Bad Microwave

Had I known the dangers that lurked within a simple task like heating a package of Twizzlers in the microwave, I would have been a bit more prepared. I would at the very least, made sure I kept a parasol close by my side.

I was going through all the bells and whistles of my morning routine (brewing my favorite blend of Starbucks coffee, plugged in and grooving to the songs on my ipod, reading the morning news on my Blackberry, and watching my Neanderthal of a brother sniffing the underarms of his McDonald's crew shirt as he tried to determine if it met the proper level of work certitude). In fact I was just about to pour myself a nice piping hot cup of coffee when my brother's attempt to microwave (no, not the old microwave, but the brand new microwave with the on/off dial that kept falling off) a package of Twizzlers had reached the event horizon.

"Doug," (that's what I called my brother mainly because that's what Mom and Pop named him -- well actually they named him Douglas, but we always called him Doug), "Doug, what in the name of sanity are you cooking up in the microwave?"

"Huh? Oh that..." Doug said somewhat absentmindedly.

"Yes. That. What is the that that you are microwaving," I said growing rather perturbed with my brother.

"Twizzlers," he said with a shrug.

"Twizzlers?"

"Yeah, Twizzlers. What are you deaf, Tori?"

"Well normally, Doug, I guess your lack of common sense would be none of my concern. But there seems to be a pink mist coming from the microwave," I snapped.

Doug finally dropped the McDonald's crew shirt and ran over to the microwave. He attempted to fiddle with the on/off dial, but it kept falling off.

"Tori! I can't get the dial back on," he said starting to panic.

So I guess it was my turn to avert the crisis. I grabbed the dial from his hand and kept trying to get it to fit back into the correct slots. No good. It just wouldn't go back in.

"Doug, you bonehead!"

"Me? You're the one who bought a piece of junk microwave with a bad dial," Doug countered.

"Empirical poppycock! No one in their right mind microwaves Twizzlers!"

It was at that point that I heard a loud, steady knocking at the door. Who in the world could that be, I wondered silently.

"Doug, try to do something about the microwave. Someone's at the door," I called to Doug as I walked to the door. As I opened the door I saw our landlord Bob (It is Bob, isn't it?) come into view.

"Tori, some of the tenants have been complaining about an odd burning smell coming from this apartment," Bob said getting straight to the point.

"A burning smell? You don't say," I said trying to stall.

"Yes, do you know anything -- hey what is that smell? Are you two microwaving jet-puffed marshmallows again?" Bob asked.

"Microwaving jet-puffed marshmallows? Nope Bob (It is Bob, isn't it?), don't even have any marshmallows in the apartment," I said making a feeble attempt to deflect our landlord's inquiries. "In fact we don't have any jets or any puffs, either."

"Yes," Bob said flatly.

"Yes? Yes, what?" I asked curiously with just a hint of blaséness.

"Yes. My name is Bob," he said rather importantly.

"Great! Now that we've settled that, I'm sure there's more important things you have to attend to. Collecting rent, repairing stuff, you know land lording kind of stuff," I said attempting to get him to leave so we could figure out what to do about our Twizzler crisis.

And he was about to leave, too. Well, at least he was until my idiot brother opened his stupid mouth.

"Tori, I think we've got problem. A code red problem, Tori," Doug started shouting from the kitchen.

"Tori, what is Doug talking about?" Bob asked with a massive helping of concern.

I am pretty sure that was about when Bob (It is, Bob, isn't it?) noticed the swirling clouds of pink mist that were very near to covering the whole apartment in a pink fog.

"What have you knuckleheads done now!"

"Don't worry Bob, (It is, Bob, isn't it?) just trying out the disco lights we got at that yard sale we went to last month," I said sheepishly.

"Tori, disco lights that create a pink fog," Bob said with a more than slight tone of annoyance.

"And Doug," I called back at my brother, "This is definitely not a code red problem. This is most definitely a code pink problem!"

"Code pink?" Doug said incredulously.

"Yes. Code pink," I reaffirmed.

"Code red, code pink, or code what the heck-ever," Bob said in rising decibels of alarm. "I don't really care. But what I do care about is who is going to fix it!"

"Dude, Bob (It is, Bob, isn't it?), when did you dye your hair pink? Way to get down with your bad self, man," my brother said, pointing out the fact that our landlord's once white hair was now riddled with a sticky pink effect all over his head.

"Doug, are you on drugs?" Bob retorted. "My hair most certainly is not pink! And I most certainly do not dye my hair."

"Oh, but it is, Bob (It is Bob, isn't it?)," Doug insisted.

Before Bob could say anymore I pulled out a compact mirror and showed him the sad state of his hair. "I'm afraid it is, Bob (It is Bob, isn't it?). See."

"What the blazes?!! Oh no, what will I tell my wife?" howled the landlord.

"Don't worry, I got it covered," I said gently, trying my best to reassure him.

"You?"

"I'll give you a haircut and get rid of all the pink," I said smiling as I held up a pair of my Cutco scissors.

"Tori (It is Tori, isn't it?)," he said somewhat shakily, "oh blast! Now you got me doing it!"

"Doing what, Bob--"

"Now don't you dare say that 'it is Bob' balderdash," he interrupted heatedly. "Now Tori, aren't those the same scissors you tried to sell to me a couple weeks ago. The same ones you used to cut my one of a kind Civil War penny in half?"

"Why yes, Bob. But don't worry these babies are a whole smack better on hair then on one of a kind Civil War pennies," I said with a slight grin.

"Well, I don't know--"

"Now Bob, do you really want your wife to ask you how you managed to turn your hair pink?"

"Well no--"

"That's what I thought. Here sit down in this chair over here and I'll get the pink out of your hair," I said in a slightly authoritarian voice.

He sat down compliantly. "Have you actually cut anyone's hair before?" he said nervously.

"Oh sure," I said exaggerating the vowel sounds in "sure". "Now let's git 'er done!"

"Okay, I guess so," he finally relented.

I started in snipping away. I was doing a pretty good job, if I don't say so myself. Well there were a few snags along the way. "Oops!"

"What do you mean 'oops'?"

"Oh nothing. Just remembered an appointment I missed," I said trying to make Bob feel at ease. "There all done."

"Good. Can you show me what it looks like with that handy mirror of yours?"

"Certainly" I said pleasantly. I showed him his hair, using my compact mirror once again.

"What the hell!"

"Wow, Bob (It is Bob, isn't it?), I've never heard you use the word 'hell' before," I said feigning surprise. "Do you mean that like that's one hell of a job--"

"No-no-no-no! You incompetent nincompoop! Look what you've done to my hair," Bob bellowed. "Now what am I going to tell my wife?"

"That you got in a fight with a lawnmower and the lawnmower won!" Doug offered, not helping the situation in the least.

"Not helping," I sang peevishly.

That was it for Bob. He leapt out of that chair and stormed out the door. As the door slammed behind him, I sighed with a sense of relief. "Glad that's over," I mumbled.

"Yeah, sis. Me, too," Doug said. Then his eyes widened, "But what are we going do about the microwave?! It's still going!"

"Oh yeah. That," I said realizing that the crisis was far from over. "Doug, go grab the tools and meet me in the kitchen."

"You got it, sis."

Doug returned in a minute or two dragging all the tools he could find. I turned to him and said, "Alright, Doug. Screwdriver."

"Phillips or flathead?" he asked.

"Umm...Phillips," I said.

He handed me a screwdriver, "Screwdriver."

"Pliers."

"Pliers."

"Bolt cutter."

"Bolt cutter."

"Crowbar."

"Crowbar?" Doug looked at me with a puzzled deer caught in headlights stare.

"You heard me. Go get the crowbar."

"What are you going to use the crowbar for?"

"I'm gonna beat the microwave with a crowbar until it leaves," I said doing my best James Earl Jones impression.

"You're gonna do whut?" Doug said still unsure about procuring the crowbar.

"Doug! Crowbar! Now!"

"Okay, okay," he relented as he left to go find the crowbar.

About five minutes later he returned with the crowbar. "That's a good boy," I said patronizingly. Then I started to smash the living shinola out of the microwave.

"Tori. Don't you think you're being a little drastic?"

"Hnnnh! No...Doug...being drastic...hnnnh! Was giving...Bob...hnnnh! (It is, Bob, isn't it?) a haircut. Hnnh! There!"

The two of us looked at the smoldering mess of smashed microwave parts and the gooey pink and black remains of what was once a package of Twizzlers candies.

"Tell you what, sport," I said wrapping an arm around Doug. "Why don't you take me out to McDonald's so the two of us can finish our breakfast?"