Potato Of The Day Episode 65

purplecauliflowerNote: Everything in this post is 100% scientifically and theoretically accurate. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT. Give or take a hundred percentage points.

You guys, this cauliflower is PURPLE on PURPOSE. Like, it was specifically cultivated to look that way. Think about that decision making process. Think about how badly the cauliflower industry must have wanted a different look if they were willing to put their top-notch gene splicing scientists on creating My Pretty Cauliflower. Think about how misplaced of an effort that was. Was a white vegetable really not noticeable enough? There are like TWO other white vegetables. White onions and the bottom half of turnips. (I don’t have time to do more research than that, so keep your water chestnut ideas to yourself.) Now they’re stuck in the hyper-competitive purple game. Now they’ve got eggplants and the top half of turnips to deal with. IS THAT REALLY WORTH THE PRICE HUMANITY HAS TO PAY FOR CREATING A GENETIC VEGETABLE MONSTER? Sorry, lost myself in a fit a cauliflower rage for a second there.

But for real, can you imagine the marketing concept meeting where they came up with this bullshit? It was definitely a big think-tank ad firm meeting, a Knights of the Brand Table affair. Some fauxhawk-rocking #MILLENNIAL expert on #GENERATIONALDIFFERENCES stood up and went, “Bros, you know what’ll really drive people wild, really get them to spend a lot of hard-earned dollars on cauliflower? If we make that shit edgy. We gotta make cauliflower play to the young and wild. We can do it you guys…IF WE MAKE THAT SHIT LOOK LIKE MOLD!” Then a thoughtful dissenter raised a half-ass concern like, “But, Bravo-Toaster (or whatever his dumb, new-aged name is), how do we make the lamest part of California Mix edgy?” Then Bravo-Toaster, gesturing wildly with his hands, because that’s the method he learned for selling ideas in an email-address-farming free webinar on communication techniques he took three years ago while on cocaine, went, “Way ahead of you bro! We’re gonna spray-paint that shit PURPLE.” Then obviously a bunch of out-of-touch Baby Booming executives, frumpy old bags counting down the seconds until the sweet release of retirement, nodded murmurs of approval. “If we don’t understand the appeal, it must be a good idea!” Then to wrap it all up, some idiot Yes Man brought up their teenage son who wore a #PUPRLESHIRT as proof the idea had legs. Meeting adjourned. Back to trying to avoid sexual harassment lawsuits for the rest of the day. “Remember guys, the Mad Men era is over. Watch your hands!”

Of course that meeting was completely worthless because no one wants to eat purple cauliflower. IT’S AWFUL AND BLAND AND LOOKS LIKE MOLD! Bad idea all the way around. Edgy advertising is out. But retro… now, retro might get it done. I’m talking tie-dyed cauliflower, man. That would REALLY sell.

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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.