Scene Four: Piss, or Get Out of the Kitchen

Our kitchen has a life of its own. For many years I have believed that all the bad energy has collected within its space. Things have a way of combusting on their own when placed on the kitchen counter. Metal forks have been left in the sink and upon reexamination they are found with their tines bent. All of this happens when no one is in the house, or when having just turned your back for a moment.

Besides the paranormal, the kitchen it quaint, unless, you find yourself backed into a corner. My family has a habit of congregating there.

  Yesterday, I found myself in this situation. Late in the evening, after I had come in from my jog, and after an unfortunate incident (involving me, breaking a large glass terrarium and scattering glass all over the foyer) I noticed that my mother had cut up a large watermelon for dessert.

I stood in the kitchen, ignoring the charismatic Holy Roller that screamed on the television in the other room, “YOU NEED TO ASK JEEEEEESUS, YOU NEED TO ASK HIM FOR FORGIVENESS, TO BE SAVED.”

  I picked up a piece of watermelon and began to eat it. I ate a good quarter of the melon, it was not a large melon to begin with, and then my father came into the kitchen.

  “Eat more watermelon.” He said.

“I just ate a quarter.”

“Eat more!”

  This conversation persisted for three minutes. I then gave up, preceded to eat more watermelon. Meanwhile, I had put two of the small frozen burritos in the microwave when I began my watermelon fiasco. The heating cycle was half way done when my father opened it up and preceded to manhandle my burritos.

I was almost done with my melon, and I watched as he flipped the burritos and rub them down with his hands. (I’m assuming that he was testing if they were warm)

  “Could you stop manhandling my burritos?”

He closed the microwave and started it again.

“I wasn’t!” His voice sounded shrill.

“You were, I clearly saw you rub them.”

  Then out of nowhere my mother piped in.

  “Larry, stop touching Jessica’s burritos.”

“I wasn’t”

There was a pause, and then the horror show began. My mother piped in again.

  “Jessie, you know where his hands have been, he’s always scratching his you know what.”

Dad laughed, “Actually my hands were in my butt!”

  At this point, I was pseudo-retching like a cat in the corner.

  “I think the watermelon is coming back up.”

  He assured me that he had not had his hands anywhere, but that can't erase a million childhood memories of watching the man scratch his balls more than a monkey in a zoo.

  The microwave buzzed and flashed the words FOOD READY.

  I then proceeded to watch my father open the microwave and steal my burritos.

  “Thanks!” he laughed as he wanders out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom with glee.

  This is why all business in our kitchen should be done at lightning speed, you never know when you will be harassed into eating half a watermelon or your burritos vandalized.