Roger promised his mom that he'd stop swearing.

Roger promised his mom that he'd stop swearing. But he still had the need to. So he started substituting "nice" words for the cuss words he loved so dearly. For example, when

Roger wanted to really tear apart "Joe Dirt" he typed, Joe Dirt is a huge, steaming, corn encrusted pile of "doo-doo." His mechanical voice had been programmed to use babytalk

with an Irish accent. Roger felt like he was a parody of answering machine. It wouldn't be long before he'd get himself into trouble by

losing his temper or hurting someone. He couldn't trust himself, and certainly not around these people. Roger sweated. He hated Irish accents. Always had. He started to run, but he

macslipped on a puddle of ale. If only there were some potato-y way out of this bar. Beyond those stereotypes, Roger had no plan of action. Luckily, a potato salesman drove by and

sold Roger a potato pair of boots. They were quite damp and unpleasant but he could tip toe out of the bar. His potato boots disintegrated and he ran barefoot into the green fields

hand in sprout with the asparagus girl. In later days they called him Mr. Potato boots, or the Tater tocks. He bootlegged sweet potato whiskey and smuggled collards into Brussels

With the intention of making a famous recipe. They made bathtub gin and used it for barter. Mr. Potato boots was well known for his entrepteneurship. Donald Trump was his idol.

the Mexicans would raise up an army to stop Trump. The gin was obviously a good booster of morale, thought Mr Potato Boots, deciding to vacation in Canada.