Spuds. When I’m not eating them, I’m wearing them. Sometimes I even do both at the same time.
Did they know that?
No, but it wouldn’t have surprised them. Not one little bit.
Not the possession of a snake skin and potato pendant, nor the library of potato books, not the mr. and mrs. potato head, nor the glass potato (exhibit b., below), nor any of the assorted items of a spud nature – along with real, actual spuds – that I call my own.