Girls with Insurance

Mr. Potato Head looked at the directions he had printed out from the internet when he was in the small university town where he had lived for three years. He was wearing his glasses, his hat, his shoes, a light shirt because it was still summer, thinking “A job will make things better.” He felt like his plastic shell would melt away, under the heat of the sun. He opened the window of the truck he had rented.

He was arriving to the city where he had popped out of Mama Potato Head’s vagina twenty-five years before. This is the city where he had lived as a young potato head, where he acquired his language. They had lived in a five-story brick condo. There had been an orange tree in the patio of the building. No one ever ate the oranges it dropped. There were always sweltering ripe oranges over the ground which circled the tree. The kids, along with the young Mr. Potato Head, would throw the oranges at each other.

I got arrested three weeks ago for public intoxication, failure to obey a lawful order, and disturbing the peace. There is no peace where there are fucking police. That's what I say. But who the fuck am I?

I took time out of my life to read this thing by this guy named Steve Roggenbuck and, like most poor decisions, I found myself asking what the fuck did I just I sit in this library for this long reading this for? There are worse ways to waste your time, yeah, but I'm just saying: what the fuck? And look at this guy. He weighs 95 pounds and pretty clearly thinks he's clever. This is the kind of guy that is fashionably thin and functionally incapable. Something. I just wanted to take a second to talk shit on him, because fuck him. Actually, though, this one struck me as being worth the 8 to 10 seconds my eyes flashed over it:

Mr. Potato Head was on his way to the home of an old friend of the family, an ex-colleague of Pastor Potato Head, who was still very active in community services in this city. She was a nonprofit sector management counselor. She lived in a suburb outside of the city where Mr. Potato Head had been raised until the age of ten. The pupils of the pair of eyes he was wearing were very small.