Wer da dam button at?

But...to cure anything, you have to be eaten and/or turned into a whiskey/tater poultice. In both cases, you die.

 

Potato whiskey's not bad. It'll either cure you or kill you.

 

I'm an Everclear man myself...cause if you can't drink the stuff, you can always use it to fill your gas tank.

 

I don't mind sacrificing myself if I can only help someone else. Dammit, it's Christmas, people!

 

Ah...the old "tis better to give than to recieve" excuse.
Don't lie, Spuddy. You and I both know you wouldn't dare to let your precious starch ferment.

 

A frothy mug of potato juice, properly fermented over a radiator, is what gets me up in the mornings.

 

Wow...that's really gross.

 

You're just jealous that you can't get up in the mornings.

 

No, I'm grossed out because fermented spud juice gets you up.

 

Wuttahell? If grain is an acceptable source of fermented beverages, why can't we spuddulite some drinks and get high that way?

 

Hey, I'm all for vodka, and various other spud-related quaffables, but on a radiator? That's just too weird. It's like making a grilled cheese sandwich with an iron.

 

Memories of my first apartment.........

 

I've done it too, but I mean..it's weird.

"I need this shirt pressed and wrinkle free...but I'm hungry, too. It's a good thing that I iron clothes in the kitchen."

 

If Sideshow Bob can brew a passable wine on his prison radiator, why shouldn't I be able to whip up some spud juice in the comfort of my flat?

 

Because you're not the moderately famous (and now incarcerated) member of the Krusty Krew that Bob is.

 

Well, there was Sideshow Cecil in a brief but memorable appearance as Bob's little brother... so I guess I could be Sideshow Spuddy! Then I can join Snake in busting out, or watch the Krusty Prison Special, or just sit quietly in my cell brewing potato wine on the radiator while writing "Kill Bart" notes with my own blood.

(There's nothing copycat-ish at all in the above sentence. So there.)

 

Well hey, the next thing you know you'll be distilling the fluid from some poor slob's adrenal glands to get a nice buzz.
You weird blood writing weirdo.

 

Adrenal glands, eh? Hmm... I could swear I recently read a novel where some South American pineal gland eating monster showed up in a New York museum and started gorging on random visitors.

(Great, now I'm hungry.)

 

My comment was based on the novel (and movie) "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". One of the guys, the lawyer, gets a chemical, "adrena-chrome", from a satanist.
His client takes adrena-chrome and gets completely psycho, but not before he says, "There's really only one place to get this stuff...I'm thinking of the adrenal gland. Where'd that satanist get the stuff?"
"He didn't really get into it, but he said it was hard to come by."
Oddly enough, they mention the pineal gland too, and what you can get from that.

 

"What is it?"
"Adrenochrome," he said. "You won't need much. Just a little tiny taste."
I got the bottle and dipped the head of a paper match into it.
"That's about right," he said. "That stuff makes pure mescaline seem like ginger beer. You'll go completely crazy if you take too much."
I licked the end of the match. "Where'd you get this?" I asked. "You can't buy it."
"Never mind," he said. "It's absolutely pure."
I shook my head sadly. "Jesus! What kind of monster client have you picked up this time? There's only one source for this stuff . . ."
He nodded.
"The adrenaline glands from a living human body," I said. "It's no good if you get it out of a corpse."
"I know," he replied. "But the guy didn't have any cash. He's one of these Satanism freaks. He offered me human blood-said it would make me higher than I'd ever been in my life," he laughed. "I thought he was kidding, so I told him I'd just as soon have an ounce or so of fresh adrenochrome-or maybe just a fresh adrenaline gland to chew on."
I could already feel the stuff working on me. The first wave felt like a combination of mescaline and methedrine. Maybe I should take a swim, I thought.
"Yeah," my attorney was saying. "They nailed this guy for child molesting, but he swears he didn't do it. 'Why should I fuck with children?' he says; 'They're too small!' " He shrugged. "Christ, what could I say? Even a goddamn were-wolf is entitled to legal counsel . . . I didn't dare turn the creep down. He might have picked up a letter opener and gone after my pineal gland."



R.I.P.