Although spies like microwaves for a completely different
mission, hungry for something hippos like me only use the common cooking nook
appliance to bombard electrons against cold pizza and occasionally chilly
FEET-za. What better way to give my beltline a bulging boost than with a pushbutton
box that takes frozen pasty pablum and turns it into bold tasty hot n’ tots. Of
course the fridge is still my secret kitchen-mistress though unlike ‘mikey’ she is cold-hearted and always
wreaks of feet even after a thorough scrubbing .
As a fan of the ‘wave’ I’d like to see a mini-micro in every spare pigeon-place
in my home and car, since all should heed my call to count down their next
mandatory fragrant bacon injection. Who wouldn’t benefit from a transformer family
van with a magnetron on board ready to jump start a bun in the oven or toast
your toes during a cold commute. At least the built-in blocky clocks would keep
better time than the tinny Timex hanging from the Rear view mirrors in both my
car and bedroom.
My only Radar-Range recurring issue is whenever I stuff
something rank inside, half of it boils over and spits out onto the walls and
falls on the sides of the box yet the remaining food left on the plate is still
stone cold? I have enough trouble cleaning my OWN steel can much less the one
that surrounds and scorches my supper Tupperware too. Don’t worry I solved the
problem by just covering stuff with gold rimmed china – not only is there no
need to scrub crusty crud but I get a feisty fireworks show too.
Honestly what kitchen occupant other than the microwave has
truly revolutionized cooking, unless
you count ME with a potpourri of popcorn and pork rinds revolving around my
ample roll-hole. Even that spice queen I ride hard in the corner called ‘lazy
Susan’ is mostly just a pepper flake and easily replaced with a rack if it gives
me flack. Too bad my wife probably feels the same and would jump at the chance
to show me the mesh-lined door of ‘merry-Mike’s’ dizzy core for a quick SIT n’
spin if she dared. Except the spouse
would surely grouse that the clean-up risk is far too great, since so often I’m
stuffed brim-up with lots of hot what-nots on my plate and dangerously round-throne
prone to SEAT-sickness!
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