I had had enough. My trust was destroyed. Public humiliation and pain had become as common as a miserable cold. The time had come for action; execution was swift and without prejudice.
The Thomas’ had come over for dinner and, as I was proudly (“pride goeth before the burnt fingers…”) pulling two of the most gorgeous roasted chickens from the oven, my flesh singed and I yelped in proper bad-puppy fashion. My trusty old mitts had given up their ghosts…at the most inconvenient time: when I had a hand-full of 450 degree pan. Under a cold tap, my fingers did protest, my reddened skin shouting testimony against the failed and impotent heat-resistance that was nowhere to be found.
Somewhere across the pond, Shakespeare and Poe bisected their skeletal necks with worm-ravaged fingers, signaling the universal recommendation of doom. “Death! Death to the lazy oven mitts!”, they cried from their graves.
Really. You should’ve heard them. It was kind of creepy.
I trashed my old oven mitts and the new ones were necessary.
This other stuff…
…well, I just wanted it.