Prose Poem: Wash in warm soapy water.

 

I bought a new toaster the other day.

My old one, when I looked into

its crumby blackened slots,

looked like Lord Foul's Creche.

So I stopped by the supermarket

and got one for fourteen dollars.

When I opened the box and took

the thing out of its plastic bag

cocoon, I read the instructions.

Carefully.

They said, quite clearly, to wash

it in warm soapy water before using.

"That can't be right" I said to myself.

"You don't plunge an electric appliance

into water -- ever."

But there it was, in black and white.

So I called my old friend Crazy Henry

to see what he thought about it.

Two heads are better than one, right?

"Sure, you can put the whole thing

in warm soapy water" he assured me.

"Nowadays these electric doo-dads

are all waterproof anyway. It's a federal

regulation."

"You sure?" I asked him.

Crazy Henry used to own a pet monkey;

that kind of guy can't always be trusted.

"Trust me" he said. "I read about it in

the New York Times."

"Well, okay" I told him. "But if it blows up

or something -- I'm gonna have you buy me

a new toaster!"

So I washed my brand new toaster in

warm soapy water.

I let it dry, then plugged it in.

It blew up.

Sparks and smoke and gouts of flame.

I burned my hand. 

Furious, I dialed Crazy Henry.

"Guess what?" I shouted at him.

"The damn thing blew up and

nearly killed me!"

"It must have been a defective toaster" 

he said.

"The New York Times is never wrong --

they got fact checkers checking every story."

"Well" I yelled at my phone, "you

and the New York Times can go

straight to hell!"

I threw my phone on the couch. The putz.

I got out my first aid kit and read the

instructions on treating a first degree

burn.

It said to soak the affected skin in

warm soapy water.

So I did. I dipped my hand in

a tub of warm soapy water.

And it didn't feel any better at all.

Nearly weeping in frustration and pain

I smeared my burned hand with butter.

I remember that's what my mom used to

do when she burned herself cooking.

That felt much better.

Then I went out to feed my 

dwarf hotot rabbit to calm myself down.

The poor thing didn't look well.

It was squirting thin green streams

of evil smelling stuff all over the place.

Luckily I knew a good vet,

so I called him up.

"Hello" he answered promptly.

He sounded like Crazy Henry.

"Is this George Metcalf?" I asked.

"No one else" he said. "What

can I do you for?"

I told him the problem with my hotot.

He said "Just feed it some warm soapy

water and that'll clear it right up."

"Are you POSITIVE that's the right

procedure?" I implored him.

"Never fails" he said, still sounding 

like Crazy Henry.

"Thanks" I said faintly.

So I did like the vet said.

And my dear little dwarf hotot

rabbit got better.

My hand got better, too.

And the supermarket refunded my money

for the exploded toaster.

With which I bought several boxes 

of melba toast. I love spreading

lemon curd on it.

Sometimes life gives you a punch before

it gives you a hug.