EIGHTEEN WHEELERS OF FORTUNE: LET'S PLAY BMFCT

Sweetcakes [...] somewhere around the west edge of Idaho.

NO FUCKIN' WAY!

I mentioned that you'd been cruising down the I5, which is at least two hours' away from any of Modern Idaho's borders.

Please put up your dukes Sweetcakes, and try and beat my-



Hm.

Well.

I'm going to go out on fuckin' a limb (I have at least eight, crab divinity, yo) and assume you're going to beat that, what with a crap roll and you getting best 2/3 from your Cartography! Trait.

So you're not far off the I5, and you're in Potato Country.

The easiest way to resolve this is to decree that motherfuckin' [i]Solanum tuberosum[/b], commonly known as the Potato, had no natural predators after mankind's fuckin' destruction from the top of this motherfuckin' planet's pecking order. From humankind's assorted cultural relics we understood Idaho to be "the place with all the fuckin' potatoes", and have mostly taken the westward invasion of the potato in our many-legged stride.

To demonstrate this point, you notice the local shrubbery has these waxy fuckin' sort of leaves, and there's motherfuckin' potatoes tumbling out of a bit of dirt you fuckin' excavated with a loose corner of your now-smoking truck (which is still full of fuckin' ice cream, you dudes should get on with Haul!ing that or the like.) Gross, who'd even eat those dirt apples? Not a self-respecting crab, that's whon't.

Either way Kitet, you should roll and we can figure out exactly how far fuckin' west the potatoes have spread in humankind's absence, thus estimating how many hours we can shave off your prospective travel time.