February 16, 2012
That when you reach for a pot or a pan to cook some spaghetti – on just a random, nondescript evening – the hook on the pot rack catches your sleeve just enough that you lose your balance on the stepladder and tip softly into the island, suffering a little bump to your ribcage.
Believing all is right with the world and you escaped eternal pain, you shake at the pan rack to get your sleeve free, but that only serves to anger the cooking gods who suddenly release all the bolts holding the rack and 471lbs of pots and pans from the ceiling onto your visage.
As the Calphalon catastrophe takes place, you wonder about the craftsmanship of an $8 shirt you got at Kohls and how the button must have been attached with fishing wire. Before you lose consciousness and are crushed to death, you lament dressing for dinner in the first place and make an easily attainable vow never to do so again – easy because you’ve been removed from the menu of life.