One night the french fries will stage a revolt.The big, curvy one — the one that makes you ask, "Are there really potatoes this big?" — would be their leader. Shoestring, crinkle-cut, and even waffle fries will band together under his fierce command and march into your city, leaving a path of grease stains and salt crystals in their wake.

They would enter your home late at night, and after pacifying your dog with a juicy Big Mac, empty the ketchup bottles and fill them with water.

They would start a game of Monopoly in the middle of your living room floor. They would refuse to play the quick version, but instead play one that lasted for days. Their raucousness would keep you from sleeping. You would miss all of your favorite television shows. Eventually, one of them would get mad, swear that another was cheating, and scatter the tokens, dice and deeds in a wild fit of rage. In a storm of multi-colored money, the fries would vanish.

A few days later, upon stepping on that stupid little Monopoly wheelbarrow, you would remember the Great French Fry Revolt. You would curse in front of your children, because that little thing, the wheelbarrow, hurt.