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Mr Potato Head is Dead
There are more and more and more and more and more and more developments added every day which add value to cyberworld. Add-on things to add on to your virtual things. New virtual this and new virtual that to add to your virtual stuff, stuffed in your virtual pockets, or left behind on the virtual dressing table. Then they hang around on your phone, your computer, WorkStation, Memorydroid or the plasma output screen on the front of your fridge (or consumables thermal control environment dock), waiting to be deleted. Eventually, you have more virtual stuff than actual stuff. You ask yourself: "Do I need more stuff, solid or virtual?" and you answer yourself with another question: need, or want?
Then you lose patience and slap yourself round the head, saying: "Why do you have to question everything I say, even if I only virtually say it." "You arse" It's time to stop arguing, because Mr Potato Head can make you happy.
A potato, any potato, is a wonderful thing to begin with. Full of lovely starch, carbyhydros and all that, lovely eatfullness. But the best thing is that you can keep turning a potato around, in three, yes three dimensions, until eventually it looks like a human head, face or body. (Look on an internet for funny pictures of potatoes. They are endless) This is a good thing, because, from people who think Jessie J is a songwriter upwards, all humans are programmed to recognise things similar to themselves. Then you can stick in the eyes, nose, hat, everything until it looks like ... Mr Potato Head's brother who we don't talk about.
In 1964, after forward-thinking US government tinkerers had carried out some important tinkering, and its interfering department had interfered, Hasbro produced the plastic potato with little holes for the eyes, nose, hat and everything. The end of an era had started, or ended.
Because the world was not now our own design. No longer could children pick up a potato, turn it around and about in all three dimensions, as there were then, and visualise its facial or corporeal possibilities."NOW," shouted the government-controlled packaging of the new safe Mr Potato Head, "IT IS THIS WAY UP." As Britpop popsters, Blur, summed up the whole tragic demise of Potato Head artistic possibilities: There's No Other Way. So a global globe of people of youngness were duped into accepting a world without potatoes, and a small, questioning voice piped up, then down, then diagonally: "I want real potatoes".
A potato, new, old, waxy or floury, was no longer a plaything: at around the same time, it became a global product, the material of the fry. Burgers were lonely, and had to be married to Mrs. Fry – their unfortunate offspring, not a child at all, but a factory-generated waif made from potato starch in a laboratory. The potato's role as a symbol of hope was forgotten. Because, with Mr Potato Head's assortment of eyes, nose, hat, wide-eyed children could use their sparkling imaginations to turn this most versatile of tubers, this king of the underground, into the centre of their own perfect world. But there is no need to have our hopes, or the hopes of our children. dashed, bashed, or, indeed, mashed. Whatever the so-called virtuals of America will have you believe, a potato, any potato, is there for you to make what you want it to be. It is a giving, forgiving, living thing. We are free, if we just believe, that we can stick whatever we want into it, and make a face, whether ugly or Samantha Brick with a nose like a truncated prick, and make what we want. It does not matter what other people think, what they say or write or scribble on your back in lipstick. It is your potato. Yours, to do with what you literally want to do with. A blank potato, to express your blank life thereupon.
Remember: your potato is what you make it.