baked potatoes blues

Jeff mentioned baked potatoes over in his blog entry, and it got me to thinking about my absolute fear of baked potatoes. I can’t eat them because of what happened to me long ago.

Here’s the reason why…

It started out like any other day. I was still in high school (but it was summer) and I decided to bake a potato because I was hungry. After eating it, I thought nothing of it, and I went about my day.

My mother, for some reason, was driving my friend Henry, my brother, and I around town. We were heading back home, and I started to feel a tiny rumble in my stomach. The rumble grew in size. I held my stomach and shook my head. Something was wrong.

Henry looked over at me with an expression of confusion. “You have to take a dump?”

I shook my head. Before I could tell my mother to pull over, it all came out. A thick stream of creamed potatoes came rushing out of my mouth. I puked all over my clothes and the backseat of my mother’s car. I then had to sit in my own puke on the ride home. It was an awkward ride home. No one said a word. Then again, why would they? I can tell you puke doesn’t sit well on you.

Now whenever a waiter asks if I want a bake potato or a fries, I pause for a moment and tremble, remembering that puke filled day.

I haven’t eaten a baked potato ever since.

I’ll take fries with that instead.