Adventures In the Kitchen: Why I Should Not Be Allowed to Cook Anything
Let me cut to the chase: I don't know shit about cooking. I don't know shit about making meat, I don't know shit about choosing cheese, I don't know shit about baking bread, and I don't know shit about birthin' no babies. I don't know shit about shit. If the good Lord had wanted me to use that mysterious cube called "the oven," then he wouldn't pay Mexican people to make microwavable entrees which come frozen in a rectangular box for my pleasure. I lack the time, patience, skill, and intelligence to properly prepare any meal which requires a more elaborate procedure than "thawing," and I've proven this fact time and time again like in the following actual example:


CULINARY DISASTER Food I Attempted to Produce:

Blueberry pancakes

Items Used in Preparation of this Food: Pancake batter, milk, a pan, blueberries, eggs (maybe?), water, fire extinguisher, Ypsilanti fire department.

Description of Food Preparation Experience: I woke up really hungry one Tuesday morning in July, so I decided to go the the grocery store and buy pancake mix. I was feeling particularly adventurous and manly that morning because I had sex the night before, or at least masturbated while I thought about having sex, or maybe I was too lazy to masturbate so I instead thought about masturbating shortly before falling asleep on a pillow damp with my own drool. "What's a better way to say, 'hey world, I'm the boss, applesauce!' than by making my own breakfast?" I muttered to myself that morning. "After all, people have been making their own breakfasts since the invention of breakfast in 1793 by Sir Thomas Yorkshire Saint-dianne De La Quette!" Let me tell you, there's a few hundred thousand million billion things in life which could easily be considered "much better ideas" than me making breakfast, and some of those items include drunkenly driving a pickup truck through a crowded church, and attempting to murder the President. After picking up the "ingredients" from the "store," I looked at the back of the pancake mix box and "kind of" followed the directions on it. See, it is my belief that the instructions on the back of any food product consist of lies and half-truths which try to make us, the ignorant consumer, purchase things we don't really need such as cooking oil and milk so the manufacturer's buddies will get rich while we wallow in our own consumer naivety. When preparing a recipe, you can safely cut out half the ingredients and still essentially end up with the same meal. I mean, who the hell actually uses garlic powder? Garlic powder is one of those things that you buy, never open, and just keep in your spice rack until the holocaust. It's merely a kitchen decoration, like a bell or ornament on a Christmas tree... er, in the kitchen. The only spice you ever really need is salt, and lots of it. I guess "ketchup" is a vital spice as well, but that's only if you're some kind of fancy lad who lives in a solid gold house and drinks liquid platinum for dinner or something.

To make a long story boring, I kind of threw everything into a bowl, beat the contents with some kind of metal implement which happened to be casually laying around in one of my drawers, dumped all that crap into a pan, and prayed. My prayers fell on deaf ears that particular morning, as my dreams of a pancake-filled breakfast were soon beached upon the rocky shores of reality. I somehow inadvertently created a chemical compound which not only bonded to the pan itself, but was inexplicably able to fuse its molecules to the actual stove and permanently transform into a piece of the surrounding environment. In the process of its mutation into proto-pancake, giant plumes of burnt carbon were sent floating throughout my apartment and set off nearly every smoke alarm within a six-mile radius. I know the fire department actually came by because my fucking alarm wouldn't shut off no matter how hard I hit it with a broken chair leg, and I have strong suspicions that the National Guard was called in to contain my apartment complex and keep an eye on it to ensure the growing mass of titanium-hard faux pancake didn't start overtaking the apartment rental office. Once your breakfast conquers the rental office, it will have absorbed hundreds of names and addresses, thereby giving it an open invitation to infiltrate the surrounding neighborhood and eventually run for a seat in Congress under the promise of lower taxes and more flexible gun control laws.

Lesson Learned From This Disaster: The government should allow me to own a flamethrower so I can combat my own culinary disasters and therefore prevent them from spending millions of dollars sending out armed Comanche helicopters every time I drunkenly combine items in a bowl.

Well those are my words to the wise. But it's time to be getting on, and I gotta be out like a cat in china town....cause this place is dead anyways.