Microwave Dave's Bad Days - 4. I'm Not Eggactly Feeling Grape!

Damn. The little putz was at it again the past two days. Well, on the bright side, I got two sponge baths. I have to believe he thought he was making grape jam or wine, but putting a bunch of grapes in a microwave for one thousand, two hundred and thirty-four seconds is not the way to do it.

I'll teach you something, there's a difference between jelly and jam. And no, it's not 'Jam up and Jelly tight,' sorry Tommy Roe. Huh? There's a radio in the kitchen, I get to listen to oldies once in a while. Jelly is made from the juice of the fruit and some shit called pecker. No, that's not right. Um, pectin, yeah, that's it. Jam is mashed fruit. Hmmm. Are mashed potatoes a kind of jam? What? Someone left their laptop on the table open to a page describing the differences. I CAN read, you know. Maybe one of you can go to a restaurant and ask for potato jam, and see what they say? Program that in as 555, please.

Okay, back to Devlin's grape fiasco. Granted, the grapes weren't cooking for the entire twenty minutes plus, he did hit cancel this time. See what I did there? I was inaccurate on purpose, just like a human. Sorry, sidetracked again. But shit, it's lonely here. There's only so much a microwave, washer, and television can discuss. Not a lot in common, you know. I don't talk to the dishwasher. He hates it when I overcook something they try to feed to him. Sorry, it's not my fault! I don't push the buttons. And I'm blocked from communicating directly to the router, other than getting some urinary process from it. I get an I pee address. How dumb is that? I can't pee. So why tell me where to do it? And it must be some Google satellite location, it's all numbers. I can't make any sense of it.

I wish I was smart enough to keep shit like this from happening. I would have refused to cook the grapes. And the marshmallows, and the nails. Although, the nails contributed to burning the kid's hair, so maybe I'd still cook them, painful as that whole experience was.

Damn it. Back to the grapes. Stay on track Dave. So, like the nails and marshmallow bubbles, the grapes popped. Fuck that, they EXPLODED! There were thirty-two grapes in the bunch Devlin cooked. After the first fifty-seven seconds, it only took ten more for every single one of them to turn my insides into grape jam. And the worst part? I was deaf for a day. The shit clogged my ears. Mrs. Unlucky wasn't about to let Devlin clean me out this time. Thank you, oh god of microwaves. My luck he would have boiled acid in me to get all the nooks and crannies. The vents! I told you that. The vents are my ears. Keep up already.

Mrs. Smith, yeah, I just found out their name. She put one of her pies into me and I saw the box. Anyway, Mrs. Smith did a decent job cleaning me after the grape incident. There are still a few, seven to be exact, tiny pieces of skin left, but I'll burn those off sooner or later. One might be impossible to get rid of because of the tiny piece of eggshell. Yeah, I know I'm talking about grapes. I'll get to the eggs shortly. But there's one thing I don't understand. Okay, there are about a million things I don't understand, but related to my sponge bath. Mrs. Smith used something called Dawn Platinum to clean me. Now, dawn is first thing in the morning. She cleaned me in the afternoon. Is that okay? Secondly, isn't platinum a metal? Of course it is, I have some in me. So shouldn't she have cleaned me with metal in the morning? But that stuff was somewhere between liquid and gel. I'm soooo confused.

Anyway, on to the eggs. So Devlin's attempt at making grape jam failed miserably. Any guesses on how his attempt at making... Damn, what could he have been trying to make? Fried eggs? Soft boiled eggs? Hard boiled eggs? Maybe even egg salad? Who knows? Surely not me. No. I didn't call you Shirley. Really, I didn't. Can we move past that? Yes? Good. Regardless of what his intention was, it didn't work. Thankfully he thought three eggs would have been enough. The kid's small. One probably would have been enough. Well, the outcome would have been the same. Maybe not as funny though.

So, he puts the eggs on my stomach, hits '17, fried egg sandwich, 90 seconds.' I was kind of expecting a repeat of the grapes to a lesser degree. Only three of them, you know. At first, it looked like everything went fine. The eggs wobbled a little, but didn't explode, or even crack. I was confident I would experience no injury this time, physical, nor emotional. Was I right?

Hell no. But I won't be seeing Devlin for a few days. I heard their conversation after she came running, upon hearing the sonic boom. Well, it WAS loud. Oh, yeah, the explosion happened when he opened my mouth.

"Devlin Balor! What the hell did you do this time?"

Balor is an Irish name that means 'the deadly one.' That fits Devlin to a tee. But once again, I'm confused. I thought their name was Smith. If anyone can tell me why her pie would be Mrs. Smith's, but she'd be Mrs. Balor, please program that in as 314? A little math humor there, by the way, hehe.

"Make scrambled eggs."

Ah ha! Yes, that makes sense, they definitely scrambled after he opened my mouth and the eggs exploded, slamming my jaw open and bouncing it closed again. Fortunately for the little jerk, my jaw missed him. He wasn't so lucky with the eggs. Apparently, eggshells are dangerous at a high rate of speed. Did you know that? He had quite a few lacerations on his face. Mom noticed the blood. None that were part of the back splatter harmed me though.

"You're bleeding."

A keen eye for the obvious that Mrs. Balor has.

"We need to stop the bleeding and get you to the hospital."

Once again, Captain Obvious makes an appearance. I know he's injured, but this part is funny. She grabs a roll of paper towels and starts wrapping his head in them. I mean tight. Well, it seems those suckers are perforated every six inches or so. Yeah, I know. I never saw the package and I'm not a measuring tape. Six inches or so it is. Deal with it, I am. His makeshift bandage is literally coming apart at the seams. She sees it's not working, so she grabs a kitchen towel. It's apparent she has nothing to attach to it to keep it on, like a safety pin, clothes pin, or even a potato chip clip. She turns aside for a moment. I'm guessing she went to that infamous junk drawer. What does she come back with?

Duct tape. That's funny because the previous owners of the house, I went along with the sale, were two guys named Addison and Stanley. Addison wrapped his willie up in duct tape once. I hope for Devlin's sake his mom didn't use the same duct tape that wrapped Addison's willie. On second thought...