Once, not long ago, in a land not to far away, an old man received a breadmaker as a Christmas gift, several Christmases ago. And the old man, being a fickle eccentric, promptly put the breadmaker away and forgot about it.
The old man really was fickle. He loathed the taste of plastic. He drank only from cans or glass bottles. He stored his leftovers in expensive glass dishes with glass lids that had rubber seals. He used no plastic cookware, nor tableware, and never drank from a plastic glass. Something about the taste of plastic offended the old man greatly. Plastic was mysteriously absent from the old man's kitchen.
So one day the old man is reminded of the most expensive of gifts, the Great And All Powerful Breadmaker. And he is chided for leaving it to collect dust. The old man, being a gentle sort, promised to dig it out and try it.
The old man followed the directions, giving the breadmaker not one, but two burn in cycles, while he gritted his teeth and quietly mumbled about the skull splitting noise produced by the infernal machine. He had read all the warnings, and listened to others talk about how to make bread in this most marvelous of time saving devices. Never turn it up to dark, always leave it on light or it will burn. The old man dropped in all the fixings to make bread in the machine, and promptly left the house to avoid the racket.
Upon his return, the bread was done, and the house had a slight peculiar aroma, almost like that of bread. But there was a faint aroma, almost like that of a Barbie doll, condemned to burn in an eternal hell. The hideous odour of warmed plastic. The old man cracked a window or three, and gathered up his fresh butter and honey, and sat down to eat a slice or two of bread.
Upon the first bite, the man knew there was something horribly, no, terribly wrong. It was not just the smell of warmed plastic, it was the taste of warmed plastic, and it was in his bread.
So offended the man was, that he threw his slice out the back door, followed by the loaf of bread. He then launched into a expletive laden tirade against the infernal machines of the modern age. So loud, so powerful his angst, that his lovely wife had come running to see what was wrong, only to go running back out of the house covering her precious innocent ears, and reminding the cranky old man that he would need to fill up the swear jar.
Every creature in the house fled from the old man's wrath. Some under the sofa, some under the bed. Some of the kitties had climbed to the top of the Kitty City and had then hid in the rafters. Only one of the old man's animal companions had joined the old man in his ire, and that was his parrot, who joined in by calling the offending breadmaker a "****sucking piece of monkey ****." And then bobbed his head up and down and bounced around his cage.
The old man, while old, was still capable of a great deal of violence. He brought out one of his largest cast iron frying pans and let the offending breadmaker have it. Once, twice, thrice, he smashed the infernal machine that had so sorely offended his taste buds. He spat on the kitchen floor, still trying to get the awful taste out of his mouth, and cursed some more. He grabbed the breadmaker, and tossed it's sorry carcass out the back door. The old man then grabbed his trusty side arm, and exited the house.
The breadmaker was dragged mercilessly through the yard, and set upon a stump for execution. It was cursed at some more, as the old man stomped around the yard. The harsh shrieks of an agitated parrot drifted out the open windows. "Mother****ing ass goblin!" the bird shouted.
The old man vented his rage the only way he knew how, by unloading six rounds into the contraption that had so offended him. He then kicked the remains of the battered and bulletholed machine into the scrap pile, and then went inside the house to have a cup of coffee to settle his nerves.
The end.
The old man really was fickle. He loathed the taste of plastic. He drank only from cans or glass bottles. He stored his leftovers in expensive glass dishes with glass lids that had rubber seals. He used no plastic cookware, nor tableware, and never drank from a plastic glass. Something about the taste of plastic offended the old man greatly. Plastic was mysteriously absent from the old man's kitchen.
So one day the old man is reminded of the most expensive of gifts, the Great And All Powerful Breadmaker. And he is chided for leaving it to collect dust. The old man, being a gentle sort, promised to dig it out and try it.
The old man followed the directions, giving the breadmaker not one, but two burn in cycles, while he gritted his teeth and quietly mumbled about the skull splitting noise produced by the infernal machine. He had read all the warnings, and listened to others talk about how to make bread in this most marvelous of time saving devices. Never turn it up to dark, always leave it on light or it will burn. The old man dropped in all the fixings to make bread in the machine, and promptly left the house to avoid the racket.
Upon his return, the bread was done, and the house had a slight peculiar aroma, almost like that of bread. But there was a faint aroma, almost like that of a Barbie doll, condemned to burn in an eternal hell. The hideous odour of warmed plastic. The old man cracked a window or three, and gathered up his fresh butter and honey, and sat down to eat a slice or two of bread.
Upon the first bite, the man knew there was something horribly, no, terribly wrong. It was not just the smell of warmed plastic, it was the taste of warmed plastic, and it was in his bread.
So offended the man was, that he threw his slice out the back door, followed by the loaf of bread. He then launched into a expletive laden tirade against the infernal machines of the modern age. So loud, so powerful his angst, that his lovely wife had come running to see what was wrong, only to go running back out of the house covering her precious innocent ears, and reminding the cranky old man that he would need to fill up the swear jar.
Every creature in the house fled from the old man's wrath. Some under the sofa, some under the bed. Some of the kitties had climbed to the top of the Kitty City and had then hid in the rafters. Only one of the old man's animal companions had joined the old man in his ire, and that was his parrot, who joined in by calling the offending breadmaker a "****sucking piece of monkey ****." And then bobbed his head up and down and bounced around his cage.
The old man, while old, was still capable of a great deal of violence. He brought out one of his largest cast iron frying pans and let the offending breadmaker have it. Once, twice, thrice, he smashed the infernal machine that had so sorely offended his taste buds. He spat on the kitchen floor, still trying to get the awful taste out of his mouth, and cursed some more. He grabbed the breadmaker, and tossed it's sorry carcass out the back door. The old man then grabbed his trusty side arm, and exited the house.
The breadmaker was dragged mercilessly through the yard, and set upon a stump for execution. It was cursed at some more, as the old man stomped around the yard. The harsh shrieks of an agitated parrot drifted out the open windows. "Mother****ing ass goblin!" the bird shouted.
The old man vented his rage the only way he knew how, by unloading six rounds into the contraption that had so offended him. He then kicked the remains of the battered and bulletholed machine into the scrap pile, and then went inside the house to have a cup of coffee to settle his nerves.
The end.
![[Image: vipersig.jpg]](http://www.danasoft.com/vipersig.jpg)
Who would teach the parrot new curse words if you went and died on him? Hmm?