ONLY A FEW SHORT WEEKS are left in this silly season, and at this stage of the harvest, there’s not much left but manure. We’ve been at this for the better part of eighteen moons now, and Mr. Potato Head has inexplicably managed to capture your fealty with his rearrangeable face. He also has rearrangeable hands, of course, but they’re extremely small and difficult to spot.
Somehow, you have failed to notice that virtually every respectable farm in the country has disavowed the Trump candidacy, for reasons that vary from moral outrage to justifiable civic fear, and yet you persist, believing that tubers are always wholesome. It’s all that liberal use of pesticide, you say; too many stuffed shirts and not enough starch; too many collared greens trumping simple carbs. This country was built on meat and potatoes, pal, so just forget the rabbit food, and pilfer your protein from a nice Trump steak.
Unfortunately, you have failed to notice that you believe in a pratie who does not believe in anything, which of course means that you do not believe in anything, either—an inherently contradictory state of affairs that ought to make potato heads spin. Yet you take his word at face value, while ignoring the fact that his face is rearrangeable, the piece-parts are painted, and—here’s the rub—his head is a potato.
You’ve failed to notice that most every expression he tries is sour, ugly, arrogant, and oddly reminiscent of a chimp. One notes that chimps also have potato heads, but with faces that are not rearrangeable. Thus we observe the difference between a Trump and a chimp.
Donald Trump teaches his Tater Tots that spuds grow best in big uniform bunches that are unencumbered by biodiversity, so he favors plenty of weed killer for the undesirables. That’s right, just round up all the insects and sandbur, and who really cares if you kill a couple of caballeros? And we’re talking creamy white potatoes here—no Reds or Yellows or Russets get to put down roots, and just forget about hash browns. Amiright? Come to think of it, let’s make an exception for Potato Head Putin and all his Russet roubles, because he’s a rich White Russet, and God knows his fields are fertilized. In any case, every single dirty brown skin better wash up white, believe me. Like the hat.
Mr. Potato Head is a law and order kind of spud—so long as it’s Murphy’s law. So we’ll build us a ginormous garden fence to keep out the rapist rabbits and even the rain, and force those foreign Fingerling farmers to pay for it. Mr. Potato Head is gonna make his own rain—he’s a real rainmaker, you see—so Mother Nature and her environmentalist minions can just go take a hike. Then we’ll have more room for skyscrapers and shitholes and woodsheds out back to store sharp objects for rearranging faces. You know, when they need it. And they need it. Believe me. There’s like eleven million freeloaders in this fact-free field, so come on, Farmer John, let’s take ‘em out behind the woodshed and Make America Blate Again.
Speaking of Mother Nature, it’s worth noting that creamy white potatoes prefer thin air and cool weather, so all this pseudo-science talk of global warming is obviously just a load of manure—a massive liberal conspiracy to keep working class spuds down on the farm. Evolution? Same shit. Seriously, no self-respecting potato has changed since the Conquistadors conquered Peru, and none of them ever will. There’ll always be Tater Tot tubers in this world, and no amount of progressive fertilizer is going to grow them into anything else.
It takes a special kind of spud to thrive in such acid soil—perfectly white and round and smooth, with no potato eyes to see, no feral feet to flee, and all the brilliance of a nightshade. But this isn’t FarmVille, folks, it’s Facism. The Grand Old Potatoes have completely lost their heads, and swapped the proximal for the distal. War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength, and Mr. Potato Head is making faces with his ass.
Simple spuds may thrive in a world of dirt and dung, but fresh vegetables need more. They prefer clean air, clear waters, and a healthy constitution. They understand that sunlight nourishes and disinfects. They know in their roots that in diversity lies strength, and that Mother Nature Matters. So get your head out of your ass, lift your face out of the manure, and come join the harvest. The air is rich, the rain is sweet, and the view, well, it’s just a hell of a lot better.