TumbleDweeeb

The Ballad of the Perfect Potato
Existential/Psychological/Systems Horror
By: Emmitt Owens
(Index #12272025)

Look at my spud, so pristine and so round,
Perfectly shaped, not a blemish or brown,
Grows exactly on schedule, never strays from the row,
But ask what it dreams of? Man, I just don’t know.

See, I had a vision, a masterful plan,
Gonna cultivate me the world’s most excellent… yam?
Or russet—whatever—doesn’t matter to me,
Long as it’s perfect as perfect can be.

It sprouted some flowers, Nah, that’s just a waste,
I pruned them all off for that uniform taste.
It tried growing sideways, I said, “Straight down, you hear,”
Now it’s regulation size but got no character.

Wanted deeper roots? I said, “Shallow is stable,”
Now it sits pretty in rows but brings nothing to tables.
It tried growing sideways, I trimmed it back straight,
Now it’s uniform, flavorless—perfectly… great?

I staked it, I shaped it, I controlled every sprout,
Every tendril, every eye—I snipped it right out.
Remove it,” I’d bark without making a sound,
Till they fit in those boxes, each one tightly bound.

And boom! It worked! Look at this perfect crop!
Grade A, top dollar—absolute top!
But I cut one open, had a look inside,
Pale, bland, and empty—flavor had died.

“What makes you special?” I prodded the flesh,
It sat there just staring, like the question was fresh.
“I… don’t… know,” and the silence that’d followed,
Like a voice from the void that just rings kind of hollow.

Got no unique flavor, no interesting eye,
No weird little lumps that make people ask “why?”
No character, no story, no quirks of its own,
Just a blob of compliance sitting alone.

I got my ideal spud, my trophy, my prize,
But behind that perfect, unblemished disguise,
There’s nothing but starch, a void, pure beige,
The personality of a… well, a potato—I’d wager.

So congratulations to me, yeah, I won the whole game,
Got a mass-market product, each one just the same.
It’ll feed people, sure, make french fries someday,
But what is it really? Man, I can’t say.

Moral: Sometimes the weird-shaped potatoes with dirt still on them are the ones that actually taste like something. But hey, at least yours will stack nicely in the bin—and keeps stones in its pockets that you’ll never see.