In my kitchen, there’s a teapot. I don’t use it much for making tea, but still every morning it sings the teapot song most of us learned as children:
‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout.
Here is my handle; here is my spout.
When I get steamed up, hear me shout:
“Tip me over, and pour me out!”‘
This is, of course, annoying as hell. It’s six am, and I’m trying to sleep. Meanwhile, there’s a piece of crockery crooning in the kitchen at the asscrack of dawn, keeping me from my beauty rest. Many mornings, I’ve had half a mind to run down there with a hammer and put an end to that teapot’s whistling, once and for all.
“I could sense the tide turning. The cabinets sealed themselves shut, the food processor growled menacingly, and the stove glared at me with burners aglow.”
But I haven’t. The teapot was passed down to my wife from a great-aunt or something. I’d be sleeping in the car for weeks if I damaged it. And while it might be quieter out there, the sleeping’s not much better. You ever tried to nap with a gearshift in your privates? It’s no freaking picnic.
So, I tolerated the teapot. And to be fair, the song only lasts a few seconds, so it’s not such a burden. Once it’s over, the kitchen goes back to the peace and quiet it usually enjoys.
At least, it used to.
It seems the pot’s predawn piping was just the tip of the harmonizing iceberg. Now the other kitchen appliances have gotten into the act, and feel the need to serenade me when I come calling. Used to be, I could grab a beer from the fridge in peace. Yesterday, when I got near the thing, it belted out:
‘I’m a refrigerator; plain and white —
Freezer on the left, and chiller on the right.
You’ll never see my insides without a light;
Drainin’ your electric bill day and night!‘
Great. All I wanted was to relax with a nice brewski, and now I’m tense and twitchy about the utility bills. Thanks a boatload, Amana.
I thought maybe I’d make some dinner, to take my mind off things. Since the fridge was already yapping away, I grabbed a TV dinner from the freezer. As I walked over to nuke it, I heard:
‘I’m a microwave oven, cool and fun!
Inside me is a magnetron gun.
You haven’t repaired me since two-thousand-and-one,
So I’m filling your air with radiation!‘
I backed slowly away from the microwave, leaving the frozen dinner to thaw on the counter. Maybe the oven was holding a grudge over that fork I accidentally heated in there, after all. Suddenly, a nice sandwich seemed far safer. I made my way to where we keep the loaves of whole wheat.
‘I’m a filthy breadbox, made of wood;
You never clean me as well as you should.
I don’t know what that gunk is under my hood,
But it’s on your Wonder bread, and I bet it ain’t good.‘
Great. I’m being taunted by a breadbox. If that’s not ‘rock bottom’, I don’t want to be conscious when I get there. The mold on the bread’s not so bad, though — a little heat should burn that right off. Uh-oh…
‘I’m a toaster oven; never in use;
Now you waltz over here with moldy abuse.
Why, I oughta wiggle my power cord loose.
An electrical fire would cook your damned goose!‘
I could sense the tide turning. The cabinets sealed themselves shut, the food processor growled menacingly, and the stove glared at me with burners aglow. There was no one to turn to in my own kitchen, no friend to offer sustenance in my time of need. Except… my old pal, teapot. I knew his song already, and it had nothing to do with costing me money or offing me in my sleep. I snatched a handful of teabags from the thankfully-silent pantry and stuffed them in. Just as I placed the pot on the crackling stovetop, it sang out in a loud, clear voice:
‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout.‘
Ah, the old standby. That song has never sounded so sweet.
‘And you’re a big fat insensitive lout.‘
Uh oh. I don’t think I like where this is going.
‘Unless you want a snootful of steam from my spout,
You’ll get out of this kitchen, and stay the hell out!‘
Eh, screw it. Those bastards can have the kitchen, and warble till they choke. From now on, I’m sleeping with a pillow over my ears, and I’m eating at McDonald’s. That McCrap might McKill me, but at least it won’t sing to me first.Permalink | 6 Comments