November 2003 (v6 i3)
Doubting the moon landing since 1997
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How it come to pass that I marry potato
by Ramskira Fyshikni, Junkie Babushka

You young Americanskis zink you have it hard finding date in bar. Is all I ever hear from you—“Is hard to get date! Is hard to get laid!” Bah! I tell you story of old country that bring bad taste to genitals.

In my village, Zteskneezna, our lives revolve around main crop: potato. We farm potato, we harvest potato. We eat potato, drink potato. In hard year, we wear potato and occasionally use as suppository. Potato is livelihood! But then rascals invade from very nearby neighboring village that was oh, 300 kilometers to west. They had bigger sticks from trees than we did, more big rocks to fight with. They make war with us, take potatoes, eat women, rape potatoes, kill most of the young men-folks, dress ze survivors and livestock in stupid costumes and laugh and laugh. Was terrible for my village.

With all the young men gone, was decided that I, tender age of eleven and half, most beautiful girl in village, would marry potato of most prosperous man in village. My family was poor, very poor, could barely afford dowry of high-quality good dirt. But we pinch, scrape and manage to get half-pound of dirt. Wedding was as big and good as village could afford. Maidens had zer armpit hair braided with festive potato chunks, ze few young men covered in ceremonial dung of donkey. They all look wonderful. I ride in on traditional beribboned sow. Sow try to eat the groom and accidentally step upon him, but was alright. Was beautiful wedding.

I was proud to be going to breed more men for village, bigger better sons who ver half-man, half-potato. They would be fighter in time of war, and edible for village in hard time when not much food.

Potato was much more huge than I expect. Biggest I had ever seen! Its head was like monster with many eyes! I was frightened, but on wedding night, I bathe in large pot of borscht, rub garlic on body, and go to my husband. Very silent, very strange potato he was. But very kinky! Ah, things potato made me do when I was but child! Was always, “Suck me, bite me, eat me!” he would say. But I only wish for such things! I say, I wish I could eat you, you bastard, but you are my husband! I am starving, but do not eat husband, for I am lady! I became disgusted with disgusting potato. But soon gave birth to first child. Beautiful boy with curls like potato peelings that always smell of vodka. Had his father’s eyes.

Soon, we have many children. Times were still very, very hard, but I do not eat husband, do not eat children. Potato was becoming older, rotting, senile in old age. But still kinky. Wanted to smack me on ass. Did not care he had no hands! Finally, I can take no more. In middle of night, I cut out husband’s eyes and plant in garden. He screams, but I cut him up to pieces and feed to children. All very happy.

People in village were angry though—not that I eat potato, but that I do not share. They wanted to stone me in town square, but then carrot fall in love with me and speak in my defense. Soon I marry carrot. Was much better husband. Until he was killed by stinking wurst-loving Nazi pigs! Bah.

Ah, but is another story. Pass me vodka and pills.
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