Roedd Daf y gath wedi bod yn gwylio Drag Race gyda’r staff.
– Jeff, dere fan hyn, meddai Daf i’w ffrind calico, – beth am i ni rostio’r Prifdaten?
– Rhostio fe?
– Ie, rhostio fe. Fel ar Drag Race. Mae fe wastod mor ddiflas. Gallen ni wisgo ffrogie ‘fyd.
– Sai isie gwisgo ffrog, meddai Jeff. – Fydd hi ddim yn mynd â fy het.
– ‘Ta beth, meddai Daf, heb ddiddordeb. – Mewn rhost, galli di weud beth bynnag ti isie wrth dy darged. Ac mae gyda fi loads i weud.
Trefnodd Daf y rhost. Dwedodd wrth y Prifdaten ei fod e eisiau iddo fe farnu sioe dalent. Roedd llwyfan ger sied newydd Dewi Sant, â meicrofon disglair arni, ac eisteddodd y Prifdaten, Santes Dwynwen, a’r Frenhines Branwen mewn llinell o flaen iddi. Ymddangosodd Daf, yn edrych yn anhygoel o od mewn ffrog pinc a phâr o fronnau ffug. Ceisiodd sawl jôc am fod y Prifdaten yn ddiflas, ond bu tawelwch.
Trodd y Prifdaten yn goch.
– NID YW HWN YN DDERBYNOL, bloediodd, ac ystumio i’w fyddin i ymosod ar y cathod.
– Wel, am syniad da, Daf, ti’n hapus nawr? gofynnodd Dewi Sant, wrth iddo rowlio sigaret.
– Arhoswch am eiliad, meddai Jeff.
Aeth hi i nôl bocs o fatshys, cwpl o bapurau newyddion, a ffon.
– Gwyliwch hwn.
Rhodd Jeff y papurau newyddion ar dân, cyn sgiweru’r Prifdaten â’i ffon, a’i rostio fe go iawn. Roedd ei sgrechiadau’n ofnadwy, a chyn bo hir, doedd dim ond lwmpen du wedi’i losgi ar ben ffon Jeff. Bu tawelwch eto.
– ‘Na ni, meddai Jeff.
Ond siarad ymhlith ei gilydd oedd y tatws. Camodd un ohonyn nhw ymlaen o’r grwp. Oediodd y taten, yna ebychu – YN AWR, FI YW’R PRIFDATEN PWYLLGOR PIWRITANAIDD Y TATWS. NID YW HWN YN DDERBYNOL.
– Mae ‘na wastod un, meddyliodd Daf, yn llyfu ei ffrog pinc.
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Saesneg / English
Roasting the Prime Potato
Dave the cat had been watching Drag Race with the staff.
– Jeff, c’mere, said Dave to his Calico friend, – how about roasting the Prime Potato?
– Roasting him?
– Yes, roasting him. Like on Drag Race. He’s always so boring. We could wear dresses too.
– I don’t want to wear a dress, said Jeff. – It won’t go with my hat.
– Whatever, said Dave, without interest. – In a roast you can say whatever you like to your target. And I’ve got loads to say.
Dave organised the roast. He told the Prime Potato that he wanted him to judge a talent show. There was a little stage by Saint David’s new shed, with a sparkling microphone on it, and the Prime Potato, Saint Dwynwen, and Queen Branwen were sitting in a line in front of it. Dave appeared, looking unbelievably odd in a pink dress and a pair of fake breasts. He attempted a few jokes about the Prime Potato being boring, but there was silence.
The Prime Potato went red.
– THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE, he bellowed, and gestured to his army to attack the cats.
– Well, what a great idea, Dave, are you happy now? asked Saint David, as he rolled a cigarette.
– Wait a second, said Jeff.
She went to fetch a box of matches, a couple of newspapers, and a stick..
– Watch this.
Jeff set the newspapers on fire, before skewering the Prime Potato with her stick, and roasting him for real. His screams were terrible, and before long, there was nothing but a burnt black lump on the end of Jeff’s stick. There was silence again.
– There we go, said Jeff.
But the potatoes were talking amongst themselves. One of them stepped forward from the group. The potato paused, and then exclaimed, – I AM NOW THE PRIME POTATO OF THE PURITANICAL POTATO COMMITTEE. THIS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE.
– There’s always one, thought Dave, licking his pink dress.
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