The Fate of the Exploding Microwave of Doom


Here’s the story of temporal thievery, fate and long johns.

You know the first time the DeLorean time travels? There’s an explosion and it vanishes. Imagine that type of explosion happening to a microwave. My microwave. It nearly blew me long johns off. One minute, there I was making tiny ships to put in glass bottles, and the next, I was holding tweezers over what looked like a Picasso painting. I had no idea what to think. My initial thought was, ‘Is this was actually happened to Picasso?’ Microwaves were around during his lifetime. But obviously, that was a stupid thought because microwaves were expensive back then. And his wife wouldn’t have been happy. The reheated dinner would’ve been ruined. Along with the relationship. But, as I’ve always said, if a woman cannot accept your exploding microwave, leave her.

Quite a great many things have exploded around here over the years. I once had a thermometer that exploded. You could say, “Well, look – laugh about it, it’s nothing serious”. Trust me, it was no laughing matter. Why? Because it was a mercury thermometer. Mercury poisoning destroys your vocal chords so it certainly wouldn’t be a laughing matter.

The exploding microwave debacle was resolved fairly quickly. Everyone is fine and in working order. Well, let’s just say, ‘like before’. I’m grateful it happened on the eve of mother and father’s departure to, erm, somewhere exotic, I’m sure. I would’ve been screwed otherwise. Have you ever tried carrying a microwave home on a bus? Knowing my luck, I would’ve dropped it, it would’ve fallen through the floor, tumbled for a few hundred yards, and be stolen by a prosperous hobo.

I don’t believe in fate. It’s not because I don’t think it exists, but because if it does, I wonder why it keeps trying to kill me. I wonder if it’s a test. Like with Job in the bible. I know, I know, not a great comparison. After all, he lost what, a camel? I lost a bloody microwave! He got off easy. The thought occurs to me, though. Maybe the microwave was more DeLorean like than just its explosion. Maybe it did travel through time. Maybe Job invented a time machine as a way to get his stuff back. Temporal thievery, if you will. But then he went a bit nuts and decided to acquire a microwave. It does raise issues such as, ‘How would he know what a microwave is?’ and ‘Oh my God, when are you gonna shut up about Job?’ Ah, okay. Have it your way, then. I think it’s a good point, but since you obviously want me to move on, I’ll end this ramble with a simple explanation of how he knew about microwave ovens. He had a coupon.

Death by microwave is one of a number of ways I’m probably gonna go. But at least it’s a legacy. When people walk by my grave, they’ll look down and read the inscription, “Killed by a microwave oven”. And people will think of me every time they microwave a bagel. It’s all one can ask for, really. Better than a heart attack. Unless it’s caused by the electrics in your hair straighteners shorting. And yes, that did happen to me once whilst I was using them. I didn’t have a heart attack, though. But I did see Jesus, so I must have been pretty close to Saint Peter’s condo. That or I’m going crazy. Mmm, either is a realistic possibility.

Of course, death by crane fly is also a possibility. Also known as daddy long legs, these huge beasts are constantly trying to kill me. All I wanted after the ‘DeLorean Exploding Microwave Incident’ was a quiet night. Instead, all night I was armed with a baseball bat trying to kill the little twerp. In retrospect, it was a poor weapon of choice. All that achieved was a few broken off limbs yet for some reason that only made the fly madder. I’m sure it was hissing at me. I did contemplate creating a makeshift flamethrower with a can of deodorant and a lighter, something I have seriously done in the past. It worked surprisingly well back then. You know, if you don’t count the flaming newspaper and all the screaming.

Sigh. The folks had only been gone on their holiday for 20 minutes.

Even making the dinner the following day didn’t go well. I cut my thumb on a door latch and then was almost drowned by a torrent of water shooting out at me from a cupboard nowhere near any water. Turns out, mother had taken an oven tray out of the dishwasher, forgot to empty it of the water it had become filled with, put it in the cupboard, and, a day later, I was treated to a second shower of the day. But my burgeoning fist shaking at fate was only a temporary anger. Bacon is a great healer.

Of course, one must remember that anger on a bad day can only be temporarily suppressed. Even the bacon turned on me. No, it wasn’t his wife angry at me for eating her husband, which, I must say, is rich coming from an animal that eats its own children. Probably. The grease from the bacon had leaked out of our leaky oven onto the kitchen floor. I didn’t slip over on it, much to your disappointment, I’m sure, but it was a hazard. Staring down at that puddle of goo, thoughts flooded into the void in my head as empty as my fifth tub of ice cream on Valentine’s Day. Water on the floor. An oily substance strewn across the floor. Blood running down the inner edge of the door. If I’d had a visitor at that moment, what would they have thought? “Oh wow, are they filming an episode of CSI in here? Are you the murder victim? You don’t look convincingly dead”. “Give it a couple of minutes”.

Even a nice sleep didn’t go well. It started okay, but I was distracted by a huge moving shadow on my wall, cast by an outside streetlamp. Imagine yourself then, as a super extreme arachnophobe, when you discover the shadow is a mega best from hell. Oh, Lord. I thought the crane fly was huge, but there I was, lying in bed with a six-inch wide spider right next to my head. I tell you, there’s never a baseball bat around when you need one. The things I threw at that spider. Even my worn underwear that had been on my bedroom floor for a year didn’t kill it. I vacuumed the spider up, which will be a pleasant surprise for mother when she gets back. In the meantime, the spider is quite happy in the Hoover, finally reunited with most of his family.

It was a stressful end to a stressful first day alone.

I really wish I was making jokes but all of what you’ve read so far actually happened. I would’ve taken photos but they would’ve brought back painful memories and made me cry in a similar way to having your head stuck in a barrel of onions surrounded by people cutting onions at an onion festival in onion country. Some people would argue that having your head stuck in a barrel of onions is a highly unlikely scenario. Clearly, these people haven’t met me.

I think there’s an argument here for Sod’s Law. Bad fortune will be tailored for the individual. There’s no point in trying. Anything I do will go wrong. You could even put me in a padded cell and my socks would probably explode. I’ve accepted my fate. I’m screwed. When mother and father have been away in the past, there’s always been a small fire of some sort. Most people would take precautions and be careful. I, on the other hand, may as well buy a fire extinguisher. I once accidentally set a tea towel on fire. So I threw it into a bowl of water. The water then caught fire. To this day, I still haven’t a clue as to how I managed that.

The crème de la crap of my week, however, was at the end of the week. The mischievous leprechaun of fate had thrown everything at me including the kitchen sink. I went past the point of caring. I had become so fed up of the world that I resided myself to my room, sitting crossed legged on my bed staring at my mercury thermometer balls. Alone. No one for company. Aching. A broken television to my left and a broken laptop to my right (two additional problems I’ve faced this week, there). And, as I sat there, I reached over and picked up my broken hand-held mirror (yes, that’s broke too), and looked at the reflection of a dejected mess. What was the crème de la crap? It lay in my beard. A white hair. Oh, come on. Someone please shoot me.

My beard is a rainbow of colour. Blonde hairs, ginger hairs, brown hairs, auburn hairs, black hairs, and now, at the tender age of 23, a white hair. If I don’t have a shave soon, by the end of the week I’ll look like Santa Claus. And nobody would find that attractive. At least I hope so.

Is there a moral to all of this? Probably not. I’d love to say, “When the times get tough, believe me, there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel”. But that doesn’t feel like the case. I’ve been navigating down this tunnel for the best part of a month now with only a torch and a budgie for company. And they’re both dead. And I know what you’re gonna ask and the answer is a resounding yes. That budgie did taste delicious.

Mae West once said, “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough”. But I think doing it wrong counts, too. Because we can’t get something right without getting it wrong first. And over the next week and a bit, alone, I’ll get a lot wrong. But you only live once. It’s not all bad. After all, I do own a pair of tweezers and we can all pretend that white hair never existed…

American comedian, actor, juggler and writer, William Claude Dukenfield (1880-1946), once said: “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it”.

Peace Out :|:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the little bubble on the top right if you are on the Archives Page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
Latest Post: Click Here For The Latest Post

Hark Around The Words
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