You know what is not perceived to be funny? Breakups. You know what is often funny? Also breakups. In this week’s Pissing Contest, I want to hear about your most ridiculous breakups—what went south, and how did you let him know in a Cracker Barrel? Let’s get personal in the comments below.
But first, let’s look at last week’s winners. Here are the most disastrous meals you’ve ever made:
The Ron Swanson of Westeros, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK? You could’ve saved this for Spooky Stories, wow:
I wish (or rather, do not wish given the subject matter) that this was my story. Rather, this is the story about how I taught a co-worker an invaluable cooking lesson.
Co-worker comes to me on Tuesday, and mentions how she was out on Monday because she was really sick. I expressed my apologies and moved on. Later that day, my co-worker also mentioned that she had decided to teach herself how to cook over the weekend. But she wasn’t sure that she had succeeded, because as mentioned previously, she’d gotten really sick on Sunday and Monday.
What followed was an, shall we say, indelible exchange:
Me: “Hmm. Maybe you didn’t use the freshest ingredients. Did you check to see whether your eggs went bad?”
Her: “. . . Eggs go bad?”
Me: “Uh, okay, I think I’ve found your problem. How long did you have those eggs in your refrigerator?”
Her: “I dunno. A year, maybe?”
Me: “My God, how are you still alive?!”
Moonlitesongbird, you also win, mostly because I did not account for explosions:
We were having a friend over for dinner and I SLAVED over a coq au vin. I had my husband, friend, and squealing baby in a high chair all gathered around the table when I set the pan of rich chicken, gravy, and vegetables down on the table. The Pyrex exploded into a hundred tiny shards of glass. Logically, I’m sure it was some kind of temperature shock situation, but I think that the gods came to claim my coq au vin as a sacrifice. It was too good for this world.
While I was still in a state of shock and devastation from my loss, my friend, bless him, was checking that no hot gravy or broken glass got on the baby. It’s possible that my maternal instincts are somewhat lacking.
IAMRU2, this is both quantity and quality:
Off the top if my head... Mr RU has:
- burnt a pot by trying to make pasta with no water (“I thought water was just for flavouring, like instant noodles!”);
- killed the microwave by melting chocolate for 20 minutes (“You stand there stirring at the stove for that long!”); and
- Burnt toast so badly I stayed with a friend overnight while he aired out the kitchen.
- has made curry with sweet vanilla yoghurt (he actually ate it, I tried one mouthful and dry heaved);
- made quiche for about a month (it was actually nice quiche - unfortunately we were too complimentary so he madenit practically every second day for about a month until we begged him to stop. I still can’t eat it, and even the smell makes me feel sick); and
- remembered for the first time ever to preheat the oven for a roast, and set my mum’s nice Liberty oven mitts on fire.
- almost killed me (She made hamburgers, intended to be barbequed by my grandpa - after leaving them on a bench for most of the afternoon, she then microwaved them almost cooked, left them on the bench for a few more hours, then gave them to my grandpa to finish on the BBQ. A doctor needed to be called that night.);
- made the oddest, sloppiest lasagna I’d ever seen (secret ingredient? A tin of mushroom soup...); and
- would take the pickles off her burger at MacDonalds, wrap them in a tissue, then bring them home to put in my grandpa’s sandwiches.
Benevolus, I physically felt this one:
Making hot salsa in a hot kitchen, went to wipe sweat from brow with a paper towel as I maneuvered over to put mitts on to pull a boiling water pot off oven.
Not realizing I had just grabbed a paper towel that my wife had used to hold and dice jalapenos and habenero peppers prior to me taking it and wiping sweat.
Not realizing I had missed a few beads that were lancing down my forehead and effectively nuclearized them with leftover pepper juice.
Not realizing that fate had it in twin trails spinning down faster as I leaned over and picked up said pot.
And so....sweat beads maced my eyes as they struck both at the same fucking time.
And so I dropped said pot in agony....and water splashed and scalded the literal shit out of my right foot..
And so the wife came to her husband screaming curses while holding his hands over his eyes and hopping around on one foot while holding the other.....then slipping on water and going ass over teakettle and putting his head into the drywall behind him.
But you know what really hurt....the wife demanding I explain to her what the fuck is going on while I try to wash my eyes out over and over while I howl....and then asking why I would be stupid enough to grab a pot and spill it on myself.
Yea honey, I thought the best thing for pepper juice in my eyes was to fling a pot of water on my FUCKING FOOT.
And of course, I was the bad guy for yelling at her while in pain.
I buy salsa in jars now.
My son came home from visiting his dad’s one weekend when he was in middle school, and shared the story about how he and his older stepsister had made French toast for everyone. His stepsister wasn’t wearing her glasses, and apparently grabbed what she thought was cinnamon and started liberally sprinkling it into the batter. It wasn’t cinnamon though, and for some reason neither of them noticed until they were serving their huge batch of French toast.
Cumin. It was cumin.
Wax nostalgic in the comments below.