Potato Morality

One of the benefits of being a bicycle commuter and pedestrian is that you are more likely to come across the weird and the wonderful sights that get missed when your view of the world is through a windscreen. Sometimes I think I have an eye for the strange (see post "I Am the Ellis Island of Odd"), and other times I think the strange finds me. 

Last year, I believe it was Easter Weekend; actually, I took a train to visit family. I had hurried to catch the bus which got me to the station minutes after the train had left in a fine example of the excellence that is schedule coordination in my region. With an hour wait and hunger setting in, I went into the station store to find something to eat. It was an odd store with very little of the standard brands the usual variety store carry. I grabbed a bag of chips from a company I had never heard of before, paid and headed to the platform to sit out the hour in the sun. The chips were flaming hot (and I like it spicy) and slightly odd tasting. Out of boredom I turned over the bag and found a diary on the back: 

To think, all those years I spent training in Martial Arts when all I needed to do was  eat potato chips to learn about self-control

I later discovered that every flavour of Ray's chips tells a different story from his past. I can't tell if this is a clever marketing ploy or just plain goofy, but given that I've not been gripped with the urge to buy the other flavours in order to read Ray's entire life, I'll go with goofy.