So about five minutes ago I replied to a comment you left on my blog. The blog was about New Orleans, but by the time you and I got to terrorizing the comments section, it took us no time at all before we were talking about stalkers and pot pies. I was trying to come up with some creative way to give you my email address without broadcasting it to the millions and millions who read my blogs every hour and would surely pilfer it in the name of spam and Nigerian money transfer requests but then, as if fate was guiding you against the attempts of lonely, retarded Norf Cak girls to deplete your privacy with a pixellated quickness, you mentioned (in a comment) that you had a Myspace stalker and you prefer the WordPress platform for communicating with blog-type people.
Well that’s fine, I thought. I’ll just go drown my sorrows in a chicken pot pie.
Billy, I am writing to you to tell you about my wonderful pot pie experience.
1. Upon realizing that I had stored said pot pie in my freezer a mere three hours ago, I become very excited and run to the kitchen, yes, run, as though a fat girl were racing me there. I do not know why I ran. My roommate was not coveting the pot pie, he has been in his room for thirteen hours screaming over his headset to his live-action internet nemeses, deeply embroiled in a multiplayer Diablo 2 battle. The pot pie was safe, and it was not going anywhere.
2. The first thing I do is turn the oven on 678 degrees so it will preheat faster even though I know very well that I do not intend to wait for it to preheat. Preheat is bullshit and the oven people know it.
3. I fling open the freezer door and grab the pot pie/grail. I notice on the package that it says it will take 44-48 minutes to cook in a conventional oven. My heart breaks and I want to cry. Plan B: I will microwave the thing! That only takes eight minutes. Score!
4. The paper wrapper, it seems, must remain on the pot pie throughout the cooking process, only the ends of the wrapper must be open so the snobby bitch can breathe while it bakes. Fine, whatever. Whatever. Here is a picture of it:
See how it says, “MICROWAVE WRAPPER/OPEN BOTH ENDS FIRST” on it? Yeeeah, well. I was in such a rush to cook the fucking thing that I read it “OPEN BOTH ENDS FAST” and in my haste I accepted this without question so I ripped one side open as fast as I could and flung the pot pie across the kitchen floor. It was like the bastard child version of the flying turkey scene in The Money Pit.
5. Who cares that the pot pie is contaminated with floor dirt!? Not I! I throw that bitch in the microwave and pace for eight minutes. Ding! It’s ready! Of course I’m not satisfied with the calorie content and I decide I have to throw some cheese in it. So I make a hole in the top with a fork and I shove a piece of cheddar cheese and a piece of deli-sliced Muenster (which I always call Monster) cheese in the hole and throw it back in the microwave.
6. I watch the cheese melt, which is one of my favorite things to do, because I want to marry cheese. But the Monster cheese is not melting. It looks weird. But who cares!!
7. I grab the pot pie and run back to my room, thrilled. I go to stab it with my fork and realize that I have failed to remove the piece of wax paper that separates each slice of Monster cheese from the other slices. I scrape the cheese off into a blob and resume the feast.
See what my life is like? Even pot pies are an adventure when Captain Retard gets a hold of them! I’m serious! This shit is constant.
Okay I have to go wrestle my Barbarian roommate away from Mephisto, Lord of Hatred or whatever he’s trying to kill (that’s the only bad dude I remember from a different, former Diablo-obsessed roommate) because he has once again commandeered the Brita filter pitcher and last I checked, you don’t NEED those in the Pandemonium Fortress and I am hella thirsty.