Mr. Tomato just about had it with all the

Mr. Tomato just about had it with all the misery and angst that afflicted the world around him. He had nothing to do with any of that. So one day, he sold everything and

became a woods poet tramping across the wide open linguistic spaces to join together neglected words. The gnarly nuptuals were consummated in the bramble of buggery. Mr. Tomato &

his libidinous appetite for poetic scuttlebutt resulted in him being named Poet Laureate for the Republic of Chad. Mr. Tomato was asked to recite his famous poem: Ode a la Mode.

"Don't leave me hanging - Chad. I want to be your Laureate - bad. So the hot African sun. Can warm my right bun. And when I roll over. The left one." Mr Tomato, Chad Laureate, flew

was the name of Mr. Tomato's son. Well, actually, it wasn't his son. It was really Mr. Potato's son. Mr. Tomato's wife had cheated. It wasn't until Mr. Tomato saw little Chad's

spud when changing his diaper, that he knew Chad wasn't his son. He's no idiot--male tomatoes have seeds, not spuds! Mr. Tomato confronted his wife about her affair with Mr. Potato

but she flat out denied it. "Fiend!" Mr. Tomato cried. "Adulterous! I shall mash your Mr. Potato and squeeze you into spaghetti sauce!" He lunged at her but she snatched the child

sized fork & used it to ward off Mr. Tomato. She was going to stand her ground, no matter how dicey the situation was. "Mr. Potato and I are in love," she declared. The fork tines

glinted softly in the light cast by the open oven door. Mr. Tomato smiled sadly and turned away. She lay the fork down gently as Mr Potato took her hand and kissed her passionately