The Start of a Crappy Day

Before getting ready for my Christmas hullabaloo and scrumptious home-cooked meal later in the day, I nursed a pounding hangover from the night before, having partaken in joyous festivities with mass quantities of jubilant revelry and demon alcohol.

Don’t panic, we had a designated driver who will have the satisfying and carefree pleasure of Bacchanalian madness on New Years Eve.

I figured some nice, store-bought, frozen sausage biscuits with a glass of tomato juice and a large mug of hot coffee would hit the spot and help quell the incessant tolling in my aching head.

After downing 2 Ibuprofens, I placed the tiny prepackaged buttermilk breakfast buns and mystery meat into the microwave, setting the timer for the recommended two minutes and ten seconds.

My digestive system couldn’t wait much longer, and demanded I set my tail down on the throne to take care of business. I know that’s too much info, but it’s a necessary factor leading up to the disastrous event.

The instructions for the biscuits said to leave the packet in the microwave for 2 minutes after the initial bombardment, giving me enough time to read another gem in a monthly magazine about cutting holiday portions into 50-calorie servings, which would allow me to have 20 items for the festive meal, amounting to half my designated 2,000-calories/day limit.

I would need to have, for example, a 1/8-slice of apple pie to make it 50 calories. Right, like I’m going to do that during Christmas gluttony at a large table full of out-of-this-world delights.

An unappreciative smoky odor emanated suddenly over the already odoriferous fumes from my morning constitution, alerting me to, perhaps . . . , yikes, a fire.  The bathroom shares the plumbing with the kitchen sink.

Did I forget to turn the boiling water off after I made that instant coffee? I did that once and created a bunch of smoke, setting off the smoke alarms and stinking the apartment to high heaven. The alarms weren’t ringing this time, but as I wailed out of the bathroom with just my bare behind, the flat was filling up with smoke at an alarming rate.

Dashing into the kitchen, I discovered the sausage biscuits and cellophane wrapping had turned into a circular puddle of brown rotating goo. Quickly pulling out the round Pyrex plate on which the mass was bubbling, I doused it under the sink’s faucet with warm water.


The resulting, wreaking stench smelled like an electrical transformer had shorted out and melted. I think that would have happened had I waited much longer to shut down the oven.  The terribly pungent odor resembled that of burning rubber, but one hundred times worse.

I had to open the sliding doors to the terrace to let the smoke out, with both kitchen exhaust fans blasting on high. I wonder why the alarms didn’t go off this time? Maybe I caught it fast enough before the smoke triggered them. Lucky me, I hate when that happens. If the smoke had seeped out into the hallways, the entire building’s alarm system would have been blaring, alerting the fire department simultaneously.

In my haste to hit the loo, I must have pressed the ten-minute button twice instead of  the one-minute selection for two. The microwave had almost melted down. I made toast and peanut butter instead for breakfast.

Upon my coming home, smoky, electrical short-like redolence hit me in the face immediately. I’ve now gotten my headache back from the lingering odor. Two more Ibuprofens down the hatch should take care of it.

Besides the earlier breakfast melee, the rest of the day turned out OK. I was gifted another funky sweater, a Led Zeppelin CD, an Eagles’ woolen cap; a leather-bound notebook and a nice, shiny pen for scribing my next novel, not to mention a great meal at a friend’s house.

I hope you had a happy and heartwarming day as well. New Years is next. Made any resolutions yet?

As an afterthought, my first resolution is to never leave sight of the microwave oven while it’s operating. Christmas morning was the first time I had ever done so for over a minute or two, a very negligent thing to do.

My second resolution is to double check the timer.

About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at
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