Please don't read these stories! I beg you to please, please go back to pinterest or reread "Eat, Pray, Love". Go somewhere safe. These stories are dangerous! They have been banned from libraries, bookstores and living rooms all over the world. Even chatroulette users recoil in terror. Read at your peril. You have been warned.
How do I eat? By putting food into my mouth, that's how I eat. How do you think I eat? Why? How do you eat? Do you stuff food into your ears? Yes, I eat. And, unlike you, fatso, I can eat as much as I want of whatever I want and not get fat. That’s right. I’m lucky. Damn lucky. Lucky I'm a head. I can eat and eat and the food just goes right through my neck and, depending on where I am and who’s taking care of me, down into either a bag or straight onto the floor or ground. I prefer the straight to the ground method, so long as someone moves me before the food starts to rot and stink. Eating while traveling, which I do, often, in spite of what you might think, is great. Sam puts me in my travel stand, the one with wheels, and takes me for a walk, on a leash, like a dog. It’s fun so long as we don’t hit any big bumps. The walks have improved a lot since I suggested that Sam build a stroller with a wide base, big soft nubby wheels, and a strap to hold me in. We have many fewer accidents than we did when I was perched on the skateboard.
Eating while moving, for me, is similar, in a way, to you taking a dump in the toilets on a train. I don't take dumps, a nasty business in which I am not a participant, but I've watched Sam take dumps in the toilet on a train. Have you noticed? In the train? You flush and a hole opens up to the ground below. You can see the train tracks and the weeds whizzing by and the water and toilet paper trying to land. That’s me while eating and moving. I eat and whatever I eat lands on the ground moving beneath me. Do you get it? Do you understand? It goes right through me! Ah, delicious food. Are you jealous? Can you eat bacon cheeseburgers all day without getting fat? Ha! Eating is one of my favorite activities. Oh, it’s yours too but you have to resist? You have to watch what you eat or it'll go straight to your hips? Oh, wah, wah, I feel so sorry for you.
Not!


Some people call me "Mr. Potato Head". Does it bother me? No. Not at all. Not in the slightest. People who call me "Mr. Potato Head" are stupid and ignorant. In the unlikely scenario where I think said ignorant person is worth my time, if I like them because, say, if it’s Sam, he’s been feeding me bacon cheeseburgers and has taken me on a nice walk without tipping me onto a spot of hot, greasy, parking lot asphalt, and has not sent me rolling down a grassy, rocky, hill, I say, “Get your facts straight, Moron! Mr. Potato Head is nothing like me. Nothing at all! Pay attention. Are you even looking at me, Nimrod? Have you ever actually seen a Mr. Potato head? You shouldn’t go around talking about things you know nothing about. Let me clue you in. First of all, Mr. Potato Head is a potato. A plastic potato. Am I a plastic potato? Am I a strachy potato? Am I any kind of a potato? No. Also, Weasel-Brain, Mr. Potato Head has arms, legs, and sometimes a moustache and hat. Sometimes I have a hat, it's true, but many people sometimes have a hat and do you call them "Mr. Potato Head"?? Do you call everyone who sometimes wears a hat "Mr. Potato Head"? No.
So.
I am nothing like Mr. Potato Head, except that sometimes I wear a hat. But take note, Dingbat, that Mr. Potato Head wears a little bowler hat whereas I wear caps; becoming caps which protect my face from the sun and also, when the bill is curved just so, frame my face in such a way as to make me even more handsome than without the cap. If it's possible that I could be any more handsome. So, no, I am nothing like Mr. Potato Head. Why would you even think such a thing? Did you pass fourth grade? Probably not or you would have played with a Mr. Potato head and you’d know what you’re talking about!”

At this point, I’d love to give Sam, or whoever has called me "Mr. Potato Head", a nice, swift kick, but, of course, unlike Mr. Potato Head, I don’t have legs!



Yes, I yell a lot. I have quite a good voice if I do say so myself. (Ha! I was about to say I have a great set of lungs but, of course, I have no lungs! It’s just a saying, about having a great pair of lungs.) I have a loud, strong, manly voice. A voice that carries even when I’m not yelling, though, like I said, I yell a lot. It's really the only way that I communicate. I prefer yelling to namby-pamby blah-blah talking. Yelling is a great way to get Sam to come running to me or to get dogs or little kids to run away from me. Whenever a dog gives me a sniff with its snotty wet nose, I yell and/or bite him immediately so that he runs away before he has the chance to give me a lick or, worse, lift his leg at me, which is not acceptable, of course. Do I look like a fire hydrant? No, not at all. I’m not red, not metal, don’t spew water, and am not inanimate. Now, if a dog wants to follow along behind me during one of my walks and scarf up the remains of my cheeseburgers, what do I care? Fine with me. I'm an extraordinarily generous person. I like to share my bacon cheeseburgers. After I've eaten them.

Did I mention that I sing baritone in a barbershop quartet? Not only am I great at yelling, I have a fine singing voice. Sam puts me on a pedestal (literally) and I join Sam, who sings with a wimpy high tenor and who, I’m sure, though I would never tell him so, is only invited into the group because of me and my fine baritone, and the others in rousing renditions of Jeepers Creepers, God Bless America, and You’re Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile. I do have a beautiful smile. My teeth are perfectly even and white. It's a smile that could launch a thousand ships.
When we perform for an audience, Sam drapes an orange mumu around the pedestal to disguise the fact that I'm a head. He says it might disturb people, which is ridiculous, but whatever. I humor him. Another example of my excellent and generous personality.

That reminds me. Shaving. Shaving is the bane of my existence. If I don’t shave, my beard gets stuck in my stand or, worse, in the wheels of my stroller. The juice from bacon cheeseburgers lands in my beard and after a while, flies, or, worse, cats, pay me a visit.
Also I like to show my chiseled cheek bones – the world should not be deprived of my beauty by covering up face with beard hair! Although, whenever I do have a beard, men all comment, enviously, on its thick and lustrous beauty. I hate having a beard, but shaving’s no picnic either.  I’ve tried every alternative: hair removal creams, electrolysis, and chinese herbs, but a razor is the only thing that gets the beard off. 
So, every morning before he shaves his measly couple of facial hairs, Sam lathers me up and gives me a shave. I’m particular about the temperature of the foam. Sam soaks the can in a pan of hot water for exactly 15 minutes before applying the stuff to my gorgeous mug. In the past, Sam has suggested that this warming of the foam is unnecessary, that perhaps we’d both like to skip this step in the shaving regime and sleep in a bit, or even skip a day of shaving entirely.

“It’s not like you have to go to work,” he said that one time.
Did I detect a tinge of jealousy because I get to stay home while Sam goes to work? Ha!
“Are you kidding me?” I yelled. “You think it’s not work being me? It’s a hell of a lot of work. All day, a thousand times a day, I have to convince you, Mr. Slowpoke, to take me places, to feed me bacon cheeseburgers, to cut my thick hair, to give me a shave. You think that’s easy, Buster? Do you think it’s fun? Getting you off your butt? You are so sloooow. You’re Mr. Molasses! Don’t think I don’t work. I work all the time.”

Well, that did the trick. Deep down, Sam knows what's what. He knows he's slow and he knows he's lucky to to have me. What would his life be like without me? The only reason Sam is anyone is because he has me and he knows it. He'll do whatever I say. I just have to remind him now and again. I get my warm shave every morning, even if it’s snowing and we’re not going out. (Though there’s no excuse for not going out in the snow since I have invented the prefect sled for myself and am only waiting for Sam to build it.)

I once was offered a well-paying job in the circus. The circus! Seriously? Can you believe it? What do I need the circus for? If  they had a “Handsomest Man” routine I would consider it. It goes without saying that I qualify for "Handsomest Man" and that I'd be paid hamsomely. I turned it down. Sam told me I should take the “opportunity” but I know he would miss me. I wouldn’t do that to Sam.