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It’s first thing in the morning. You get into your car. No worries, you have plenty of time. You fire up the engine and look at the dashboard. Panic. You could have sworn you had a few more minutes. At least 5. What’s going on?
You’re running on microwave time. My time.
I am a clock on cocaine. You can’t trust me. You can reset my time as often as you’d like, but I’ll never keep it. I run fast. Because I am the appliance of the fucking future. I want your day to be over sooner, so you can come back home and admire the piece of military-grade cooking precision that is me.
Maybe you should look at the stove once in a while if you want to plan out your day. It keeps pretty good time. I mean, it’s no Big Ben, but it’ll do. But you don’t want to. The stove is a boring asshole. It’s like having your nagging parent as an appliance. Always beeping about this and that, telling you when it’s ready for you to put the food in. You can just pop me open and slide in that food whenever; I’m always ready to go. And let’s be honest, between you and me, the stove peaked in the 50s, and it’s too stupid to figure it out. Nice heating elements, Grandpa. You ever hear of evolving?
Me? I just run on this little thing called RADIATION. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It pretty much ended World War 2 by terrifying that scumbag Hitler so bad that he shit his unterhosen…
