Now, the easy thing for me to do would be to pretend this didn't happen. That it was some crazy diatribe delivered by a fictional character in one of my dumb stories.
But it wasn't. This was actually something I said, almost word for word. I believe the bond between writer and reader is sacred and demands honesty... even when it makes me look like a moron. Before I offer up the aforementioned diatribe, let me try to put it into some sort of context. I think most people agree we can't lash out every time we’re angry or disappointed. Instead, we tuck it away somewhere inside our heads, and it's fair to say psychologists make a pretty penny sorting through the accumulated rage inside patients’ conscious and subconscious. If people can't afford a shrink or don't believe in the science they trade in, this is the shit that happens.
Date: This morning. Time: 8:07 a.m.
Subject (me): pours a bowl of cereal and opens a drawer to retrieve a spoon. There are no spoons.
"What the fuck?! How can we be out of spoons? There are fifty fucking forks and a hundred fucking knives but not one motherfucking spoon? Are you shitting me? Do the people in this house eat nothing but soup? What's for dinner? Roast beef? Nope! We're having soup again! Soup for dinner and soup for breakfast and soup for lunch and if you want a snack, it better fucking be some sort of bisque, bouillon, or fucking consommé because god forbid we dirty a fucking fork in case the Queen herself stops by to inspect our forks! If you want roast beef, you better throw it in a blender and puree that shit because we only use spoons in this household!"
It's at this point I decided to pull the silverware drawer all the way out and hurl the assorted utensils across the kitchen floor. With the same focus, I decided to return the drawer back into the confines beneath the countertop in one swift motion, missed by a good margin, and watched it disintegrate into a twisted pile of cheap particle board at my feet. I was left holding only the drawer front.
Which I held onto throughout the rest of the tirade.
"I distinctly remembering going out and buying extra spoons to avoid just this scenario. I bought them in bulk. I needed someone from the store to help me get the giant box full of spoons to my car!"
At this point, I shook my fist in the general direction of the box of cereal and, forgetting I was still clutching a - until recent events - drawer front which, due to very recent events, was transformed into just a piece of wood with a handle on it, knocked it over, spilling out what seemed to be an avalanche of Froot Loops.
"What the fuck are you looking at, toucan?! At least come out and admit you're gay. Look at yourself! Look at yourself! Take a look in the mirror, Sam, and just come out of the fucking closet! Are you going to clean up this mess? No? I didn't think so! Who spells fruit f-r-o-o-t?!"
I surveyed the damage and for a moment, it appeared I’d be able to collect myself.
"If only female mosquitoes bite people and only male crickets chirp, why can't we make them mate so that at least we'll hear those fucking moscricketoes coming at us? What the fuck is science for if it can't get that done? You're not helping anyone, science!"
Nope.
"Does every fucker in this house approach their plate the same way a baseball player does? Do they bring three spoons to the table, swing them all around for a few seconds and then hurl two of them into the sink? Batter up! Does it occur to anyone to wash a spoon every year or two? Nooooooo, we just use spoons for everything and then throw them out so I can't have a bowl of fucking cereal to start my day! God forbid I enjoy a bowl of cocksucking cereal with a fucking gay parrot on the box- fuck you toucan; you're a parrot now. Neanderthals had spoons. Fucking Neanderthals had spoons and I don't. They probably had fucking Froot Loops too, but I can't find a spoon to save my life! Neanderthals! They didn't have dick but even they could dig up a fucking spoon. Cars? Nope! Televisions? Nope. Spoon? Check! I bet they’d look at me and assume I'm a caveman because even they had spoons and now I'm going to have to pour milk all over the floor and get down on all fours and eat my Fruity Fucking Loops off the dirty tile! I bet the first cave painting ever found was some fuckwad eating something with a spoon and smiling ear to ear with a ‘I might get eaten later today and I’ll probably die before I'm thirty but at least I have this spoon’ look on his face!"
It dawned on me where all the spoons were. Across the kitchen in the dishwasher. I advanced upon it as if opening it and finding it devoid of spoons would be the “All work and no spoons makes Lance a dull boy” moment that sends me upstairs to murder everyone in the house. Crunch, crunch, crunch. I made my way over, little red and yellow and green crunched rings marking my progress.
I opened the dishwasher and spoons poured out. Thousands of them. Instantly, I was waist-deep in spoons. The windows of the kitchen exploded outwards with the pressure of so many spoons coming forth. Millions of them. The very roof was lifted off by the sheer number of spoons that filled the house.
Ok, that last part didn't happen, but the rest is totally true. Give yourself bonus points if you asked yourself why I didn't at least mention possibly becoming a “cereal” killer.
The terrible truth is that had I known that Mary Tyler Moore was going to die later in the day, I would have no doubt crumbled to the ground and remained there sobbing until the proper authorities could be summoned.