The intense loathing I feel for the man who sold me my cheap grill is intensifying. It is morphing into abject hatred, coupled with hatred steeped in molten rock and liquid steel so thin that it could be sprayed from a hypodermic needle. I do not know the man’s name. It’s probably better that way, lest I search Saline County property records for him, get his address, and cause him to vaporize in the white-hot heat of my rage.
You may wonder what caused such an outburst? Glad you asked. I just burned the sh** out of my fingers, courtesy of the grill. And the jerk chicken I was grilling was not even close to done. So I had to open the inadequate grill lid (difficult, as a bolt disappeared on the first try), retrieve the chicken from the inadequate grates, try (but fail) to protect my eyebrows and hair from intersecting with the heat of the sun (on the wrong bloody side of the grill), and move the chicken corpses to a cooker suitable for oven cookery.
Tonight, I’m in the mood to capture and force hummingbirds to listen to my complaints, kill chickens that exhibit even the least bit of scorn for my eating habits, skin grill-sellers, vaporize gas grills and their progeny, and set fire to the Milky Way for its willingness to host bad actors.
If my finger didn’t hurt the way it does (thanks to the goddamn grill and its expulsion of a bolt holding the lid on at the most inopportune time), I would go to bed early and sulk. Instead, I’ll drink whiskey and plan an insurrection. Grrrrrr!