First and foremost, yam, I hate the way you sound. Just saying the word “yam” is ugly. It’s not how a food should sound. Something you put in your mouth should actually sound appetizing. When I say the word “yam,” I feel as though I’m yelling at someone from Neptune in his native language, insisting that he keep away from the control panel and allow me to land the damn saucer.
Now that guy likes yams.
Secondly, yam, have you looked at yourself?! You look like an enormous turd. You’re some type of prehistoric egg that should have suffered the same extinction as your dinosaur brethren. What’s more, where do you get off looking like something that fell out of an elephant’s ass, only to be sliced in half to reveal that you’re actually some type of molten lava-colored starch? I haven’t been this confused since June when that dude shat out a child!
When I think “delicious,” I think rock-solid poo.
Finally, yam, who the hell are you kidding with that name? An administrative manager is a secretary, a server is a waiter, and a yam is a goddamn sweet potato. You might think that dolling yourself up with that ridiculous, glorified name is going to earn you some type of credibility ’round here, but it won’t work. I’m on to you. Call yourself what you like, but a potato’s a potato. Fine, I’ll grant you the “sweet” modifier if you feel the need to qualify yourself, but how dare you change your name so blatantly. Apparently you think you’re the Puff Daddy/P. Diddy of the starch family, and in a sense I suppose you are: you both suck!
Sweet Jesus! Check out the yams on that one. Get some, Diddy!
Look, yam, I get it. I understand your want to distinguish yourself from other potatoes, and by all means you manage to do just that. But ask yourself this: why, only one day a year, do any of us even pretend to give a rat’s ass about you? Sure, some folks will point to the Thanksgiving tradition, but I say fuck that. Your good pal mashed potatoes is enjoyed year-round. Potato salad? A staple of summer and picnics alike. And don’t even get me started on french fries. Face it, yam, you’re a one-trick pony, and a three-legged one at that. What’s more, the fact that some folks opt to broil marshmallows into your mid-section pretty much says it all.
Well, that’s it for “Letter Y” of The Angry Alphabet. Until that last, elusive letter takes a shit on your neck, have at it, you vultures!
(And a Happy Thanksgiving, to boot. Well, sans yams.)