Judge Potato Head

Revenge of the spuds

THE SCENE

A fiery orange courtroom, A gigantic gavel and scales of justice. The presiding judge is A Halloween orange potato with Kaleidoscoping red eyes and A glazed air of determination. He looks vaguely familiar, And angry.

This is only a bad dream, I comfort myself. Still in this dream, The potato is very large. I am very small. And then I recognize him. Mr. Potato Head.

THE STORY

Recalling certain moments of childish folly, Appendages placed in unlikely places, Laughter at his contorted figure, I begin, Composing apologies and excuses in my head.

“Miss MacKinnie, I presume,” says the judge, Very polite, but how his eyes glow and spin, With the burning gaze of the fanatic.

Trying to buy time, I grovel, “Might I ask your name, kind sir, and why I am here?” “I am the Honorable J. Tuber Potato Head. You are here to make answer For your childhood misdoing.”

Hope flickers. Having been told that I can argue with a fence post or Sell snowballs at the North Pole. I make a spirited effort, But, refutation, failure ensues, Point after point.

The hearing goes on As hearings do, AND He still has a glitter in his eye.

Finally, repentance and regret, Phony, of course. “I am so sorry, Your Honor, Though it was only Childhood fun and games.”

“Excuses denied! Out of Order!” He roars, Pounding the gigantic gavel, Over and over.

I get madder and madder. It isn’t fair. Who does this smug spud Think he is dealing with?

A child playing a child’s game, To the potatoes, it may seem hard and mean, But to us, it was just a game. No potato that was ever dug Can know what it is to be a child.

No more being harassed by a pushy potato, No matter how meanly I had played the Mr. Potato Head game As a child. Jumping to my feet, Yelling as loud as I can,

“The defense rests! I don’t care about the evidence. I find the defendant, me, Susannah MacKinnie Not Guilty! ”

I am not finished.

“What’s more, You can’t say anything about it Because you’re nothing but An order of overdone French fries!”

With that, I awake, stiff from lying on the couch, with the cushions fallen on the floor. On the Disney Plus Channel, Toy Story 2 was playing. Mr. Potato Head is complaining.

“Are we gonna do this all night? My parts are killing me.”

My mother always said it would give you awful dreams if you went to sleep with the TV on.

She was right.

“The Devil and Daniel Webster” by Stephen Vincent Benét and the trial scene in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll were in mind when I wrote this, though I must make clear I’m not accepting full responsibility for this story. I haven’t thought of Mr. Potato Head since the last time I watched a Toy Story movie.

I’m using a variation of “the devil made me do it” excuse to lay the blame on someone else. Only instead of the devil, I’m blaming Terry Mansfield. Just read his story and see if you don’t agree.

P.S. Read these responses between Terry and me on Terry’s story, and you will absolutely have to agree with me that Terry was the inspiration for this farce.

Me: I loved the Mr. Potato Head game when I was a kid. The most fun was putting the parts in crazy places so that he looked like an alien creature.

Terry: Susannah, you naughty, naughty little girl, you. Mrs. Potato Head must have had a very disapproving look on her potato face. :)

Me: Because of your A Tuber story, I can’t stop thinking of Mr. Potato Head. I may have to write something to get away from him.

Terry: Oh, please do write that.

I rest my case.