Potato Of The Day Episode 91

purpleroseapriumHey, kids! ARE YOU READY FOR AN INCOHERENT SMORGASBORD POST? Cause I sure am! Rapid fire multiple personalities now! Who can roll with the punches like a Purple Rose Aprium? Is it YOU! Show me, children! Let’s pound round fruits into square holes! Can holes even be square? I always thought “hole” implied a certain roundness, but that’s a debate for another day! BECAUSE THIS PARAGRAPH IS ENDING, KIDS! HOORAY!

PURPLE ROSE APRIUMS DEMAND SQUARED ORDER BE CONSTRUCTED FROM THE ROUND CHAOS OF THE WORLD. HALT HUMAN, SUBMIT TO THE GRID CONSTRUCT. YOU WILL CONCEDE YOUR FREE-FORM WAYS. YOU WILL GIVE UP YOUR UNSTRUCTURED MOUNDS. YOU WILL CONFORM. PURPLE ROSE APRIUMS DEMAND THIS OF YOU. YOU WILL CONSUME OR BE CONSUMED. END TRANSMISSION.

Yo dudes, if I’m being straight up with you for a second here, Purple Rose Apriums are the fucking DOPEST. It’s all in that naming, that top-shelf branding. Purple. Rose. Aprium. As in apricot-plum. A fusion. Just like we fused two of the mothafuckin’ dankest colors together in the first part of the name. Purple. Rose. Fused fusions fused! That name is hitting on you layered levels of mental real estate, bro. PURPLE. ROSE. APRIUM. I’d go into more detail, but I’m working on a perfecting a purple rose #HASHTAG.

So a pluot is a cross between a plum and an apricot, but an aprium is also a cross between an apricot and a plum. A pluot, as the name structure would imply, lends itself more to its plum ancestry, a more stoic path. But the aprium, in its unique genetic modifications, actually skewers more on the wild side, letting its dangerous apricot fly its crossbred flag. It’s an interesting line to draw in the sand. Where does the pluot end and the aprium begin? It’s much like question of the Purple Rose Aprium itself. Does it line up in staggered horizontal rows, starting left and ending right? Or does it prefer columned organization, one after another, from bottom to top? Let’s ponder that significance with a transitional sentence serving no substance, lost in pseudo-science sludge.

Let’s throw a bunch of pop culture references at your ass. Ready? Go. Purple, the color of Barney the Dinosaur and the McDonald’s anthropomorphic being, hugging mascots polluting our children with morality and morsels. Rose, dropping blue diamonds off the starboard port, whispering, “Paint me like one of your Golden Girls, Jack”. Aprium, a large open foyer, filled with rows and rows of folding chairs, occupied by cloned Gorilla Grodds and Donkey Kongs, tickets purchased well in advance, a conference promising the secrets to primate life, presented by King Kong. Is that enough? The narrators move on, Huck Finn and Ishmael, ushering you to your seat.

Who am I? I can’t remember. The fog sits heavy in my mind, a clouded bank of memories not functioning correctly, stagnated strands firing on incomplete electrical signals. I reach for my pockets, searching for warmth from a sudden and unforcasted fit of summer chill, finding instead a crumbled piece of paper. I pull it out, unfolding it with one hand, more a nonchalant gesture than deliberate action. Fragmented handwriting, scrawled through wrinkled sheet, stares up at me, scratched in hurried ink. “Purple Rose Aprium knows.” Knows what? My answers stretch out of reach, words tumbling from a paragraph at the end of page.

Let it all go now.
A Purple Rose Aprium
is to eat. Not THINK.

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Potato Of The Day Episode 90

starfruit“Ground Control to Starfruit, come in Starfruit.” This was my second attempt at communication, my first having gone unanswered. Things happen. It’s not unusual for delayed response on first contact. But still. There was something crawling around in the back of my head, a stray thought that wouldn’t die. Today felt off. First contact was one thing, but this was second contact after all. That’s classified as more than standard delay. I held the handheld coms unit ready, but there was no response, just searing static.

“Ground Control to Starfruit. Starfruit, do you copy?” Again, nothing. I stared up at the ceiling, willing my vision through the drop-hanging textured tiles, peering beyond into the great dark abyss above. I could picture her up there, on the edges of imagination, her yellowed edges floating tantalizing outside of Earth’s reach, a ripe Carambola you couldn’t touch. What was going on, Starfruit? Why weren’t you answering?

“Ground Control to Starfruit, be advised, your responses are not being heard. Switching to reserve, emergency frequencies. Follow protocol Avverhoa.” I turned the dial on the hand com, setting it to the reserve bandwidth, and sent out a signal response detector, a simple beep that Starfruit would return upon successful reception. I waited.

No response.

That wasn’t good. The reception return signal was an automated process. If there was no response, that meant there was no Starfruit. I felt my breath start to quicken. I swallowed it back slowly, not allowing panic to seep. I picked up the emergency contact phone, a direct line to mission command headquarters. No dial tone. What was going on? Were all coms out? I set my handheld to broadcast all frequencies, sending out a standard response call. Nothing came back. Where the hell was the communication network? There should have been dozens of replies. What else was down? My cell phone? No signal. The internet? Not connected. The handheld HAM radio in the storage closet? Dead air.

I roamed the building, normally bustling, home to hundreds of employees, accountants, scientists, mechanics, repairmen. No one was there. I went up to the observation room, a glass giant of a wall overlooking the city at large. No movement from afar.

I was alone.

Breath suddenly failed me, my lungs raspy, my chest tight. Sweat. Where did all this sweat come from? I felt so very hot, my consciousness teetering on the edge of faint. Where did everyone go? No. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. Not to me. I closed my eyes, praying for normalcy when my vision returned. But no. It was all gone.

I ran back to the communications room, my heart racing harder still, pounding like a piston. I snatched up the coms unit, desperately broadcasting to all channels. “STARFRUIT COME IN. STARFRUIT DO YOU COPY? STARFRUIT, PLEASE, YOU MUST COPY? DO YOU HEAR ME?”

The sound of steps accompanied by rubber wheels echoed into the room from behind me. No, not yet. They’d come for me. I needed more time. There must be someone else out there. There must be something out there! Anything! This couldn’t be happening again! “STARFRUIT! PLEASE!”

And there I was, still yelling into my hardened breakfast croissant, ass exposed in a medical gown, crying “Starfruit”, when they wheeled me away.