Potato Jack often left home without his jacket on. His mum warned him he’d catch his death, but she was wrong. Just like she was wrong when she told him he knew Jack Shit. He in fact had total recall of everyone he’d ever met and this person, to whom she often referred, he was positive he’d never crossed paths, or even swords, with. But he didn’t like to tell her she was wrong because she was known to carry chips on her shoulders.
Potato Jack loved nothing more than getting baked. He could take the heat for hours, feeling all mashed and gooey and light. But sometimes he’d die for a pea.
Once, he’d fallen for a sweet potato but she left him for an Au Gratin, and Jack conceded that he just couldn’t compete with such illustrious gems.
His dad like to call him Silly Sausage but that didn’t sit well with his over-sensitive son and gave the youngster a pain in the bun. His father admonished him at times for being thin-skinned and told Jack if he didn’t harden up he’d end his daze in a salad.
Dad had been a big wheel in Idaho and spent much time on the gravy train until it all turned to sour cream. A lot of hams still chived him about it, but the wise old potato knew that one potato two potato three potato four.
And that kind of humour a-peeled to him.
(C) Frank Howson 2019