This is a podcast episode for a show called Bob's Burgers. It is engaging, funny, entertaining, and very enjoable.

Time has a way of settling over things like dust. In the weeks and months after the throw, the world moved forward as it always did, carrying the echo of that singular moment along hidden currents. Newspapers reprinted screenshots. Documentaries aired clips slowed to surreal insistence. The hashtags faded, but the story didn’t. It became one of those inexplicable legends that people cited but never fully understood, like a cautionary tale whispered at family dinners or in the back rooms of small-town diners. The little man returned fully to Woodburn, to streets that remembered him but demanded nothing. No crowds, no cameras, no applause—just the rhythm of his own steps on cracked sidewalks. He walked past empty lots where leaves gathered in corners, past chain-link fences where forgotten potato sacks lay like relics of some absurd ritual. Sometimes, he paused and stared at them, half-expecting the russets to rise and fly again. They never did.

The first imitation attempt happened before the provisional ink dried. It was not sanctioned. It was not measured. It was filmed vertically on a phone with a cracked screen and uploaded with a caption that tried too hard to sound inevitable. The potato was undercooked. The distance was exaggerated. The target—a watermelon duct-taped to a fence—stood in for courage. Still, the clip spread faster than anyone expected, shared not because it was impressive, but because it felt adjacent to something that mattered. That was how it began.

The roar did not end so much as it transformed. What began as disbelief hardened into narrative almost immediately, as if forty-seven thousand people were racing to explain to themselves what they had just seen before someone else did it for them. Chants started and died mid-syllable. Flags waved with no clear allegiance. Strangers hugged, then pulled apart, embarrassed by their own sudden intimacy. On the field, officials moved with the stiff precision of people who understood that every step was now evidence. Clipboards appeared. Radios crackled. A man in a blazer jogged, then slowed himself to a walk, remembering too late that jogging suggested panic.

The potato left his hand with a sound no one expected—not a thud, not a hiss, but a low, wet whump, like something alive being evicted from its body. It spun once, twice, end over end, trailing a faint vapor as heat met air. For a fraction of a second it seemed too heavy, too ordinary, too foolish to be airborne at all. Then it climbed. The crowd did not cheer. Cheering would have implied confidence. This was something else entirely. A collective intake of breath rolled through the stadium like weather. Phones rose. Mouths opened. Somewhere in the upper deck, a man dropped his beer and did not notice.

In a world gone wild, the stage was set for the decimation of the world record. The stadium was loud and rukous. Bets were being made in Vegas and the back rooms of laundromats. No one believed it could be done. No one but one little man from the dirty streets of Woodburn, Oregon. He alone believed he could chuck a hot potato 100 yards into the gaping mouth of a 12 year old child from bangladesh. With a wave of his potato, he silenced the crowd and eyed his distant trembling, sunbaked target and let his starchy legacy fly.

Well we meet again... LOL JK JK it's me again Crystal how's everybody doing I guess for me I'm very optimistic LOL see how we all made it through the new year still proudly calling ourselves Americans dang Trump has been on a roll but who am I to judge the standard that's who but let's not get into all that right away too much to bear LOL sorry it's been awhile since I posted to tell you the truth this blog got swept under the rug with the holidays in life writer's block was an understatement .... Keeping in mind I'm new to this platform I'm really haven't worked it all out yet.... Very grateful for the readers followers and all the people I've met so far hopefully they'll be subscribers along the way well guys as always I'll be here please share the holidays and new years happenings with me.... yours truly The Crystal Standard.... Crystal L Standard

In a normal-sized living room, a tiny vintage television sits atop an even tinier side table, looking comically small against the furniture. The screen is locked on its only frequency: The Train Station, broadcasting non-stop footage of locomotives. As the tubes inside warm up, shimmering "scent waves" shaped like pepperoni slices drift into the air, a permanent pizza aroma that no amount of scrubbing can erase. The programming is delightfully bizarre. On-screen graphics transition from the political steam engines of Beltway Fever Dreams to the pastoral vistas of Rails and Cows. After hours, the mood shifts to a dimly lit train car where passengers gaze longingly at heart-shaped deep dish pizzas, proving that on this tiny TV, things get truly scandalous after midnight.

oh boy this one will be comical as all heck.. though i would like to see someone take it to the dark side.. the choice is yours

Can you let go? it might be harder than you think. Film this one any way you wish and in any setting you can imagine

what happens when 3 friends continue to play poker after one of them dies?... this might be funny or scary

Join the twin Witches, Yeta and Yater, as they venture out to find a demon to seed their perfect child. Part of a series of short stories that make up the Anataya Chronicles. Story contains mature subject matter. With that, enjoy.

Kerosene Bay is a city that refuses to die quietly. It festers, leaks, and keeps moving out of spite, dragging everyone inside it along for the ride. This story drops you into that slow collapse and lets you watch it from the gutter up—through broken friendships, bad love, late-night decisions, and the kind of humor people use when hope feels irresponsible. These pages aren’t about heroes or clean redemption arcs. They’re about survival, identity, and the lies people tell themselves to make it through another night. The work unfolds raw and unfiltered, showing the process as much as the product: unfinished moments, sharp dialogue, and scenes that feel uncomfortably real because they are. If you’ve ever loved a place that hurt you, laughed when you shouldn’t have, or stayed up too late chasing something you couldn’t name, this is for you. Step inside. The lights are still on—for now.

Think your neighbor’s late-night howling is just bad karaoke? Think again. This tongue-in-cheek guide uses folklore, moon habits, and suspiciously furry hoodies to help you spot a werewolf next door—without getting bitten, cursed, or banned from the HOA. Sleep tight… or at least invest in sturdy trash cans.

Stan Prolongo thought he was investigating a ghost. He walked into something far older and more dangerous. I should've known better when the gorgeous receptionist vanished into thin air. But sightseeing don't pay the rent, so there I was, Stan Prolongo, private detective, investigating a ghost at the Sciacca Retirement Community. A manager weeping over his dead wife in a broom closet. A receptionist who kept disappearing like smoke. Ten naked seniors with pickleball rackets. That's when I knew this wasn't your typical haunting. Five zones decorated with goddess symbols. Photographs showing the same women, year after year, except their faces kept changing. An old man poked my chest: "You'll never be one of us." By the time I met Mrs. Aphrodite Oshun, beautiful and dangerous with smoke curling around her fingers, it was too late. Blue smoke. Darkness. I woke up in white robes. Surrounded by cultists. Pure of heart, they said. Wrong place, wrong time, and exactly what they needed.

Because the world is vast you are superficial and loved and kind. We will see that. Welcome home bro

This is a small comedic story that happened to me. It is the funniest thing to ever happen when I was working at Rosetta Italian Bakery. This was when I lived in Miami, Florida. It is shared in second person perspective.

Emori Williams is new to city and has been finding it hard to fit in at her new school. She has also found it hard to concentrate when all she can think about is the passing of her father. Until she meets Alow Sanders and find herself having a crush. Is this Emori's Dream , will Alow help Emori?

Stan Prolongo just wanted new sneakers. What he got was a case involving mysterious tattoos, a peeping Tom with two left feet, and a late-night tattoo parlor where nothing is quite what it seems. In the seedy streets of Visalia, this rumpled private eye will trade shoe discounts for clues, chew through cheap pens, and discover that some crimes solve themselves. A noir mystery with small-town quirks and a detective who files his cases by movie ticket stubs.

An absurdist short story about what happens when extremely online people meet IRL in a Central California shanty town. Features: Dublin Dr. Pepper, curry-scented suntan lotion, cryptid crafts, and an underground do-wop convention. For fans of deadpan humor and the weird corners of small-town America.