The Disappointment
As you tear open the cardboard packaging for the pizza, an idea hits you: why not just microwave the pizza? Why risk burning the house down by fiddling with the oven.
The pizza is slightly too big for the microwave, so you bend the sides over slightly before slamming the door shut. You flip over the box and check the cooking instructions. There are only directions for using an oven - nothing about microwaving at all. Oh well, how different could it be? The directions call for a fifteen minute cooking time, so you punch fifteen minutes into the digital timer. You watch the pizza slowly rotate a few times before grabbing a beer and heading back to your bed room.
You spend a few minutes watching "Top Ten" countdown videos Youtube, before you're interrupted by your bed room door bursting open.
"Get in the kitchen, you little shit!" screams your mother, her nostrils flaring. You quickly scamper past her, and almost instantly notice the distinct smell of burning plastic mixed with cheese hanging in the air.
In the kitchen, you find your Dad standing by the back door, attempting to wave thick smoke outside with a sheet of newspaper. He clutches one hand over his mouth and nose, staring at you with a look that could cut glass. You turn your attention to the disaster zone that was once the microwave. Through the smoke you can see the blackened pizza, now melted and fused to the walls and rotating tray.
Apparently you're supposed to take the pizza out of the clear plastic it comes wrapped in before you cook it. How were you supposed to know that?
But there's one thing you do know: as soon as your parents stop coughing and spluttering, they'll make you wish you had died in your sleep.
The pizza is slightly too big for the microwave, so you bend the sides over slightly before slamming the door shut. You flip over the box and check the cooking instructions. There are only directions for using an oven - nothing about microwaving at all. Oh well, how different could it be? The directions call for a fifteen minute cooking time, so you punch fifteen minutes into the digital timer. You watch the pizza slowly rotate a few times before grabbing a beer and heading back to your bed room.
You spend a few minutes watching "Top Ten" countdown videos Youtube, before you're interrupted by your bed room door bursting open.
"Get in the kitchen, you little shit!" screams your mother, her nostrils flaring. You quickly scamper past her, and almost instantly notice the distinct smell of burning plastic mixed with cheese hanging in the air.
In the kitchen, you find your Dad standing by the back door, attempting to wave thick smoke outside with a sheet of newspaper. He clutches one hand over his mouth and nose, staring at you with a look that could cut glass. You turn your attention to the disaster zone that was once the microwave. Through the smoke you can see the blackened pizza, now melted and fused to the walls and rotating tray.
Apparently you're supposed to take the pizza out of the clear plastic it comes wrapped in before you cook it. How were you supposed to know that?
But there's one thing you do know: as soon as your parents stop coughing and spluttering, they'll make you wish you had died in your sleep.
