Would you like Sweet Potatoes or Sweat Potatoes?

Don't sweet it, poor ant, you can have a sweat dessert later as a treat!
Don’t sweet it, poor ant, you can have a sweat dessert later as a treat!

For some reason Mr. Wapojif has been thinking recently about the perilous nature of the words “sweet” and “sweat”. The former suggests pleasant things such as cheesecake, nice people, jam, jam on scones, ice lollies, candy floss, and a nice person handing you an ice lolly for free. The latter, on the other elbow, throws up machinations about stiflingly hot weather, knackering exercise sessions, sticky clothing, the rancid stench of body odour, and perverted lunacy. Two words separated by a slim margin but with wildly disparate meaning; the outcome of a mess up would be disastrous. For instance, if a well meaning but dim gentleman sent his girlfriend a Valentine’s Day card in which he’d scrawled, “I think your a sweatheart!!! xx” the beleaguered woman wouldn’t be best pleased (unless she too were too stupid/ignorant/insane to realise the mistake). It would be interesting to know how many individuals in love (or lust) have inadvertently sent out messages reading, “I think your sweat! xxx”. Romantic? You bet.

This brings us to Sweat Potatoes, which you’ve just ordered from the fancy restaurant you’re attending with your date; a sweat girl you met at a recent Hot Air Balloon detonating convention. She’s a looker, although she smells a bit funny and laughs like a braying donkey, but the date’s going well and it’s time to order. The waiter arrives, you state your culinary desire, and you place a side order of Sweat Potatoes. The waiter, perplexed, dashes back to the kitchen post haste. A heated discussion with the Head Chef ensues. Belligerence and profanity commence as the staff attempt to comprehend what this new fangled food stuff could possibly be. Is it legal? Is it safe to consume? How is it prepared? The chef, ever the professional, makes his decision. He dashes outside the restaurant and sprints around the block, arriving back in the kitchen to sweat all over a batch of potatoes. He promptly boils these for 10 minutes, and then gets the maître d’hôtel (fresh from his sprint around the block) to sweat on them some more! They are then served with a sprig of parsley and a dollop of marmite. Revolting, right? Well that’s what you get when you don’t get the difference between sweet and sweat, you reprobates! Sheesh.

Have some gibberish to dispense with?

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