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Couches these days. Sure, with gravity’s help, any one of them might wiggle a few nickels or lip balm from a hip pocket—but to think that some chaise or divan might do so on its own volition? To even consider that some couches harbor a leftover animal hunger arising from the leather they’re upholstered in is absurd, quite frankly, and it’s reasoning like that will get you admitted to a madhouse faster than you can say Lay-Z-Boy.

Well, call me crazy because couches still do feed on occasion. It’s just a rare one these days that’s made from something with enough moxie, keen on nibbling the derrière that takes a seat on its cushions. Just ask Fry, a bona fide couch potato—though not the clicker-wielding, indolent slug of a human that comes to mind when you hear the term.

You see, there are two kinds of couch potatoes in the world today: the tuber-like people that thanks to Netflix we are all guilty of becoming now and again, and, believe it or not, people-like tubers. Fry is the latter, a potato yes, but ambulatory and well-spoken.

He used to keep an eye on (and deal with) ass-nibbling couches—such was the job of a couch potato. But there just aren’t many sofas with an appetite in today’s world of lifeless synthetic materials. So these days he keeps busy composing Haiku, testing the tensile strength of dry pasta in the pantry, and stewing over the bastardization of his good name.

But when Fry’s adopted family acquires a vintage sofa that just can’t satisfy it’s hunger with loose change anymore and develops a taste for meat, this cynical potato must return to his couch wrestling roots and do whatever it takes to save the family pet from the clutches of this overstuffed asphyxiator.