YOU. Filthy. Nasty. THING.
Figure you’ll just sit around and get nasty and stay that way, huh? I guess you think that just because I’ve been busy with proof reading for the last two weeks, you can just accumulate piles of dishes and stacks of pizza boxes and disgusting crap all around your sink, and I’ll just be peachy with it?
The nerve. Do I not scrub you enough? Do I not spray your countertops with stuff lethal enough to kill germs all the way across town, in an effort to keep you from turning into Kitchen X of the next plague? Do I not buy deal with grime, moldy unidentifiable things, and dog hair? DO I NOT SWIFFER???
Well, the day of reckoning is nigh, dear Filthy Kitchen. I. Have. Had. It. I’m arming myself with the supersized bottle of Greased Lightning–and I didn’t cut it with water, either, that stuff’ll dissolve sponges, you know–and a big trash bag, and a roll of paper towels, and a supply of coffee, and you and I are going at it. Only one of us may survive, but I bet the one who comes out alive will look a hell of a lot better than it currently does.
. . .
A threat? Oh, yeah, that was a threat. That, indeed, was a PROMISE. You have left my feet covered with gritty little annoying stuff for the LAST TIME. You…you…DIRTY THING!
<takes deep breath and dives in>