Wolfman, clearly you took your spatula for granted. You used it for the same purpose over and over, and you mentioned that you put it in the same spot in the dishwasher every time. The spatula was tired of its repetitive, boring existence, and decided that life was not worth lack of attention it was receiving. Despite your eloquent account of how upset you are, I believe that you are covering up your own irresponsibility and neglect, now that you recognize that is what caused this tragedy.
Hopefully, this caused you to have an epiphany and you begin to treat your other kitchenwares better. Remember that the lemony toxicity is the only remnant of the spatula, except for its corpse that may still be laying on the lawn. I certainly hope you have enought respect to give it a proper sendoff. Perhaps you should have Taps played as you give it to the local Goodwill.
I’ve got to go with the dishwasher as the ultimate source of this misfortune. You see, wolfman’s spatula (which I call a flipper to distinguish it from the utensil I use to get the last of the brownie dough out of the bowl) was indeed crying out for attention, as were all your other utensils, plates, glasses and whatnot. The coldly impersonal cleansing of the dishwasher has denied these trusty kitchen helpmates quality time with wolfman–frisking together in the warm wash water, all bubbly and slick with soap, being gently rubbed (and effoliated) by a nylon scubber-sponge, rinsed under a jet of cool, crisp water and then lovingly, carefully dried with a fluffy, but lintless, towel–your kitchen buddies are crying out for your attention, your touch, your active participation in their cleanliness. The use of a mechanical agent, a dishwasher, renders you passive in this most important of rituals, reducing your role to that of a mere means of conveyence from sink to dishwasher. Your utensils and kitchen equipment work hard for you. They deserved some quality time with you. Forgo the dishwasher, wash them all by hand. They’ll thank you for it.
I’m unconvinced by the theories that the spatula was embroiled in either a conspiracy or a love triangle turned violent.
What I’m trying to get at, is… just how well did you really know your spatula? Is it possible that your spatula was grouped with the spoon, slotted spoon, pasta spork, and whisk not from its own volition, but purely out of traditional culinary convention?
Could it be possible that what your spatula really desired was… the companionship of another spatula? And that his years of enforced loneliness and sexual alienation drove it to seek his immolation… in a particular place, the “Big Steam Bath and Jacuzzi Spa” (as some utensils are wont to refer to the washing machine), that the spatula would keenly long for the companionship of another spatula of his own orientation?
I’m going to leave you the number of the hotline for the Friends of Gay Spatulas Alliance (FOGSA)… their counselors can help you confront your feelings of grief and guilt.
Des Moines has a large underground homosexual population? With Iowa City so close? I mean, you can get a carrot-scraper or an olive-grabber in any store on the street here! Why take it underground?
I believe the implication is that the previous wireless keyboard suffered a mechanical malfunction caused by the involuntary explosive explusion of caffeinated liquids into its works.
And this sad, sad tragedy claims yet another victim.
One year, our faithful stove of fifteen years decided to arc wield my Mother’s favorite stew pot. Upon seeing the sparks fly, my oldest bro pushed the pot into the sink with a broom stick as we scrambled to flick off all the switches in the fusebox, which happen to be also in the kitchen.
Although a practical woman, my mother thought it a bad idea (bad ideal, as in bad omen)to actually eat the slightly singed stew, so we ate KFC. We ate that the next day.
My father, being the practical man that he is (practical, as in cheap or stingy), replaced the old burner with a new one and he wielded closed the old stew pot - which was silly, because he should have known full-well that my mother would never use that pot again but would keep it as a joke, the butt of which was my father.
Suffice it to say, we wouldn’t have been the only family to have had a teenager try to burn their house down. :eek:
Have you ever thought that maybe your beloved spatula was just trying to get a little more massage relieve from the top rack water spewing device cleaning action thingee NASA here I come! and slipped to a hot burning death before all its friends?
Imagine the horror if anyone of use were at the spa and we saw Larry from Accounting suddenly land on the steam room lava rocks. Nekkid.
I know a little about the debacle to which you refer. I have it on good authority that, contrary to gossip, no spatulas were involved. What was first thought to be a spatula was actually, a butter knife in drag.
Besides, that happened so long ago, I doubt wolfman’s spatula could have been the one involved… I mean, not involved… or … Oh, H*ll! It just wasn’t there! I’m pretty sure.
There is proof of this unnatural liasion between utensils. These freaks, the spoon and fork have laid together in the drawer, making sweet sweaty silverplated monkey lust to create the spork.
Where in the hell do you put this unholy offspring of this unsanctioned union? Fork compartment? Spoon compartment? There is just no place for such a creature, except at Taco Bell. It ends up in the side of the plastic world that all the utensils rest their weary little heads in every night, with all the mutant utensils: tony the tiger spoon, butter knife, various stolen utensils from the cafeteria’s of life dreaming of ways to fark up your garbage disposal.
Ever wonder why the slotted spoon’s nickname is the Slutted spoon and how she got all those holes? It involves a drunked evening in the den of inquity at the back of the drawer with a bunch of those unruly, drunken steak knives. The harlot with her big rounded gazonga just begging for it to happen. Why can’t she more demure like the petite little demittase spoon? Chaste and never used, not even to dig out ice cream.
This is only the beginning of the End Of The World As We Know It And I Feel Fine!
