For Neil, a truly pretentious reply to make me look like an asshole.




A picture of a letter, Image via Wikipedia.
I know, I know. But I like to use pictures now...

 So, as you'll all know, here at Dog in the Water Pipe offices, I spend night and day fillling through a huge pile of fan mail. As such, I'm going to publish one such piece. This letter, by virtue of being the only letter I've actually received, has secured a place in my heart as my favourite piece of correspondence.
 By the same logic, it's also the most hate-worthy, anti-Semitic, cow-raping letter I've ever seen. But that's besides the point. So read on, gentle reader:

 Dear Mr Paul
                      Since choosing to follow your Twitter, I have lately become intrigued by the nature of your blog. However, I completely fail to understand the topic matter. For instance, where does Mr. Potato come in? Who or what is Max? Why do none of the posts seem to make any sense?!

 I hope you can help me understand by clarifying some of these issues, so that I may continue to read it and actually understand what is going on!

Yours,

You see, the problem here is that my reader - whom I shall refer to as "Neil" from now on - is under the misapprehension that my blog is actually the thought-out writings of a sane individual. Now, I'm not saying that my writings are without purpose - once, I think someone laughed out of sympathy at them, and if a laptop were to be opened on my blog, then folded over the head of a tramp, it would provide some shelter from the elements. However, I feel I have been neglecting my loyal reader, so please have some answers:

1.  Where does Mr. Potato come in? Mr. Potato was an idea I had in the shower. You see, that probably doesn't satisfy you. You were probably looking for an in-depth analysis of Mr. Potato's symbolism of the Peruvian proletariat. Mr. Potato does not represent anything - he is a potato, imbued with certain characteristics common to humans, who happens to have a deep, burning hatred for Peruvians. My original post for Mr. Potato, I'll admit, did look at the differences in his overall character compared to what we take away from studying him - Mr. Potato was a good man in general: he loved his family, cared for preserving buildings of historical interest, and supported various charities. If we met him running a tiny charity shop and talked to him for a while about his home life, we would think him a sweet, kind man. However, if we mentioned Peruvians, we would see an angry, hate-filled man twisted by an anger the source of which is unidentifiable to us. So perhaps Mr. Potato is an examination of the duality of man, and of how our perceptions of an individual are shaped by certain events and ideas, rather than the course of a man's life. Or maybe I just wanted to draw a racist potato.
2. Who or what is Max? Max is the comic foil to my straight-man persona. It's a common, over-used literary technique - he does something stupid, which elicits a humerous response. My character then shows up the flaws of this stupid deed, and more humour arises. Basically, the very existence of Max should have you crying tears of laughter all across the large carpet of your bedroom, which I've been in when you were out, your entrails spilling out of your sides, which have split with laughter.
3. Why do none of the posts seem to make sense? Well, don't really know how to answer this question in a pretentious manner. They don't make sense because they don't. Often, they're ideas I have when bored and write about. Usually, I just write then on the spur of the moment, half-heartily spellcheck them, then publish them. This is probably why they don't make any sense. There is no great purpose that I'm building up to, no political agenda being pushed most of the time, no demands for the sacrifice of my readers' first-born children

So there, I hope that's managed to clear things up for you, because it certainly hasn't for me.

Hungry, hungry hobos

Pulling back the corner of the curtain, I peered outside, into the dawn-tinted street. The queue, stretching earlier only from my front door to the gate, now reached most of the way down my road. But it didn't end outside Mrs. Cobain's house, where it reached it's furthest from my door. No, the tramps stationed in her geraniums and near her gnomes were not the end of the line, only the middle. Bizarrely, like the titular character from snake, the queue snaked in on itself, moving in straight lines and turning at right angles, until the observer finally finds one homeless man, cap in hand, standing back to side with another, far further up the queue. Also like snake, a few of them were eating mice, but that's besides the point.

 How, I hear you ask, a mob clamoring to be heard, did I become host to the great unwashed masses?


Image via Cyanide and Happiness.
Obviously



Well, it turned out there was more of Mr. Potato to go around than I thought. When I went out to dispose of our racist food-friend, I managed to feed 17 hungry, hungry hobos. Word soon spread, and my description likewise. It wasn't long before my house was found, and this great mob descended on it looking for food, cider and small change. Tiny flea ridden dogs bathed in my duckpond. Old, wrinkled men played the accordion on my garage. A man in a smart but dirty suit, worn with age and general wear and tear, sipped cold tea from a chipped teacup on my front lawn.

For my part, I stayed inside. I hoped the problem would go away. After all, I can't boil all my friends and feed them to the homeless.

 Not even Max.

 I think.

Look, a picture of the Eiffel Tower. I'm cultured.

L'amor.Image via Wikipedia

I scanned the newspaper hopefully, but to no avail - there were no anthropomorphic objects looking for a job. Ever since I skinned, boiled and fed Mr. Potato to a tramp, I'd had a void in my life for truly ridiculous things. Sure, I still had Max, but he'd fallen in love with the Eiffel Tower, and had started going to Italian lessons so he could woo her. I'd explained the flaw, but he didn't understand. He swore blind to me the Eiffel Tower was in Sicily.

 I've tried to explain he's thinking of the Mafia again, but I ran out of beans. In case you were questioning the relevance, I drew pictures of Don Corleone on some beans, and the Eiffel Tower on others, then pointed out the differences. It was a long, fruitless day that ended with Max eating a tiny effigy of Marlon Brando.

Anyhow, he'd taken a trip to Madrid, hoping to soak up the atmosphere. I hadn't even tried to stop him, it didn't seem worth it. Besides, all I had left were peas. And all I could think of was the Spanish Civil War. Picasso might have been able to sum up the horror of the experience on the canvas, but I doubted I could replicate the effect on the legume.

Mr. Potato's Soupbox

Image by **emmar** via Flickr

I stirred the soup absent-mindedly. That's what we in the writing business call a hook. You see, you read that sentence, and you get hooked, right? Had to find out more about my soup. Well, I shall continue.  A chunk of leek bobbed to the surface, bobbing like a leek-shaped submarine surfaced for air. Potato icebergs rose to threaten it's path, floating across a putrid ocean of green-brown foam. Lining up, the potatoes formed two rows of teeth, lips of leek talking shape around them. They spoke:
 "Oi! You think this is funny, don't you?"
 "No." I replied. I did think it was funny, but only because of the novelty cookware I was using.
 "Well, it isn't anyway." Mr. Potato soup replied defiantly. "And you better not be planning to feed me to any Peruvians."
 I considered the idea, casually dismissing it as I realised I didn't know where to find any Peruvians at this time of night.
 "Why? What are you going to do about it?"
 "I'll cut your face!"
I looked sadly at the talking soup in front of me. My first act in cooking Mr. Potato had been to cut his arms and legs off with a potato peeler. You may call me cruel, but I enjoyed it, so I don't care. Anyway, he's a potato. He can't feel pain.
 After that, I diced Mr. Potato into small cubes, all of which began to shout racial Peruvian slurs at me. Then I started boiling him with some prejudice-free leeks. The upshot of this was that Mr. Potato was in no condition to cut my face. Or do anything except bathe in his own juices.
 "You'd better not be ignoring me!" Mr. Potato shouted. I ignored him, looking for a flask as I was.
The soup finished cooking. Pouring Mr. Potato soup into a novelty Christmas flask, I headed out the front door.
 Now all I need to do is find a tramp to feed...

"Did you see, Peru's president revokes civil war atrocities amnesty"...

A man can dream though... A man can dream. Image via Wikipedia... Is today's headline?"
Max looked up from his coffee.
 "No." He replied. I noticed that he was reading a print-your-own-headline novelty newspaper. It wasn't really surprising he hadn't seen seen any modern news, he was reading an article on how he, Max, had been elected President of Space.
 "PERU?"
A feeling of dread spread like water across my body, sinking into my clothes and dripping liquidy dread into the carpet. Putting down his newspaper, leaning on his fists as to shake his miniature coffee mug, Mr. Potato pushed his face closer to me. "PERU?" He demanded.
 "No. Poland. You misheard." I yelled. "Please don't start again."
But Mr. Potato was off. He'd met the foreign furniture guys in the dungeon yesterday - still holding, by the way - and had given them a good going-over, until he realised they were Venezuelan. Still, here we go again.
 "Bloody Peruvians!" He yelled. "With their trees! And Llamas! And those hats! Bloody hats. I want to deep-fry them! All of them!"
I sighed. Mr. Potato was really a very angry man. potato. man-potato? He has a little hat, that must count for something...
 Anyway, I'm off to look for a potato peeler. I've left Max in the kitchen, being lectured about how Peruvian water was far more lazy than other water. I could always boil them both. That might work.

A request.

Peru. Image via WikipediaI've recently had a request from my friend (and one of my untalented writing partners from Weeding out the Idiots) Ben Tyson, asking for the return of Mr. Potato. Mr. Potato, as you will all remember, was a living potato with an irrational hatred of the Peruvian people. Ben, being a racist himself, obviously found the character appealing. As such, Mr. Potato will be returning soon. However, I thought I'd take this opportunity to ask if anyone had any requests for stories?

 Perhaps it's your life dream to see Max get into a tricky situation over a £5 note, or to see me become a cyborg, half-human and half-blender. Further, want to write a guest post? Let me know. Hate me? Drop me some hate mail, the more abusive and anti-semitic, the better.

Everyone was back...

The French Secret Servicemen, following an anonymous tip-off from me (I put a bag on my head, they had no idea who I was) had gone to Peru to search for Max. Mr Potato had gone with them to shout at the locals. My mother was still gone, and Max - free from pursuit for the moment - was at my place, drinking tea. For a man pursued by Secret chaps in suits, he was remarkably calm, although he refused to tell me what he'd done that had so offended France, and I thought it better not to push the point, as there are some things man is better not knowing.
 The orphan-children were also back, running 'round the place, smashing my many priceless vases I'd foolishly balanced on small tables and the like.
 "What I don't get," I began, "Is where they all came from."
 "Well, I can help you there!" Max said, "You see, over the time we've know each other, I've been secretly replacing your birth control pills with tiny mints!"
I sighed, as one is often compelled to do in Max's company. I considered a long, structured list of the many flaws of this explanation. Instead, I got up and fetched a broom.

Chasing Max from the house, waving the broom manically, I wondered what the neighbours thought of me. At least I was dressed this time. If they were to pull back their curtains, watch and listen, they may have heard Max's parting message:
 "You might not thank me for the kids," he yelled, "But you'll thank me for the fresh breath!"

Back to non-reality.

So, I'm back home. You know, with my mother, and the French Secret Service - who are still looking for Max. And Mr. Potato and Bigfoot, for some inexplicable reason.
 Actually, I have no idea where this is going. Could Bigfoot be Peruvian on his mother's side? Let's just scrap this entire storyline, start something new... But wait, you people crave continuity. You're always telling me that... Well, ok then.

 The house was on fire. No two ways about it - flames licked my my veranda, hot embers filled my bath, tongues of fire hotter than the whores of hell ascended my staircase. My mother, unimpressed, got out of the boot and left town. I'll probably never hear from her again. No loss, she was a useless literary tool. The French Secret Servicemen, smug looks on their faces, stood ankle-deep in my duck pond.
 "Ha, monsieur. We warned you zis woul 'appen!" They shouted happily, "Where iz 'ee?"
To be honest, they hadn't warned me about this at all. And I still wasn't giving them Max. Sure, I wanted revenge on them for destroying my home, but I didn't hate the French enough to unleash Max on them again.

I thought trainstation and carpark were words, but my spellcheck begs to differ...

The train drew to a stop. As such, I also stopped moving. Because I was on the train. There, I've said it.
 Bigfoot had long since departed, leaving me to sit next to an elderly woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Don King. I was going to pick up my mother, you see. After Le French Secret Service started squatting in my house, I'd managed to phone my mother and convince her to put off her visit for a few days, which she'd spent living out of bins and hunting elk.
 To continue my longstanding lie that I was successful, I stole a BMW from the train-station car-park, setting off to pick her up from her hotel... Alley... Whatever. Bundling her in the boot, I began the journey home.
 Sorry, this blog doesn't have a real beginning or end, it's kind of a filler in the long-running narrative that is my insanity. And I'm still not sure what Mr. Potato the racist potato had to do with anything...