I made a cookie burst into flames.
In the microwave.
How is it possible to set something on fire in the microwave? I have no idea. It just did. I like to microwave cookies, it makes them squishy. Then you put them in a bowl and mush them up. Then you fling the hot cookie at people. It's horrible to get this nuclear cookie mixture on you. It has a time-delayed burn to it. For a second you think you're going to be all right and then suddenly- OH HOLY JESUS GET IT OFFFF MEEEEEE!
But they never actually produced flames before. And these were huge flames. Five or six inches. I was kinda loitering next to the microwave, humming a tune, or not. They were only in there about 30 seconds when they started to crackle, snap and pop. The three white-chocolate/macadamia-nut cookies were on a napkin in there. I happened to glance inside, intrigued by the sizzling, and...
AUUUUGH!
Bright blue flames of a demonic nature were shooting out of the central cookie. I did not think. I snatched open the door, grabbed the edge of the napkin, and flung it about ten feet across the kitchen into the sink. One of the non-flaming cookies made a detour into the living room, leaving a skid mark of melted chocolate across the tile. Meanwhile, the two other cookies landed neatly in the sink, into a bowl of soapy water. There was a brief but dramatic sizzle. A gigantic cloud of foul-smelling, blatantly evil steam rose. I leaned over with elbows on knees, panting and reeking of demon cookie.
Remember, a few unnecessarily wordy paragraphs ago, when I mentioned the time-delay burning? Well, I had forgotten about it for the moment, also. When I had grabbed the napkin, it had ripped a bit and some of the evil had poured onto me. A mixture of still-steaming dripping chocolate, some sort of grease (was it IN the cookie?), and macadamia nut gone incredibly, incredibly wrong was plastered all over my arms and hands.
I uttered a single, hurt and bewildered "Ffff--" before collapsing on the floor, trying to scrape melted crap the consistency of buttered tar off my limbs. And even then this would not have warranted a notebook entry. Except for the dog.
I have a very large, dense dog. He thinks he's small. He also had already sampled the cookie that had flown into the living room. His blood was up and he was certainly ready for more hot, burnt cookie. His head popped around the corner like some horrible puppet. He had little chocolate gobbets all around his mouth.
I shreiked, "DEWEY! SIT!"
He leapt. I put my arms up in a pathetic attempt to shield my face. Unfortunately for me, my arms were covered in boiling-hot cookie, so I only managed to get it in my contact lenses. I had time for another heartfelt expletive before he hit, and 60 pounds of writhing Austalian Shepherd with paws out and teeth bared landed on my head.
By then the wrath of hell was in me. I got a sneakered foot up under his chest and bounced him against the cabinents, imagining I heard the particleboard splintering.
He was ready to give up by then, but I was covered in that cookie, THAT GODDAMN COOKIE, and I was PISSED. I jumped on top of him and gave him the worst piledriver of his life. He made a weak little noise ("Ffft.") and went completely limp, playing dead in a final attempt not to be killed.
Becky came around the corner at that exact instant.
Please imagine the scene. Centerpiece is me, sitting on top of the dog's neck, holding him in some unnatural wrestling position, with welts and pieces of what look like charred flesh (but are actually burnt dough) all over my arms and face. And everywhere is the stink of cookie, it's in a blue haze in the ktichen.
Becky, bless her little soul, turned on her heel like the little pom-pom girl she is and walked away with one final comment.
"I don't even want to know."
I stole this from someone's site, seemed like a nice thread crap.
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