My Son, the Playwright
My son is eleven. He wrote a play. I’d like to share it with you here.
The Magic Potato
Criminal: Finally! I have the magic potato and its power. No one can stop me!
Potato: Hey, where am I?
Criminal: No! He woke up!
The potato spit fries at the criminal to make him unconscious.
Me: Hey, a potato!
Potato: No, don’t eat me!
Me: Wow, a talking potato! Why are you here?
Potato: To stop evil! You see, the evil Doctor Rotten wants to rot every potato and no potatoes means no potato chips, no french fries, and most important, no potatoes!
Me: But I love potatoes!
Potato: Then let’s get to that lair in my jet.
Dr. Rotten: You’re too late!
Potato: Hey, you said you would rot potatoes at 11:30!
Dr. Rotten: Oh well. I have a rot gun!
Potato: TASTE TATER, HATER!
Dr. Rotten: What? What?!
Then the french fry went in Doctor Rotten’s mouth
Dr. Rotten: I never once tasted potatoes. Now I don’t want to do evil, but I want to farm! From now on my name is Doctor Spud!
Potato: Another job well done!