When I was little, I remember hearing about prime time tales of microwave murder.
Small animals and babies were the quick-shock stories, while the slow-death of “standing too close” to the buzzing magic machine were more cautionary for those of us with the “watched pot never boils” syndrome. Even so, we were willing to wait and gain tumors, so long as that “never” held the sweet promise of a majestically piping hot Jimmy Dean breakfast sammich filled with as much grease as the donuts we’d eat right after had cream lard. Then, as I got older and Dean lost its allure, my microwave enchantment channeled elsewhere. Plain pyromania took over when I learned…
I can set fire to things with it?
What sorcery is this?
What else can I ignite with it?
What’s happening inside therrre?
My Tom Waits inquiry couldn’t wait for answers and my already budding intrinsic scientist couldn’t either. I started small at home. But once I got to college, all bets were off. Tin foil. Forks. A bottle of nail polish! My carpals quaked excitedly in their skin while setting the timer numbers like a combustion lottery. And my eyes glistened with that first fiery spark I’d see shoot off the object it was rejecting. It makes your heart dance the same way it does when you decide to go for a run after you’ve just heard there’s a tornado watch or while standing over a weak bridge in a gushing, flooding, powerful river. But, if you’re not 100% psychotic, you press the stop button before the grand finale you’d likely end along with. Sadly, that lack of last 5% crazy – much like everything else I start and don’t finish – has left me also unable to conclude these chaotic salsa dances on which I thrive. That’s why today I’d like to add to my gratitude list:
People who have me beat at microwave madness.
Like this one guy who straps down his microwave…
…and makes all of my incendiary dreams come true.
(Exhibit A: a can of spray paint):
(“Let’s throw snow at it” – classic.)
And this lava lamp:
Or eyeballs and other bits nicked off roadside carrion – along with Halloween props:
And the iphone:
Disappointing because I’d built this one up in my brain and thought and prayed it’d be a bigger explosion. Although the accessory dialogue in a lotta these fails in its attempt to be funny with its over-the-top-ness, I’d still like if they did my phone next. I’m getting that familiar nausea wave just hearing the sound byte they interject of it jangling.
*Sigh*
Admittedly, when I see these vids, I have that same feeling a single person gets after watching a romantic movie. You know – the one where you just wanna detonate something with the magic radiation box living on your counter? To celebrate the freedom of being unattached? Sadly, however, being an adult means I can’t afford a second microwave when this one blows up. Or a third when I blow that one up. This is all just another reason I should’ve stayed in Neverland with Michael Jackson who could’ve afforded to buy me as many microwaves as I’d wanted.
*Choose your own bad joke adventure ending:
Option A: “Let’s try my face next, Eee-HEE!”
Option B: “Now I get to put my flesh fork in your microwave, SHAM-o-NA!”
Option C:
That’s ignoraaant, you two options above me! I’m far too spiritual to speak ill of those I don’t know – especially when they had such a horrible childhood with a tyrant father. Now everyone shut up and watch while I microwave this smaller microwave with a baby bird inside of it.
While suspended over my balcony.
In a blanket.