That’s a joke! Ha ha! I can’t rethink a snack choice. What I would like to rethink is the electric stove, which, when viewed from above, looks like it will either kill you or hypnotize you if you touch its little nubs.
Most people like to play with the stove, particularly young children if you are Facebooking while you cook, or you may be Twittering while something goes very wrong with your dinner. Each produces an unwanted outcome, ranging from burned child “a la ER” or you just confirm your secret fear that you can’t cook your way out of a Campbell’s can.
If you go into the guts of the “range”, you find that there are four, uh, places for you to put the glowing hypno-eyes into. If you fail to clean the hypno-eyes, they will eventually begin to burst into flames. And if you fail to clean the little discs underneath, so shall your chances of fire be raised by two. We use big assed-kettles here, so I have to be a little more careful with cleaning those fuckers from now on.
See, we just can’t leave well enough alone, from Japan to Wisconsin, to the road to my house and its range. It’s a dirty shame, and one that may prove dangerous for all of us. We keep pressing and pressing and things go pop. Devo runs through my head briefly, as my wife continues to lose at solitaire in the background.