Tater Tot Quotes

He knew Danny, she was a fucking chatterbox. She was always rambling on and on about music and clothes and some asshat named Chan-a-something Tater Tots.

Let me say right here, if I haven't made it clear, that I have seen as many pale, naked old-man parts in the last twenty-four hours to bruise my delicate psyche for a lifetime, so don't be surprised if you someday find me wandering the moors at midnight, a crazed look in my eye, babbling about albino Tater Tots nesting in Brillo pads and being pursued by sagging man ass, because that shit can happen when you've been traumatized.

I thought this was a cookout. You know, dogs and burgers, Tater Tots, ambrosia salad" Dexter picked up a box of Twinkies, tossing them into the cart. "And Twinkies." "It is,"..."Except that it's a cookout thrown by my mother." "And?" "And my mother doesn't cook." He looked at me waiting. "At all. My mother doesn't cook at all." "She must cook sometimes." "Nope." "Everyone can make scrambled eggs, Remy. It's programmed into you at birth, the default setting. Like being able to swim and knowing not to mix pickles with oatmeal. You just KNOW.

When in doubt," Calypso said, "Tater Tots.

He had this domineering way about him that totally ketchuped my tater tots—it was like he knew what I wanted more than I did.

Four different kinds of Tater Tots?" I felt overwhelmed by culinary confusion. "Why would anyone need so many? Chili. Sweet potato. Blue?

I just want to get on a table, dance on someone's tater tots, and wait for the hall monitor to drag me away

Tater Tots.

She’s got the strength of a tater tot

Someone who doesn’t care if they get Tater Tots or turnip slurry is a person who has given up on life.

tater tots are mood-enhancing potato pillows,

What can I say? I’m a sucker for never saying no, because how can I look that poor older man in the face and decline seeing photos of his little tater tot? His words, not mine.

But I was small potatoes. I’d always been small potatoes. On the hierarchy of notable spuds, I ranked barely above a Tater Tot. Yori

Because I wanted that smile every morning right after mind-blowing sex and right before my tater tots. And I wanted it for a lifetime.

Hey,” I shoot back, “you can talk trash about me, but lay off my Tater Tots!

What do you mean 'warn me'?" Why did they both think I was going to claw her eyes out? The old me must've been psychotic." "I told you she has a soft spot for me." "Yeah, and I have a soft spot for tater tots, but that doesn't require me to warn people." "I think I can safely say she doesn't feel about me like you feel about tater tots," Cheney said, unsuccessfully trying to suppress his amusement. "I don't know, I really like tater tots," I mumbled. Cheney's laughter filled the room. "I stand corrected. Apparently your love for fried potato nuggets is much deeper that I gave credit.

Zeke stood up. He held the Tater Tot up to the sunlight streaming in through the cafeteria window. Some kids sitting at tables nearby took notice. They listened in as Zeke began to recite: "Oh, Tater Tot, oh, Tater Tot, so tiny and round, What an amazing potato taste in you I have found! Crispy on the outside, soft and mushy inside - What kind of mysterious potato do you hide? Russet, white, Yukon gold or Idaho? Are you mashed or baked or fried - I really don't know! Mystery spud so tasty and round, What an amazing lunchtime treat in you I have found." Everyone at the table applauded, and Zeke bowed. The kids around him clapped and whooped and laughed.

I wonder how much I can tell Rowan about this. I need another girl’s analysis. My phone pings, and it’s her. RF: Need to skip lunch. Meeting with teacher for Hon French project. You OK? Well, there goes that. I text back that I’m fine. Lunch is grilled cheese, green beans, and Tater Tots. I can already feel my pores clogging, but I didn’t bring anything, and the alternative is ice cream on a stick. I head toward the back of the cafeteria, intending to go outside to sit on the quad and obsess over The Dark’s emails, but I spot Rev and Declan sitting at a table in the corner. Well, I assume it’s Rev. It could be some other broad-shouldered guy in a hoodie, but I doubt it.

I realize with much shame and self-disgust I am not hating this sex with boy tater tots like I thought I would. I don’t even need to repeat “a million dollars” in my head anymore. Though hard to admits, I was starting to actually enjoy the sex with the tots. Oh, no’s! I thinks when I notice I now have erection too! Could it be that the trillionaire tater tots were causing me gay?

If they named him Tate, we could call him Tater Tot,” I muse. Two red blotches appear on Kitty’s cheeks, and just like that, she looks as young as I always picture her in my head: a little kid. “I don’t want them to have another baby. If they have a baby, I’ll be in the middle. I’ll be nothing.” “Hey!” I object. “I’m in the middle now!” “Margot’s oldest and smartest, and you’re the prettiest.” I’m the prettiest?? Kitty thinks I’m the prettiest? I try not to look too happy, because she’s still talking.

When a tardy bell rings again, normal is back. Kids rushing to class, sitting around bored, waiting for the final bell, and thinking about what they’ll do that night, that weekend, that next fifty years. They’ll be learning like we did about natural disasters and disease and world wars. You know: ‘When the aliens came, seven billion people died,’ and then the bell will ring and everybody will go to lunch and complain about the soggy Tater Tots. Like, ‘Whoa, seven billion people, that’s a lot. That’s sad. Are you going to eat all those Tots?

How much we thought all of it did. You know what really matters?” He waits for my answer. I feel as if I’m being set up for a joke, so I don’t say anything. “The tardy bell.” Now he’s forced me into a corner. I know there’s manipulation going on here, but I feel helpless to stop it. “Tardy bell?” “Most ordinary sound in the world. And when all of this is done, there’ll be tardy bells again.” He presses the point. Maybe he’s worried I don’t get it. “Think about it! When a tardy bell rings again, normal is back. Kids rushing to class, sitting around bored, waiting for the final bell, and thinking about what they’ll do that night, that weekend, that next fifty years. They’ll be learning like we did about natural disasters and disease and world wars. You know: ‘When the aliens came, seven billion people died,’ and then the bell will ring and everybody will go to lunch and complain about the soggy Tater Tots. Like, ‘Whoa, seven billion people, that’s a lot. That’s sad. Are you going to eat all those Tots?’ That’s normal. That’s what matters.

The major fast-food chains all emerged in the 1950s, as did ranch dressing and ranch dressing’s best friend, Tater Tots. Despite the name, these were not originally developed as a way to get children to eat more frozen shredded, fried potatoes, but as a way to use up potato shavings left over from the manufacture of other products. But kids loved them, as did pretty much anyone with a mouth.

The caterpillars are coming. They’re coming. As they passed a blunt rolled with marijuana shake around the bonfire, filled plastic cups with beer from a keg in the back of John Anderson’s Bronco, snuck cigarettes at the red doors that led to the make-out woods behind school. As they waited on line at the cafeteria for pizza and Tater Tots, warmed up during choral practice, and changed for gym in the locker room. Until Maddie felt something titanic rushing toward the island, gathering steam like a nor’easter barreling toward shore, and the waiting filled with a tingling urgency she knew they all felt. She felt it. Car engines revved harder, highs soared higher, buzzes and crushes burned brighter. “Look.” She lifted her palm as the insect inched across. The two lines of blue and red dots on its back glimmered like spots of blood rising after a pinprick. “They’re here.

Since this is clearly your first adult employment opportunity, allow me to offer you some advice. Don’t tater-tot with the maintenance crew. They can make your life miserable.

O My O My I dreamt of fries Fries filled the skies And rained from the cloud Pounding rooftops rather loud I ran People ran We all ran To fill our can O my o my Fries are falling The farmer comes calling Wondering why buyers are stalling This can't be the farmer says It’s pouring heavenly spuds He grabs a chair To reach for a share There'll be another year When potatoes will bear And buyers will want his spuds Because there'll be no heavenly buds There will be tater tots For the pots And cooked potatoes to mash So there’ll be some cash There’ll be potatoes to bake To have with steak Top that off with a cake Not all is at stake Add potato rolls For munching on a stroll My O my fries have arrived Without a toll Potato chips for a trip Snacks and some dip Potatoes reign supreme Teaming up with cream Make potato wedges For some edges Tie a spud with a bandana Potatoes have gone bananas

In 1983, I moved to San Francisco for my pediatric endocrine fellowship. I had no idea what awaited me in the pediatric ICU: three toddlers, eighteen months old, all on ventilators in congestive heart failure because their parents had placed them on a macrobiotic diet. These ostensibly well-meaning parents were trying to prevent their children from succumbing to the “toxins” associated with meats, oils, and dairy products, so instead they fed their tots grains, cereals, vegetables, and, of course, tater tots. As a result, their hearts ballooned and couldn’t pump from the lack of iron, vitamin D, and calcium.

So, for a year or so that became our Saturday ritual. Me, my mom, a phone book, our minivan, and tater tots with cheese.

Two cans of green beans, one can of cream of mushroom soup, a splash of Worcestershire, a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, a frozen bag of Ore-Ida Tater Tots. Mix wet ingredients in a bowl (bowl and spoon already on the counter) and pour into a nine-by-twelve casserole dish (also already on the counter). Cover with Tater Tots (still in the freezer). Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, bake until the Tots are golden brown, then remove using the oven mitts and trivet (again, already on the counter).

Back rubs,” she says without even pausing to think about it. “Long and luxurious and totally aimless back rubs.” “Hot showers,” he says. “Incredibly hot. Like, use-all-the-hot-water-in-the-whole-building hot.” “The first sip of water when you’re really thirsty.” “The first sip of coffee in the morning.” “The smell of dryer exhaust.” “The smell of hot asphalt at an amusement park.” “Sprinting into the ocean.” “A hayride at sunset.” “Lobster rolls, warm, with melted butter.” “Cheese ravioli out of a can.” “Whoopie pies with marshmallow fluff.” “Tater Tots with mayonnaise.” “The moment everyone at a wedding stands up at the first few notes of the bridal march.” “When you stare at a Rothko so long it looks like it’s vibrating.” “The statue of David.” “American Gothic.” “The beginning of Mozart Forty.” “Rage Against the Machine.” “The violin solo from Scheherazade.

prison. Duke Graham drove to the police station and provided a solid alibi. Debbie’s family was informed that the apartment she’d been renting needed to be vacated. Her mother was still not functioning. Her aunt Glenna Lucas volunteered for the unpleasant task. A policeman unlocked the apartment, and Glenna entered slowly. Nothing had been moved since the murder, and her first reaction was one of raw anger. There had obviously been a brawl. Her niece had fought desperately for her life. How could anyone inflict such violence on such a sweet, pretty girl? The apartment was cold, with an offensive smell, one she could not identify. The words “Jim Smith next will die” were still on the wall. Glenna gawked in disbelief at the killer’s badly scrawled message. It took time, she thought. He was here for a long time. Her niece had finally died after a brutal ordeal. In the bedroom, the mattress was against a wall and nothing was in place. In the closet, not a single dress or blouse was still on a hanger. Why would the killer strip all the clothing from the hangers? The small kitchen was disorganized but showed no signs of a struggle. Debbie’s last meal had included frozen potatoes—Tater Tots—and the leftovers sat untouched on a paper plate with catsup. A saltshaker was next to the plate, which was on the small white table she used for her meals. Near the plate was another crude message—“Don’t look fore us or ealse.” Glenna knew that the killer had used catsup for some of his writings. She was struck by the misspelled words. Glenna managed to block out the terrible thoughts and begin packing. It took two hours to collect and box the clothing and dishes and towels and such. The bloody bedspread had not

Sonic, where we can eat chili dogs and tater tots

I fucks you long time,” I promises him like whore. “Nigga, I sucks your cock for some life!!!

One time when Mrs. Mentry came to our school, things got out of hand and there was a food fight. Pickle chips and meatballs and burritos and Tater Tots were flying through the air. It was cool.

Because what living tater tots craved more than anything else in their brand new world—more than money, political power, property, or material luxury—was good old-fashioned human cock, balls, and man-ass.

Open up again, you aborted, miscarried, garbage-faced, piece of slime!” Faygo Freddy says. “Open up wide, fucker! Whoop, whoop!

Callie froze—her cheeks puffed up with tater tots.

Eating tater tots won't get me into Princeton.

Asking my father to ask the waitress the definition of “sloppy Joe” or “Tater Tots” was no problem. His translations, however, were highly suspect.

Did you just get a bath, little buddy? You smell so good, you handsome little tater tot,” he coos at him. I bite back a scoff as I watch Rogan kiss him again. Hoot rubbed himself all over my dirty underwear while I was in the shower this morning. The only thing he smells like is eau de mon vagina.

That’s the whole reason we’re here, isn’t it?” she persists. “Not to swim in their pool, and sleep in their beds, and eat their Tater Tots. Who invented those things, anyway? Pure starch and oil!” “Hey,” I shoot back, “you can talk trash about me, but lay off my Tater Tots!

Dennis and I, being from a family of devoutly religious eaters, committed not only to socially designated meals, but also less traditional mealtimes like "it's already Taco Tuesday in Sweden," "tater tots are mood-enhancing potato pillows," and "cheese is the cure for boredom.

I stop at Sheetz and eat my body weight in tater tots and fried mac and cheese.

Right, because Milo the DICK-tater..." Fuck my life, she made him sound like a poorly constructed tater tot, and it was killing me not to laugh.

That I Saw the Light on Nonotuck Avenue That every musical note is a flame, native in its own tongue. That between bread and ash there is fire. That the day swells and crests. That I found myself born into it with sirens and trucks going by out here in a poem. That there are other things that go into poems like the pigeon, cobalt, dirty windows, sun. That I have seen skin in marble, eye in stone. That the information I carry is mostly bacterial. That I am a host. That the ghost of the text is unknown. That I live near an Air Force base and the sound in the sky is death. That sound like old poetry can kill us. That there are small things in the poem: paper clips, gauze, tater tots, and knives. That there can also be emptiness fanning out into breakfast rolls, macadam, stars. That I am hungry. That I seek knowledge of the ancient sycamore that also lives in the valley where I live. That I call to it. That there are airships overhead. That I live alone in my head out here in a poem near a magical tree. That I saw the light on Nonotuck Avenue and heard the cry of a dove recede into a rustle. That its cry was quiet light falling into a coffin. That it altered me. That today the river is a camera obscura, bending trees. That I sing this of metallic shimmer, sing the sky, the song, all of it and wonder if I am dying would you come back for me?

Friday is tater tots day at school.

My mother entrusted me with a green bean casserole, and I immediately committed the recipe to memory. Two cans of green beans, one can of cream of mushroom soup, a splash of Worcestershire, a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, a frozen bag of Ore-Ida Tater Tots. Mix wet ingredients in a bowl (bowl and spoon already on the counter) and pour into a nine-by-twelve casserole dish (also already on the counter). Cover with Tater Tots (still in the freezer). Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, bake until the Tots are golden brown, then remove using the oven mitts and trivet (again, already on the counter).

I knew lots of guys who’d liked my sister only to have their hopes dashed when they found out she only had crushes on sleeping and tater tots.

While Laurence was talking, a Tater Tot hit him in the head, but he just kept talking as if nothing had happened.

Do you know there’s such a thing as Tater Tots? Back in Happy Valley, they told us we always had the very best, but we didn’t have Tater Tots. Another Osiris lie.

O My O My I dreamt of fries They filled the skies And rained from the cloud Pounding rooftops rather loud I ran People ran We all ran To fill our can O my o my Fries are falling The farmer comes calling Wondering why buyers are stalling This can't be the farmer says It’s pouring heavenly spuds He grabbed a chair To reach for his share There will be another year When potatoes will bear And buyers will want his spuds Because there will be no heavenly buds There will be tater tots For the pots And cooked potatoes to mash So there’ll be some cash There’ll be potatoes to bake To have with steak Top that off with a cake Not all is at stake Add potato rolls For a long stroll My O my fries arrive Without a toll Make wedges For some edges Tie a spud with a bandana Potatoes have gone bananas

you're turning red. It's totally your color." "That's going to cost you a tater tot," he says stealing from my tray. "HEY! Cut it out, tater tot Tuesdays are my favorite!" Suddenly Laurel bursts out laughing from the other side of the table. "You guys are totally adorable. It's like I get to eat at the kindergarten table.

There are a lot of Tater Tots in the world. I intend to stick around to eat my share.

Tots. Ore-Ida. Lay it out in your pan. Then you get you a pound and a half of hamburger meat. Fry that up real good, drain it on paper towels, put it back in the skillet. Mix the meat up with two cans of sloppy joe stuff, and pour that over the Tater Tots. Now you sprinkle two cups of grated cheese over the sauce. Top with two cups of crushed up Fritos. Bake it for thirty minutes and—