Have you ever opened the refrigerator and seen a tiny sculpture in mashed potatoes of a 19th century European ruler? Have these sculptures ever attacked you and nearly severed your little finger? Well, believe it or not, it could happen to you.

It was one of those days when the boredom lingered in the air like garlic. I decided to venture to the refrigerator hoping that something would scream at me, "Eat me." Nothing did, so I slugged down a half gallon of milk. Satisfied with my new milk mustache, I pushed the milk back inside the refrigerator behind the leftover pot roast so that no one would notice the empty milk carton. To do this, I had to move everything else off of that shelf. This idea worked well until my cat jumped on the table and began to lick the mayonnaise off the Cool Whip. I then noticed a small sculpture made of Grandma's famous mashed potatoes. It looked like a miniature Napoleon Bonaparte. He held a tiny battle sword in his right hand, a rather long feather pen in his left and wore a silk nightgown. Amazed at the detailed perfection in the sculpture, I decided to look into the history and value of the statue. But right then I needed to get the Jell-O back into the refrigerator before it turned to a liquid.

A few hours passed and it came time to put Napoleon back. As I lowered him to the level of the shelf, I accidentally hit his head on the refrigerator light switch (sorry, there is no magical elf who hides inside the refrigerator and blows out the candle when you close the door ). Quickly, I remolded his head. In truth, he now looked more like Julius Caesar from the right side. With a sigh, I was putting him back when he swung his little mashed-potato sword at me. The tiny thing let out a battle cry that made my cat jump from behind the ketchup. Furious at the deep gouge in the flesh of my pinky finger, I dropped my hand on top of his puny head with great satisfaction. Yet it still didn't seem right, so I remolded the evil ruler, (now mashed potato heap) into the NBC peacock. With mad rage, I shoved the bloody peacock thing into its position in the refrigerator. Too angry to eat, I ran Joey Halberd (that's my little finger) under cold water. To this day I have a fear of mashed potatoes shaped like the French ruler, Napoleon Bonaparte.