Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Grill
I was sent to the grill with the hamburgers because that is what men do. Men grill. They grill and they kill bugs. Since the dawn of recorded time, man has been lighting fires and killing things, and after thousands of years, we are finally getting good at doing both. Secure in the knowledge that I am genetically predisposed to cook the flesh of dead animals over a sizzling fire, I went to the backyard with a plate of meat in one hand and matches in the other. With panache and grace, I lit a match with one hand and tossed it onto the coals I'd presoaked with lighter fluid. The sudden explosion of flame and wave of heat sent me reeling backwards. I tripped over a lawn chair and hit the ground hard, spraying the backyard with hamburger patties. I lay on my back for a couple of minutes, waiting for my sight to return. I tried to place the strange scent in the air…what was that? Burning hair? I checked my head to make sure it wasn't on fire…it wasn't. I checked my eyebrows. They were gone. I continued to lay on my back for a minute or two, wondering how I was going to explain my new look at the office. The sky was pale blue. Thick puffy clouds drifted lazily through the stratosphere. It was a beautiful day for a cookout. I got to my feet. I collected the hamburger patties and rinsed them off with the garden hose. Still blinking furiously, trying to get the orange spots out of my vision, I dropped the meat on the grill. I watched them cook for a little while before I realized I was missing something. I went back in the house. "Do we have a spatula?" I asked Christine. Her back was to me while she made salad. It was a safe task that women partake in. She did not see my new look. "I think it's in the dishwasher," she said. "Clean or dirty?" I asked. "Dirty," she answered. I took a clean wooden spoon out of the utensil jar by the sink instead. Men grill. They do not muck around in a dirty dishwasher. Spoons are not good for flipping hamburgers. I gave it my best, but the patties would not flip. I tried from all angles. After I burned myself and dropped the wooden spoon into the grill, I went back inside to get the spatula. "How's it going?" Christine asked when I came back inside. Her back was still to me. "Good," I lied. I examined my new scar under the kitchen light, as if looking at it would make it hurt less, and then I rinsed the spatula off and took it outside. The wooden spoon had acted like kindling, causing flames to wrap around the hamburgers. They had turned into patties of fire. Thick black smoke rose skyward and I became petrified the neighbors would call the fire department if I didn't do something. I sprayed dinner with the garden hose for a second time and then went inside. Christine saw my new look. I couldn't tell if she liked it or not. "Feel like pizza?" I asked cheerfully. |
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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E-mail feedback, jokes or nekkid pickchures to Tom at: |
