Why I Hate Cleaning Ovens - An Incoherant Rant

Oh, for the days of the mud ovens. When it became too grotty you could just take a sledgehammer to it and incoroporate the pieces into your garden path (that is, if you had a garden to put a path in). Then all you'd have to do was lug in another pile of goop, shape it into something remotely oven-like and then you were cooking on gas (not literally, of course).
But no. Some half-witted moron (who probably spent his entire life under the strange assumption that the plants were trying to communicate with us using telepathy) came up with the ever-so-bright idea to make the little suckers out of metal, thereby giving us something else to clean (by us I mean women - to this date I've never seen a bloke clean an oven). Well, I for one hope he rots in hell (I say he because no woman would be cruel enough to inflict this sort of torture on her fellow human beings).
The day generally starts with the house/apartment/hole in the ground covered with a tarpaulin being vacated by its occupants - except for li'l ol' you. You were planning on using the only entire day you've had off in ten years to spend some 'quality' time with your kids/partner/giant pink teddybear called Stan. But, unbeknownst to you, they've already made plans that simply cannot be broken under any circumstances. So, this leaves you with at least twelve hours on you Pat Malone. But, instead of kicking back and vegging out during this period, you decided to clean out the oven - which is layered with three inches of grims (at its thinnest) and could possibly be harbouring bacteria and other life-forms last seen at the bottom of Vesuvius before the eruption.
Like the trooper you are, you whip out your rubber gloves (industrial strength), gas-mask (from WWII) and oven cleaner (industrial strength). Donning your safety equipment (to which you've included a tank of oxygen you acquired during last years scuba diving holiday in the Bahamas), you start shaking the can for all you're worth. Two hours later, the foam has finally acheived the recquired consistancy, so you pop off the lid and set to work. Pointing the can towards the rear of the offending piece of equipment, squirt some... and nearly pass out from the fumes (it has been scientifically proven at the University of Woolloomooloo that no oven cleaner can be entirely fumeless - in fact, the more fumeless the cleaner claims to be, the more likely it is that you'll have to be taken to hospital for inhalin noxious gases).
You stagger from the room, gasping for what little oxygen is left in the atmosphere after the chemical blast that just occured in your kitchen. While your face is returning to its normal shade of pink/brown/green with purply polka dots, your pet cat/hamster/elephant called Ralph sneaks into the kitchen intent on discovering what all the commotion is about. Spotting the patch of white stuff on the rear wall of your oven, your chimpanzee/chow chow (that's a type of dog BTW)/death adder called Charlie automatically assumes that it's edible - and scoffs the thing. Alerted by the yowls/hoots/screams of agony, you race into the kitchen to find your marmoset/aardvark/llama called Dudley in convulsions on the lino. Since your sisters/main squeeze/giant blue kangaroo called Stan neglected to buy either mustard (industrial strength) or baking soda (industrial strength also) last time they went to the shops - which are a must when you've got hungry-gutted animals - you have to rush the poor creature to the vet's to have its stomach pumped.
When you finally return, five hours later and sans your pet (which is currently costing you $25 a minute while it stays in a self-contained cage at the vet's surgery) you have to again shake that Godforsaken can for another three hours before you can start again (at this point, you're only doing this as a matter of pride). Putting on one of those environmental suits you once saw on 'Star Trek', just for good measure, you coat the inside of the oven with white, smelly foam. Following the manufacturer's instructions, which are never correct, you shut the door and slink from the room.
In the time you have to wait for the cleaner to do its funky thing, you read the entire contents of the state library, play twenty games of chess against IBM's Deep Blue computer (and lose miserably each time) and circumnavigate Australia in a canoe.
You finally crawl back into the kitchen, dragging an industrial sander and a buzz-saw for the harder bits. Ten hours later, the interior of your oven is pristine, which is more than can be said for the kitchen itself - it looks like its been packed with two tonnes of TNT and blown to Kingdom Come. That black stuff that accumulates in the worst places (ie, the ones you can't reach) is in your hair, down your clothes, stuck to the walls and covers half of the town. You're knee-deep in sponges that you're convinced are going to get up and walk out in protest over their working conditions. Your hands are nothing but bloody messes (because your rubber gloves crapped out within the first five minutes) from scrubbing one spot on the floor of the oven, only to realise that its probably integral to the structure of the whole contraption and its removal will most likely cause the thing to collapse into tiny pieces.
You're frustrated, annoyed, dirty, smelly, pissed off and more than a little bit cranky. But you've finally done it, you've cleaned the God-be-damned oven. At this point, live is good.
It's at this point that euphoria is cooled by the arrival of your mother/better half/yellow stuffed dog called Stan uttering that immortal sentence, "How was your day?"

Promise me one thing - let them live.

Any comments or suggestions...?