PARKWAY 1: The Fuckin Oven Mitt!!

I'm lying on the big stained couch with the blue stripes, high as hell, watching South Park and giggling. My roommate Walker, also stoned out of his mind is lying on the loveseat. He is cooking a frozen pizza in the oven causing our dusty window unit air conditioner to work overtime to keep the hot, humid air outside. The greasy, battered, partially-melted kitchen timer is whirring away, probably losing 5 seconds for every second it ticks. A cartoon chicken grins cheekily from the center. When it dings, I giggle and try to organize my thoughts as he gets up and goes to the oven. He peers inside, and I turn back to the TV for a few seconds. When my eyes wander back I discover he appears to be looking for something. He eventually grabs a dirty dish towel from the loaded sink, opens the oven door and leans down. Something is drastically wrong. An alarm is sluggishly going off in my brain. That thing I just purchased is sitting right in front of his dumbass face. Why doesn't he use the THING? What the fuck is it called? Goddammit he needs to USE it! That's what it's there for. Then my self doubt creeps in. Is there something wrong with it? Did I not purchase the right one? Is there something wrong with my purchasing abilities?

Why in god's name doesn't he USE it?

"NO!! Use the... grab it... why don't you..." Suddenly, sweet unmuddied clarity rushes in. "USE THE FUCKIN OVEN MITT!!?"

Walker recoils as though slapped, then we both descend into sharp, braying painful laughter. He will never let me live this one down. He uses the oven mitt, and all is right with the world.