The First Day of School

Posted: September 23, 2008 in Uncategorized

Tom had just stepped out of the shower when he realized that he smelled smoke. Dressing quickly, he rushed out to the kitchen, where the sight of a flaming toaster with a charred lump of Pop-Tart cleared any former vestige of weariness from his head.
“CALL THE DAMN FIRE DEPARTMENT!” screeched his mother, resplendent in a badly singed nightgown. She had seized the cat by its tail and was currently using it to beat the flames back from destroying her damaged clothing and quite possibly her kitchen. Technically, this couldn’t constitute as animal abuse, since the cat had been stuffed and mounted three years past.
Tom stood, stock-still in the doorway of the kitchen, considering the idea of helping his mother avoid a fiery death. On the one hand, if he helped, he would most definitely be late for Geometry, a horrendous thought since his teacher, Darcy, was often a demon in the mornings. If he didn’t give any aid, it was also quite possible that he would be put up at a juvenile care system or sent to live with his father, whichever option was worse for him.
What to do, what to do.
Apparently not content to wait for her son to make up his mind, Tom’s mother lunged forward, around the flames and ripped open the refrigerator, causing a cacophony of food to fall from its unstable shelves, including, but not limited to, the repugnant leftovers of a thousand Chinese takeout dinners. She ignored the flying Asian cuisine and grabbed one of the water bottles that lay just beyond the roast turkey, thinking that water typically had an adverse effect on fire.
What Tom decided not to tell his mother, however, was that the water had actually been replaced by a very badly-made type of home-brew vodka that he had kept in the fridge for times such as these.
As Tom fidgeted, struggling not to laugh, his mother flew at the devil toaster from hell and doused it with a stream of unstable vodka. Accordingly, the flames coursed up and into the bottle, melting the plastic and fusing the whole mess to Tom’s mother’s hand.
The toaster laughed and spit stale bread crumbs on Tom’s mother as she screamed in fury at the extremely painful wad of melted plastic currently rapidly cooling on her hand. At this, Tom saw his cue, ducking around the kitchen island and heading to the door to the tune of several vulgar phrases he had not had the pleasure to hear at that stage in his life.
He smiled as he passed through the door. The bus was on time.


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