I can count to potatoe!

I can count to potatoe!

Said, Mrs. Potato Head. No one at the Spud Bank commented on her vulgar grammar. Mr. Potato Head, after his divorce to the first Mrs. Potato head, had married Sweet Potato

Fries. She was the next best thing. Hot. Salty. Mmmm. Mr. Potato Head married Sweet Potato Fries and just dipped her into ketchup and

that's when the massacre started. Mayhem in the form of mashed potato guts and suds draping from the walls. What happened that night was hell. Dead potatoes everywhere. I couldn't

dispose of the evidence any faster. I was wolfing down the Shepherd's Pie, the suds were cleaning up the prints. That's when I realized I was missing a peeler. "If the feds find it

, I'll never get the chance to eat Shepherd's Pie ever again!" I thought frantically, wiping a bit o' potato from my mouth. I knew where the missing peeler was too. The feds were

On my trail and thought the nightclub murderer had filched it as a weapon. But it was not built for that. I got it back after they tried it unsuccesfully. What a relief that was!

I don't know what drew me back to the scene of the nightclub murder, but the next night I returned. I lay down in the chalk outline on the floor and it was a perfect fit.

ow which fish was which, and so had devised a complicated plan to get around this in only two lines. Unfortunately, he was too busy taking photos of my outline to tell me. Curses.