That French Fry Fell Off the Tray and is Burning in the Oven
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YES. YES! French fries. Okay, this bag is brand new. And there's only two of us...But we did smoke an awful lot. I'll just make all of them. Preheat the oven, I have to go pee.
edit These fries are going to taste so damn good
The oven is hot, feels like these are ready to go in. Shit, I'm so excited. This is the best day of my life. Set the timer for fifteen minutes, Neil. Lets kill some prostitutes until the buzzer goes off.
edit I'm going to eat so many of these. They're mine, bastard! All mine! Wait...
Hey, do you smell that? Something is definitely
Oh God! The fries! Please God, take Neil, but not the fries.
It's just that one that fell onto the bottom. Well, we can scoop that out, right? Hand me the oven mitt and
edit What do you mean you don't have an oven mitt, Neil?
Well how in the world do you expect us to get it out? I don't know, man, it's pretty deep in there I don't think I can reach in without burning myself. Maybe if we grab a spatula we can just, you know, scoop it. It's worth a try.
edit CHRIST THAT BURNS
SHIT. AH SHIT. My arm- NO I'm not just going to leave it, Neil, we have to get that toasted son of a bitch out of there! At this point it's a matter of principle. I have to prove that I am better than this fucking fry. EAT SHIT, FRY. In the immortal words of William Shakespeare, "It's on you crispy, black bastard"
edit Game time, you fuckSuperman movie. I'm like God damned LeBron James right now. I'm Kobe Bryant hitting a jumper. I'm Tim Tebow on fourth down with a yard to go. Okay think. THINK.
We need an oven mitt. Oven mitts are made out of cloth, right? Like just a basic normal, everyday cloth. Hm...
I got it! Hand me that blanket! The white, fuzzy feeling one!
edit In my head, I'm singing "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Metallica, you miserable excuse for a frozen enemy. FUCK YOU.
I'll wrap my arm in this blanket and you shove the spatula into the top, then I'll dig my arm into the oven and scoop this devil's dick out and we can all go home to our wives and children. Pray for me Neil. This is going to be a doozy.
edit In my head, I'm singing that opera song that is always reserved for the moment right before an epic battle. It's over, cocksucker.
I think I got it, Neil, but my arm is stuck under the rack! Pull me out! Hurry!
edit Victorypizza roll back here too. Wait a minute. Neil, was this not the first time we went through this? How many nights have we struggled with baked, frozen, packaged and re-baked foods whilst we, ourselves, were indeed baked? How many times have we metaphorically shot a potato Joe Pantoliano in the back of the head, feeling such an immense source of pride and accomplishment for a few short minutes before it slowly trickled out of our memories through the sieve of time? How many nights have we spent in this apartment with our Star Wars box set and our Animal Collective CD's, playing out our role as the allegorical axis of Earth in summer, barely changing our position as the rest of the planet revolves, changes, progresses, sees new things and experiences events as different as the real night and day? Is it the pot, Neil? Have we really become what our mothers always said we would? Are we now our glassy-eyed uncles or our college peers that dress in all black and hang around in the ally between the independent movie theater and the coffee shop smoking their funny cigarettes? This whole experience challenges the very nature of our reality. Can we truly say that what we haven't experienced or do not remember experiencing is real? I was reading a very interesting article that was published by the great British empiricist David Hume and he likened reality to...to...Do you smell that?
Hey, I think the fries are done. Do you have any more of those pizza rolls? We should make those too.