“I opened my Christmas present today, Minnie.  An electric roaster.  I was ready to plop a chicken in it, when I decided to read the directions.  It said:  Smoke it, before you use it.”

“Smoke it?”

“Yeah.  So I vacillated between lighting a match and inhaling, or starting a bon fire and throwing the damn thing in it.”

“Oh for crazy.”

“So, I read a little further, and it said:  Take this baby to a car port or a garage, where it is well ventilated and let it smoke for an hour.”

“What the hell?”

This old house of ours is very well ventilated, as you know, but I stuck it out on the deck, plugged it in, turned it up and had the phone in my hand, ready to call the fire department.  I rehearsed my story:  My Christmas present is on the deck, smoking its ass off.  As you know, where there is smoke, there is fire, and someone needs to hightail it over here, before the crazy thing burns up, and I will be stuck with a raw chicken.”

“You think the fire department would respond to a call like that?”

“Thankfully, I didn’t have to call. I forgot the roaster was outside, until I let the cat in, and by then it was a hot smoking mess.”

“Did you bring it in?”

“What?  The cat?”

“No, you idiot, your smoking roaster.”

“Oh, that thing.  Yes, eventually, but by then it was too late to roast my bird.  Besides, I laid the bird in the roaster, just for the heck of it, and it was too fat, for the roaster.  It stuck out the top.”

“So now what?”

“I don’t know, but this roaster is one of the most ridiculous presents I have ever received.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“Never mind.”

“Who?  Come on.  Tell me.”

“I did.  I bought it for myself.”

“Maybe you can return it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“The cat is sleeping in its box.”

 

Wolf

 

 

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