The Oven Incident
Once upon a time, my dearest readers, I had a friend named Logan. In fact, he's still my friend as I write this. You see, Logan used to come over every weekend to hang out, and I often cooked us simple, frozen, chicken nuggets and french fries. One day, we put the food in, and set a timer for 23 minutes upstairs. I then set a 20 minute timer, a 3 minute head start, on my watch for downstairs. As we’re watching TV, my wristwatch timer goes off. We look at each other, and decide, almost without words, to finish the remaining minutes of the episode without going up. Once the episode was over, and my mind had returned to food, I said this:
“Ah, fuck. We probably burnt our food to a crisp by this point.”
Logan laughed and said “Nonono, we’re fine. I’m sure the food is simply cooked to perfection.”
To which I responded “If you’re dumb enough to not keep track of time, even to the extent of not knowing the difference between whether the food is perfect or burnt, then you’re just an idiot.”
(I said this cockily, but with a sarcastic air to it, half joking, half serious, as it were.)
We went up… and the food was cooked to perfection.
“Well…” I said “I’m an idiot.”
