I Demand A Trade

Fans,

You know all I have is love for you. You see it in the way I show up each day (on the days I show up), how I write, the way I drive to the hole, cutting and zagging, dropping outré adjectives along the way. I don’t need to remind you what I’ve done for the Rehashed Potatoes Franchise. Granted, we’ve had more highs and lows than a pair of crystal-meth-addicted newlyweds hashing out their religious differences on a Six Flags rollercoaster. But we’ve also had steady times (like the months I typically go between blog postings). So it is with a heavy heart that I write to tell you I demand a trade. I can no longer work effectively with Spuds. Chalk it up to creative differences. Also he keeps leaving me voice messages of nothing but deep breathing. I am willing to waive my no-trade clause, though if I have any say in the matter my preferred destination is another potato-themed blog or the LA Lakers.

In days to come, many pundits will comb over the past and reexamine Spuds and my relationship with a fine-tooth comb, like a determined public school nurse on a manhunt for head lice. But really there’s nothing more to say. It’s like 10% creative differences and 90% the heavy breathing. Hopefully you will always remember the good times, and conveniently forget the rest – e.g., Spuds’ constant backstabbing, incessant whining, childish squabbles, empty threats, coffee-shop nutshots… seriously dude, I’m reading a book while holding a hot mug of coffee, why would you do that? In the end, life’s too short to be stuck in the past. So once I finish documenting all the reasons why I no longer want to be here, which may require a few more posts as things come to mind, I’m moving on. It’s time. I don’t know what lies ahead, there’s no way of knowing, but it’s time to get going.  It’s like that catchy Tom Petty song: And I’m a bad boy, ’cause I won’t even miss him / I’m a bad boy for breakin’ Spuds’ heart…

And I’m free,

MacTuber

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An Italian Chef Whose Wife Left Him For the Mailman Giving Cooking Tips on Live TV While Commenting on the President’s Tax Plan

Benvenuto! Have I gotta show for you today, just sit back and enjoy, unless you’re the piece of shit coglione who stole my wife, you asshole, how dare you, you hand me bills every day then take my wife, you bastard, you no good son of a bitch, you faccia di cazzo, yous gonna eat rotten meatballs soaked in la pipi all alone tonight, capiche? The rest of you, let’s cook! But before we start, cutting the corporate tax rate may reduce revenues by $2 trillion over ten years, but where we gettin’ $2 trillion? You got $2 trillion? I don’t. I don’t even have a wife. Sfiga! We can’t generate enough economic growth to compensate for that type of loss, but I tells you what we can do: we can do is sprinkle a little oregano and basilico on these veal cutlets when they’re done frying for some extra flavor, ok? And in the oven here we’re making spanaci casseruola, so let’s take a peek at that, the same way I peeked in on that no good postal service cretino having his way with my wife, alla pecorina, in my house! Merda! Spanaci looks about done, so we’re gonna lower the oven temp, like the capital gains tax, way down real low. Capiche?

Of Mice and Potatoes and Men

“Can I still tend the rabbits, MacTuber?”

-SpudWeb

Working with Spuds on this blog, I now know what it was like for George to drift along in life with Lenny, a “huge man, shapeless of face, with large, pale eyes,” in Steinbeck’s Of Mice And Men. Spuds is big, friendly, not at all bright, and my best friend. So take note readers – in days ahead, I will be chronicling my complex, rich, deeply troubled, relationship with Spuds.

Faithfully yours,

MacTuber

5 steps to curing your iPhone addiction

Do you check your iPhone compulsively early in the morning, late at night, and every other godforsaken hour of your pathetic existence? Want to stop? No problem. Legal disclaimer: I’m not a doctor, addiction expert, or self-sabotaging Apple executive, but here are 5 foolproof suggestions for curing your pesky iPhone addiction.

  1. Develop a far more expensive addiction, like snorting cocaine mixed with gold flakes, that leaves you so depleted of funds the phone company suspends your service.
  2. Mutilate your favorite pet in a wildly savage and appalling manner, then snap a pic and make it your lock-screen photo. This will deincentivize you from checking your iPhone.
  3. Develop meaningful friendships with the people around you, then just use their phones.
  4. Channel your energies into more productive endeavors, like reading up on psycholinguistics or building a mausoleum.
  5. Switch to a Samsung Galaxy S.

Check back first thing tomorrow for 5 more suggestions.

The Ultimate Worrier

I’m not cut out for fake wrestling. The Royal Rumble, yikes. Sounds scary. Maybe I just call in sick? My throat does feel scratchy, now that I think about it…. Are these steroids bad for me? What am I doing with my life? I’m a fraud! Do my fans know it’s all staged? These arm bands cutting off circulation. My hands are turning purple! As if I didn’t have enough to worry about already. Speaking of worries, is this green speedo too much? I feel silly standing in the ring. I hope my fans don’t read this blog post.

High School Transcript

I got a D on my essay on The Crucible? Who said that? Lies! Tell me who said it. Tell me. I got an A. I got two As. Actually, what really happened was I got a A+ and an A++ and believe me, that’s very difficult to do, trust me. No one has ever done that. Ever. That’s how good my essay was.

What’s this talk about a D? ‘Oh, look, hey, he got a D.’ Give me a break! #FAKE NEWS! I’ll tell you what though, I didn’t even read the novel. I know what it says without reading it. Here’s the thing my enemies don’t realize. I know everything, I really do. And people—some of them are good people, mostly rapists but you know, a few good ones probably, maybe—they don’t understand: I am very smart. Very smart. So smart. Tremendously so. And I’m too busy making deals and winning to read Hemingway. Did you see me win last November? What a big beautiful win. I love winning. And I’m very reasonable. My doctor says I have the health of a 20 year old black. But seriously, who said I got a D?  Whoever said that is really, really, very, extremely wrong. That person is totally misinformed, and they’re probably very troubled and not a winner. #FAKENEWS.  I’ve actually read every book in the library.

Trumpty

Stop whatcha doin’
’cause I’m about to ruin
the image and the style that ya used to.
I look funny,
but yo I’m makin’ money, see
so yo world I hope you’re ready for me.

Now gather round
I’m the tweetin’ fool in town
and I like to fly to states that are battlegrounds.
I’m sellin’ dried steaks and gaudy ties off my shelf
so just let me introduce myself…

My name is Trumpty, pronounced with an Umpty.
Yo ladies, oh how I like to hump thee.
And all the GOP candidates – please allow me to bump thee.
I’m steppin’ tall, y’all,
and just like Humpty Dumpty
you’re gonna fall when Fox News pumps me.
I like to scream,
I like my hair funky,
I’m spunky. I like my orange skin lumpy.
I’m sick wit dis, straight Wharton mack
but sometimes I get ridiculous
I’ll eat up all your debate time with my gibberish
hey yo fat girl, c’mere-are ya ticklish?
Yeah, I called ya fat.
Look at me, I’m orange,
It never stopped me from gettin’ busy
I’m a freak
I like the girls with the boom
I once got busy in a private yacht club bathroom
I’m crazy.
Allow me to loudly praise me.
They all say I’m the greatest ever but it just don’t faze me.
I’m still gettin’ in the girls’ pants
and I even got my own locker room parlance.

The Trumpty Dance is your chance to do the Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, come on and do the Trumpty Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, just watch me do the Trumpty Trump.
Do ya know what I’m doin’, doin’ the Trumpty Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.

People say “Yo, Trumpty, you’re really funny lookin'”
that’s all right ’cause I get things cookin’
Ya stare, ya glare, ya constantly try to compare me
but ya can’t get near me
I give ’em more, see, and on the floor, B,
all the girls they adore me
Oh yes, ladies, no one respects you more than me
’cause in a 69 my Trumpty nose will tickle ya rear.
My hands are small, uh-uh I’m not ashamed
I talk about my pickle, I’m still gettin’ paid
I get laid by the ladies, ya know I’m in charge,
both how I’m livin’ and my face is orange
I’m verbally abusive, my politics polluted,
I use words that don’t mean nothin’, like really really really great
I like to shout ya fired, and if ya missed it,
I’m the one who said I can just grab ’em in the [biscuits].
My ego is fragile, I need the starlight.
Well, yeah, I guess it’s obvious, I also like to fight.
All ya had to do was give Trumpty a chance
and now I’m gonna do my dance.

The Trumpty Dance is your chance to do the Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, come on and do the Trumpty Trump.
Do the Trumpty Trump, just watch me do the Trumpty Trump.

*

White men, do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.
White men, do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.
White men, do the Trumpty Trump, just keep on doin’ the hump.
White men, do the Trumpty Trump, do the Trumpty Trump.

Let’s get stoopid!

Fantasy Football

Let me tell you about my Fantasy Football League…

The football is made of frozen Snickers smushed together, and on fourth down teams can stick, punt, or eat the football. Instead of helmets the players wear helicopter hats, which are safe because no one is allowed to tackle, only tickle. The field-lines are made of confectioners sugar, and each goalpost is padded with a million Twizzlers. The cheerleaders roam the sidelines on rainbow colored unicorns during the game, blowing kisses at the fans and flashing them spontaneously.  The coaches don’t bark orders into headsets; they signal messages to the players, like I love you for who you are, with glow sticks.

Baloney (or) Beer

Looking back on my life, I notice there was never an age when both baloney and beer were part of my diet.  Additionally, the few years during which I had outgrown baloney but had not yet started drinking beer coincided with my ideal weight, fastest running times, and peak overall health.

If there’s some lesson in all of this I have no idea what it is.

I hate golf but my god do I love the sound of smacking balls

Spuds and I hit up the driving range the other day. I hate golf. I hate golf shirts. I cringe at the sight of a golfing glove hanging out the pocket of some guy’s pleated khakis. If some guy starts telling you his recent golf scores… fart in his face and run.

And yet, THWACK. I love that sound. THWACK. Damn, that feels good. THWACK. THWACK. Golf sucks, but the sound of a driver crushing a ball is divine. I know this much is true.

The Cods Are Alright

When I was a young lad, I hated fish. Even breaded fishsticks dipped in ketchup, while edible, were nothing more than a consolation dinner.

As a teenager I took to the meatier, fattier variety of fish – grilled salmon and swordfish. Also fried fish n’ chips. Also, I slept 15 hours a day.

I’m older now, late 30s, more sophisticated. I enjoy mild, flaky whitefish with just a hint of lemon and olive oil. I like cod, but I’ve also been known to dabble with halibut, trout, flounder. Whenever I eat fish nowadays, I don my white colonial wig, listen to Brahms, and engage in lengthy monologues on the lives of Giovanni Bellini and Sandro Botticelli, for example. How far I’ve come from those insipid, buffoonish days of fishsticks! Lo! Friends, life is a journey, and I have arrived.

Mine,

Daddy MacTubes

Duane Reade v. Dwyane Wade

Dwyane Wade: 12 x NBA all-star

Duane Reade: Coconut water on sale

Advantage: Dwyane Wade

Duane Reade: Offers seven types of tweezers

Dwyane Wade: Averaged 35 ppg and 8 rebs in 2006 NBA finals

Advantage: Dwyane Wade

Dwyane Wade: Had love child out of wedlock

Duane Reade: Sells condoms

Advantage: Duane Reade

Dwyane Wade: Famously teamed up with LeBron

Duane Reade: Famously teamed up with Walgreens

Advantage: Draw

Duane Reade: Glass storefronts

Dwyane Wade: Glass ego

Advantage: Duane Reade

Dwyane Wade: Spells name wrong

Duane Reade: Spells name wrong

Advantage: Dryawe

Fiction v. Truth – You Be The Judge Judy

Truth is strange – oh man let me tell you MacTuber has seen some crazy stuff (on TV) in his day – but it’s got nothing on fiction. I can’t think of an example right now (or ever) but trust me. In fiction you can say literally anything. Just imagine it, write it down and boom, look ma, fiction. Blahaobgotna! OK, that’s technically not a word, so maybe that’s not fiction. Fiction probably should still be words. On the other side we have truth, which is true. For example, a big potato (if it were real).

The ferocious and epic battle between truth and fiction has raged on like a nuclear wild fire for millions of years throughout the entire universe. It’s also a lifestyle choice. I sometimes like when truth seems like fiction, like the alligator on TV that liked to dance to rap music. Other times I like when fiction seems totally true but for the fact that no one can prove it happened, like Lord of the Rings (especially The Two Towers).

Just another message in a broken bottle…

Dear Non-Reader,

It has come to our attention that your complete abstention from our rehashed pretension has created tension, mild apprehension, and dissension (see e.g., this recent invention from another dimension) among a particular faction of R#P bloggers, all of whom, it goes without mention, work without pension or, frankly, comprehension.

Sincerely,

R#P Executive Board

Filthy Rap Lyrics

You wanted flirty

But it ain’t me, baby-doll, I’m straight up dirty

Chocolate squirty, herpes, and a case of the scurvy

I live in squalor, holler, [inaudible] dollar

 

My lyrics are real, disarmingly genteel, a touch puerile, like a resplendent stiletto heel slipping on a rotting banana peel

I like my strippers freshly showered

Even though I never bathe (save when it rains) 

So I live with the stains and

Abdominal pains

From the tape worm that trains from my gut 

To my butt 

Also, full disclosure: head lice

The size of basmati rice

I’m not being lewd, just really precise.

Some other rappers are filthy, figuratively

But not me, comparatively, I speak of filth much more literally.

 

[gently places mic on floor]

MacTuber gets Down and Dirty on Brexit “Situation”

I like breasts, OK? What do you expect?  I’m a guy, sometimes I forget to put the seat down when I’m done taking a crap.  Now, this Brexit situation: let’s get in there. It’s big. Almost as big as my knob. The dollar is up, the pound is down, and I’ve got a 24-karat gold butt-plug under my pillow that  just shot up in value 10%. How ’bout them apples? Look, I’m not into politics. I’m not an economist, and I’m no scientist. I once lost 27 straight games of tic-tac-toe to SpudWeb. I can barely read, and when I do, I read out loud while finger tracking. Wait, what was I talking about again? Hi.

Let Them Eat Rhino Horns

People don’t respond well to being told to consume less (weak sauce, moralizing, doesn’t work). But we accept pricing. Perhaps we should reframe our concerns with consumption as a problem of pricing.

Consider a few examples. Front row Laker tickets might cost $12,000. Are middle-class families in the upper deck protesting? No, they’re cheering loudly (and for the Lakers no less…). Can’t afford a big engagement ring? Boo hoo, get a small one. Can’t afford a Ferrari? Buy a Toyota. Can’t afford a Toyota? Take the bus.

Now extend the same exercise of pricing private property to pricing property that we own collectively (i.e., a consumer tax for scarcity). You want shark fin soup? Great, that’ll be $10,000 per bowl. Enjoy its alleged magical healing powers. A hotdog made of snow leopard? Go for it! It costs $500 million and includes a fountain soda. A typical cow burger might cost $200. Golfing on lush greens in the Arizona desert costs $5,000 per hole. Consume away!  If you can’t afford it, get more money. Shit ain’t free, folks. Work harder. We will adjust prices based on scarcity, just like markets for private goods. Failure to pay is theft.

Is Mother Nature trying to tell us something?  

The Hadron collider – the world’s largest atom smasher, located in Switzerland – shut down this past week when a goddamn weasel chewed his way into its electrical panel. A few years ago the collider shorted unexpectedly when a bird flying by dropped a loaf of bread into it (technically a baguette). I’m not religious, but if a third renegade animal stops the collider perhaps we should hold a symposium, kick the tires a bit, make sure our fellow planetary inhabitants are not desperately trying to tell us something?

Same-Name NBA Game

Q.  Which team wins?

  1. Mike Bibby (PG)
  2. Michael Jordan (SG)
  3. Mike Dunleavy (SF)
  4. Michael Cage (PF)
  5. Michael Doleac (C)
  1. John Stockton (PG)
  2. John Starks (SG)
  3. John Havlicek (SF)
  4. John Salley (PF)
  5. Jon Koncak (C)
  1. Billy Donovan (PG)
  2. Bill Sharman (SG)
  3. Bill Bradley (SF)
  4. Bill Russell (PF)
  5. Bill Walton (C)
  1. Chris Paul (PG)
  2. Chris Mullin (SG)
  3. Chris Mills (SF)
  4. Chris Bosh (PF)
  5. Chris Webber (C)
  1. Bob Cousy (PG)
  2. Bobby Jackson (SG)
  3. Big Shot Bob (SF)
  4. Bob Pettit (PF)
  5. Robert Parish (C)
  1. Larry Brown (PG)
  2. Larry Hughes (SG)
  3. Larry Bird (SF)
  4. Larry Johnson (PF)
  5. Larry Sanders (C)
  1. Kevin Johnson (PG)
  2. Kevin Martin (SG)
  3. Kevin Durant (SF)
  4. Kevin McHale (PF)
  5. Kevin Garnett (C)
  1. Dave Bing (PG)
  2. David “Skywalker” Thompson (SG)
  3. Dave DeBussschere (SF)
  4. Dave Cowens (PF)
  5. David Robinson (C)
  1. Ricky Rubio (PG)
  2. Ricky Pierce (SG)
  3. Rick Barry (SF)
  4. Rick Mahorn (PF)
  5. Ric Smits (C)
  1. Paul Westphal (PG)
  2. Paul George (SG)
  3. Paul Pierce (SF)
  4. Paul Milsap (PF)
  5. Paul Silas (C)

A.  The Kevins

An Unprovoked Rant

In her best-selling memoir, Just Kids, the legendary Patti Smith tells the story of her – wait, who? A songwriter author performer visual artist poet?  That’s like ten things; I’m calling bullshit. Did she write Blowin In the Wind? Does she have pipes like Aretha?  Did she shock the world with Leaves of Grass? Does she get the stadium rockin’ with Born to Run?  Do her paintings hang at the Met next to Cézanne and Manet?

Why does every Baby Boomer who slummed it in New York City in the 60s feel the need to write a 500-page biography with some bullshit twee title slapped on the front?

SpudWeb Buries MacTuber Alive

When SpudWeb callously followed MacTuber’s innocent and heartfelt “biotic” post seconds later with a slapdash stream-of-conscious brick tome movie idea, R#P readers couldn’t help but think of Dale getting buried alive.

“Dale: What are you doing?!?
Brennan: I’m burying you.
Dale: [crying] I’m alive Brennan, I’m alive.
Brennan: You’re waking the neighbors! Shut up!”

Biotic Diversity of Opinion

CNN Moderator: Yes or no: Probiotic or antibiotic?

JEB: Yes.

Cruz: I’m probiotic and anti-government. I enjoy yogurt and I don’t believe in government or politics. Vote for me for president.

JEB: Can I just clarify what I said?

Huckabee: Oh boy, I don’t know about yogurt but I’ll tell you this, my granddaddy used to take us out behind the church and slather our backsides in mayonnaise. [crowd cheers]

Trump: Your granddaddy was ineffectual, and, and, I’ll just say it, let’s be honest, he was a total pussy. [crowd cheers]

JEB: Can I, can I say something?

Carson: History shows us that antibiotics were invented by Turks as a common sense approach to keep the slaves healthy while they built the pyramids.

Rubio: Good evening. [shuffling cue cards, sweating]

Christie: Do I like yogurt? I am yogurt. [lifts shirt; crowd gasps, slowly transforms into cheers]

You say potato, I say give me all your money

Is this the world’s most photogenic potato? Photo sells for $1.08m


In light of this notable development in the potato art industry, MacTuber would like to inform R#P readers that the original photograph that graces this blog, signed by MacTuber, the world’s second most influential potato photographer, is now on sale for $875,000.

2016 Annual Awards Awards

Rehashed Potatoes (R#P) is the proud sponsor of The 2016 Annual Awards Awards. Come join your favorite award-winning actors, lawyers, sports celebrities, surgeons, millionaires, billionaires, and more lawyers as we flip the script and commemorate those who have exhibited excellence in awarding us awards. This year’s categories include Awards for Best Acting Awards, Best Top-Doc Rankings, Best Super Lawyers Awards, and a special All-Cash Prize Award for Best Award to a Billionaire. Stay tuned till the end, when we will reflect back on our accomplishments that evening and award a final Genius Award to the Best Awards Award awarded at the Annual 2016 Awards Awards.

award.jpg

What’s the Frequency Flyer Miles, Kenneth?

Customer: Hi I’d like to use my 150,000 frequent flyer miles to book a trip to the Caribbean this February.

Airline: First off, congratulations! We consider you not just a loyal customer but a friend. You would like to go to Cleveland?

C: No, I said Caribbean, not Cleveland.

A: Would you like a rental car with that reservation?

C: No.

A: OK, is this a roundtrip to Cleveland?

C: I don’t want to go to Cleveland.

A: Then, if I may ask, why are you calling?

C: To go to the Caribbean.

A: But have you ever been to Cleveland? It’s not bad.

C: I have been, I just… here, this will help – the airport code I want to go to is NAS.

A: Well first off, thank you! OK, let’s have a look. That destination is blacked out except for hurricane season. Is there somewhere else you’d like to go?

C: Cleveland. More than anything in the world.

A: Wonderful! Would you like a hotel booking as well?

C: Yes, definitely.

A: I see a room with five single beds and a kitchen and no bathroom.

C: Perfect, book it.

A: Congratulations! As for your ticket, it has a quick overnight stop in Pittsburgh then a 5 AM flight to Toledo, which puts you right into the greater Cleveland metropolis just in time for breakfast!

C: Sounds amazing. Book it.

A: Terrific! You need to buy 300 extra miles though, since you don’t have enough. It costs one dollar per mile.

C: 300 dollars on top of my mileage?

A: Yes, for that leg of the trip.

C: Perfect.

A: OK, let’s review your credit card information!

Confident Italian Chef or High School Bully?

Ay! Ay-you, come over here. I’m not gonna bite. I said come here.

You want a piece of this?

You want some of this?

How about a big plate of that right in your face?

You want that? Is that what you want?

You like it, don’t you? You want some more, is that what you’re telling me?

Yeah, that’s what I thought…

There Is No Sign Without Sin

When I was a child I saw a sign near the highway that said “There is no Good without God.”

As a matter of spelling, letter arrangements, technically I agree. You can spell God with Good two different ways if you swap out the “O”s. Also there is no good without goo. There is no Patriot without riot. There is no legislation without legs. There is no whole without hole. Eleven Plus Two = Twelve Plus One. 26 letters – there’s gonna be some overlap from time to time, don’t read into it too much.

There is no highway sign without moron.

Holiday Hiccups!

With Christmas upon us, R#P thought it’d be useful to serve up a list of classic 100 life-threatening or grammatical banana peels to look out for this holiday season. But then I realized, while useful, if no one looks out for number 87–when pronouns of second person and third person are used as subjects, the pronoun following them will be according to the second person pronoun–life will go on. We’ll be fine. Wouldn’t it be more useful to whittle down the list to the top ten?  Then Spuds said, why stop there? Of those ten, which three are the most unequivocal outrageous ball-searing dong-shit-cock-club-a-baby-seal-for-fun fucking dangerous life-threatening grammatical pitfalls to avoid this holiday season?  Here they are:

  • blunt head trauma
  • compound split infinitives
  • killer bees

Melofactor

Fourth quarter, Knicks down 9.
Porzingas – swish!
Melo – turnover.
Melo – clank.
Melo – technical.
Zinger for 3 – swish!
Knicks down 7.
Calderon blows layup.  (who’s this layup guy?)
Organ music: defense!
Zinger snares rebound!
Zinger for 3 – swish!
Down 4 now…
Zinger blocks shot, gets the ball!
Zinger shoots!
Tweet! Wait…
Melo: offensive foul.
Dirk hits free throws.
Melo clanks a 3.
Knicks lose.

Technologia non facit athleta

A popular gift this Christmas, I suspect, will be those colorful little wristbands that supposedly track how much you move. Ignore for now that the Journal of the American Medical Association reported that these wristbands are less accurate than iPhones at tracking steps and calories, or that the companies that make them collect your data and sell it to other companies, or that commodifying walking around is silly. There is no evidence that the wristbands (or any technology for that matter) result in people getting in shape. On the contrary, one of technology’s chief characteristics is that it replaces manual labor. Despite knowing this, now faced with the modern problem of not enough manual labor, we seek newer, better technology. (See Law of the Instrument.) But if we were genuinely concerned with fitness results, rather than the pleasantries of gift exchange, we would give our chubby loved ones the gift of less technology. I broke half your stuff, Merry Christmas.

Happy Thanksgiving

Recently I flew to Turkey with Larry Bird, the most clutch wing player of all time. He had to duck just to fit on the plane. I wanted to tweet about it, but he wore a broody expression and I didn’t want to ruffle any feathers. I quietly read my finance book Cardinal Rules for Building Your Nest Egg, careful not to make a peep. When Larry saw my book he asked if he could take a gander, said he had a fledgling interest in investing. Seconds later he handed me back my book. Fledgling indeed. Now friends, we shared cock jokes for the rest of the flight.

Nonapology Not Accepted

At first MacTuber felt obliged to apologize on behalf of the entire Rehashed Potatoes Family for the inaugural post by SpudWeb, which was as pleasurable to read as shoving a brick up your own butt. But fuck that, Rehashed Potatoes is not into apologies. I believe it was Cicero who said, anything is a dildo if you’re brave enough. And if nothing else, brave readers you are. Welcome. We fly by the seat of our vintage 100 year-old potato sack pantaloons here at Rehashed Potatoes. Two good authors who once knew better words now only rehashing four-letter words and blogging prose. Anything goes.