remember how I promised that potato wouldn’t go all Drake on us? Remember how I said it’d stay zero forever? Remember that? Well that potato stayed at zero. But you and me? WE MADE TO ONE HUNDRED FUCKING POTATOES. ONE HUNDRED. THAT’S TRIP-DIGITS MOTHAFUCKAS! Give yourself a round of applause. Now point that sound at me. Dude, come on! I’ve earned it.

I know broke some promises along the way. I lied to you a lot. I told you this was POTATO Of The Day, then I threw a bunch of not-potatoes at you. I wrote some fiction. I wrote some gibberish. Hell, I took a stab at haiku. I’d link to those things, but this is the 100th Potato Of The Day. I don’t have to do shit on this on. You can use the search bar for yourself. I also lied about this not going all Drake on our ass. BECAUSE WE WENT 0-100, didn’t we? Nope! Got you! THAT was a lie. We went 1-100. There was never a Potato Of The Day Episode 0, ya dummy.

That very first Potato Of The Day was barely 100 words. Now these things stretch. On Tuesday, I went over 650 words. That’s too many words for a potato. Potatoes can’t read. But you, you CAN read. And for that, I thank you. Thank you for the likes, the shares, the clicks. Thank you for help making these random bursts of insanity worthwhile. Thank you for reading. Not all of them have been great, but it’s great to have you there for all of them.


But thanks. For real. And thank you, Red Idaho Potato. You’re still a goddamned inspiration to us all.

NOBODY Loves Avocados Likes This “Grateful” Kid… NOBODY

1st of all, let’s get one thing straight. NOBODY likes avocados THAT much. We put up with them, for the guacamole. That’s really about it. Ben pointed out with a Potato Of The Day 47 how Big Avocado is hard at work in the slimy, disgusting business. The ruse clearly got to THIS toddler. Here’s several reasons why I call B.S. 😉 on this reaction:

a)Kids are anti-veggies AS IS. Don’t believe me? Please, tell me how you would pitch AVOCADO to a kid. Where do you start? Is it the great bland taste? The slimey green nothingness? Hm?

ii) It’s the kid’s BIRTHDAY. Remember those? They came once a year, and the whole world would stop to recognize your existence at least for a song, and until you had no more cake to feed the fake excitement? Despite all the hoopla, it’s fair to expect a TREAT to your desires on that one day. Anything ranging from a toy car, trip to Chuck-E-Cheese (IN THE BAHAMAS), or maybe a U.S. Green Card would be acceptable. But, AN AVOCADO? GTFOH!

3) That kid’s either a future Academy Award winning actor, or he is an informed idiot.  He clearly passed the “gratitude test” (which, btw WTF kinda draconian parenting trick was that, DAD OF THE YEAR?). More notably, the kid’s 5 TOPS… WHY and HOW does he know what an avocado IS? AT WHAT POINT in his life so far has anyone brought him THAT useless piece of information? Watch the video and judge for yourselves.

Potato Of The Day Episode 50

whitesweetpotatoglowHave you ever woken up in a dream, unsure if you were really conscious or still floating around the nightly ethereal clouds? I have. It happened last night. During my peaceful slumber, a brightness pierced through my nocturnal veil, a glowing point of snowy sheen, boiling back shadows, a twinkling spray of illumination. It blanketed everything around me, taking it all to itself, absorbing completely. I tried to open my eyes. But I couldn’t. It was too bright. It was too white.

My eyes stayed frozen shut as the light took form, settling into a familiar shape, becoming solid. How I know this without seeing, I couldn’t tell. The world shifts in different ways at night. Perhaps my heightened state of awareness provided me a sixth level of sense, a knowing. Perhaps there was no light at all. Perhaps it really was all just a dream. Still, I knew without knowing how I knew that a figure was there. And without opening an eye, I could see.

Clad in white, a Sweet Potato rose above me, casting beams of warmth, cascading love, carefully targeted flowing energy. It washed over me, holding me captive, not against my will, but against my desires. I lacked any need to move, I was free and unfree. Enslaved in ecstasy. Yet, still numb and infinite. I waited. It wasn’t my turn to act.

It spoke.

“Fifty times now you’ve dreamt my dreams. Fifty times now you’ve seen. And with no thanks, no appeasement to your muse, your creative tributary veins, you still plow forth. What would you say to me now if you were awake, what would you say to my great, white light? What would you say if I never returned?”

It stopped talking, anticipating reply. Still I didn’t act. I didn’t move. I didn’t respond. I simply stayed, absorbing as much of its white light as I could. In frustrated angst, it started to bend, blinking strobes in and out of existence, weakening itself. I continued to do nothing. I continued to wait. It couldn’t stand my indifference. It began to waver. Then without warning, it wordlessly washed out in one last brilliant spray, caving in, dimming out its light.

As it faded away, retreating back into my mind’s dark trap, I peeked open an eye, a tiny squint braced against the smoldering glow, whispering after it, “Fuck you, Sweet Potato.” And then I slept.

Potato Of The Day Episode 40

raisins in the sunLordy, lordy look who’s forty! Seriously forty of these… that’s a whole new layer of insanity for me. When we started this blog, Siya told me I wouldn’t make it past the first week doing Potato Of The Day. WELL LOL AT YOUR FACE SIYA. HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW, HUH, PUNK? HOW ABOUT THEM RAISINS?
{Siya’s note: Ben, umma let you finish but, that’s just not the saying}

You know those times in your life where you just kind of go through the motions while waiting for something better to happen? This post is one of those times. I mean yeah, it’s the 40th Potato Of The Day. But 40 isn’t that great of a number, unless you’re talking malt liquor. 40 is just arbitrary milestone, a rest-stop on the highway of life where you can pat yourself on the back, think back on your legacy, and ponder where the fuck you’re actually going with this post. Honestly, I can smell that three day Memorial weekend. It’s tantalizingly close. It’s like, half a day away you guys. Why are we still staring at these damn screens, these infernal flaming LCDs! Why?!

Let’s all shout a collective fuck it, and join those raisins in the sun. Fuck these cubicles and office buildings, fuck walls and ceilings, fuck small talk and work memos. Fuck it all. Let’s run away together. You, me, those partially in-focus raisins. Let’s just drink up the weekend, swallow the sun, digest the outdoors. This isn’t a want. This is NEED. You need it. I need it. We need it.

If you’re a boss and you’re reading this right now, let your employees go! (Meaning let them go home, don’t go General Sherman on the bridges that are your employees bro. Not cool.) Free them out into the wild! Let them live! I mean seriously, how fucking productive do you really think anyone is being right now? It’s seconds to midnight on the weekend doomsday clock. Generous rounding has us there already. Do your best Moses, bossman. LET MY PEOPLE GO.

And to the rest of you, deep breaths. You’re almost there. We’re almost there. We’ll soon be dried up grapes baking in the sun. Together. Here’s to us. Here’s to 40. Here’s to freedom.

Potato Of The Day Episode 39

carrotknifefightI’m not sure of a lot of things in life, but I am sure of this: I could kick this baby carrot’s ass in a knife fight. Now, I definitely have never been in an actual knife fight before. And I definitely don’t have any advanced knowledge of combat blade techniques. There aren’t many men dead or alive against whom I’d be favored in a dagger to the death doomsday scenario. Hell, I’m not entirely sure I could tell to bet the home team in a Ben vs. human baby gambling spread. There are just too many reasons to bet against me. I have poor hand-eye coordination. I once accidentally threw a throwing knife over the top of a tree. I’ve received stitches several times from wildly rampant and irresponsible aim during vegetable dicing. But, fuck that carrot. I could beat that carrot.

Most baby carrots aren’t even real baby carrots. They’re baby cut carrots, meaning they were once fully grown carrots that were sawed down into miniature replicas of their former adult glory. So see that carrot? That carrot’s already a loser. That carrot is a piece of processed produce failure. Society already looked at that carrot and said, “Naw bro, we want you to be smaller.” It’s already lost the most important knife fight of its short lived existence. It doesn’t have the gumption to get up for an edged death wrestle. It’s content to just wait for death by dental disintegration or vegetative rot.  That’s how just how it goes for baby carrots. Because, again, they’re losers, not babies at all.

I mean let’s be real here. What’s that baby carrot going to do? Sprout hands? Become self-aware? Run off to the South American grasslands? Meet a mystical gaucho trained in weaponized hand to hand to combat? Learn the ways of Esgrima Criolla large blade fighting? Become a master of sharpened death? Return to the States emboldened by the spirit of the Pampas? Challenge me in the street? Rain steel upon my body? Walk away wordlessly while I curse its orange name with my last dying breath? Retire to a sanctuary on a Nepalese mountainside? Meditate on the emotional and spiritual cost of taking a life? Be interrupted one day by another rooted, vengeful vegetable? Teach that rutabaga how to avenge the loss of its family? Become emotionally invested in seeking justice? Die a gallant, heroic death saving the rutabaga? Float off into the cosmic ethers, having received true enlightenment and purpose? Reincarnate as a god? End war and destruction? Bring true, lasting peace to the universe?

Fuck, no! It’s a carrot. Don’t be ridiculous. I could definitely beat it in a knife fight.

Potato Of The Day Episode 38

broccoliartBroccoli is that dude/female dude that shows up one day with an alien abduction haircut, a shear and gel follicle sculpture spray painted deep shades of decidedly non-hair spectrum colors, twisting and twirling designs clipped, trimmed, and burnt into the grass surrounding the cranial vault. You know the type of haircut I’m talking about. The type of haircut that gets grandpa hot and bothered, boiling to the point where he whistles gentle racist whispers to himself about the Vietcong. The type of haircut Dennis Rodman births in his wet dreams, dreadlocked delusions escaping the nocturnal world, driving wildly through reality in a tie-dyed minivan on a road of acid gummy bears.  The type of haircut that latches into your mind, a parasitic eraser, wiping clean your ability to think of anything else.

You kind of hate it the first time you see it. You murmur “douchebag” to yourself. You laugh. But deep down, deep down you wish you have the small-intestinal fortitude to actually brand your skull that way. Shh, no, no. It’s okay. I’m that way, too. We’re all that way, the large majority of us. We’re not the chosen ones. We’re not the flowering broccoli heads of the world. We’re the practical people. We’re the rational. The sane. The ones who’d keep their hallucinatory hairs in the imagination cloud storage where they belong.

Oh sure, we can veer from our lanes you and I. I did once. And I missed the mark. I had a barber carve a Nike swoosh into the back of my head as a child, a furry homage to Michael Jordan and my love of commercialized factory fabrications. Yes, I branded myself with a brand in a vapid, desperate attempt at artistic stylization. You know what that resulted in? Nothing. Because hollow, imitated art isn’t art at all. It’s a forgery. It’s inorganic. It’s not befitting of Broccoli.

So Broccoli, you know what, keep doing your thing. Keep spraying your artistic insanity across the world, bathing the lot of us normal folk in your hairy holy water. Keep living your life with lusting locks. Keep doing you.  Because that’s the Broccoli way. Someday, I hope I can say it’s the Ben way, too.