The Death of Mr. Potato
Many of my readers might think that my mother is a lovable, bumbling clown like Lucille Ball. But I must tell you she has a sadistic side. Because of this, I was a warped child and am now a very warped adult.
Case in point: When I was a child, Mr. Steak Steakhouses were very popular. I remember the commercials; they were stop-action like a Harry Hausen movie. They featured a real steak and potato dancing. One particular commercial had a chorus line of steaks dancing. The stars of the Mr. Steak commercials were, of course, Mr. Steak and his side-kick, Mr. Potato.
One evening, my parents went out to dinner with my great-grandparents to the Mr. Steak Restaurant on West Ridge Road. I don't really remember the dinner. All I remember from that night was sitting in the back seat of the car with my mother and Nana. We had parked the car in the back of the restaurant. As my father pulled the car around the restaurant, we passed the dumpster. A baked potato was lying smashed next to the dumpster, still in its foil jacket.
I didn't notice it until my mom said: "Look, Kimmie, Mr. Potato died. It looks like he was run over by a car."
This caused me to freak out. I cried. And cried. And cried. I could not believe Mr. Potato had been killed.
I don't think Nana had heard my mother because she couldn't figure out why I was crying. It took me awhile, like until I was in middle school, to figure out that it really wasn't the Mr. Potato behind the dumpster. It was a dead imposter.
