It was a regular, average Wed ness day Wednesday evening. I was downstairs munchin' on my ol' school mini pizza that earlier I'd popped in my now beloved toaster oven. I was flip floppin' between watching tv and being on the computer, I could hear Uncle John upstairs playing. He sounded like he was havin' fun. Hoppin' here and there overhead. I paid nooooo attention to him and remember thinkin' 'Awwww...Uncle John, still bein' spry, havin' fun. Good on him" and goin' about my general BBG bidness.
A bit later, I wandered upstairs for whatthefuckever, and discovered that Uncle John had indeed been having fun.
...Yep.
Havin' fun destroyin' shit:
(So long oven mitt. How 'bout them purple nails?)
Ugh.
For starters that was my 2nd favorite oven mitt. Of the precisely two that I own. (TMI: the other being of the silicone variety.) Then I considered the heavy duty silver stuff, that I can only imagine is not particularly good for d oh double g consumption. Double ugh.
I, of course watched Uncle John like a hawk. I gave him a press on his belly area to see if he seemed tender, or troubled by it's contents. Thankfully it seems Uncle John has the constitution of Hercules. By virtue of some crazy ass strong canine digestion and evacuation system he seems to be feelin' fine.
For the official record, I'd left the damn oven mitt on the counter. Evidently, not far enough back that on his lil' schnauzer tippy toes he couldn't reach that mitt. Something has to be super close to the edge for him to be able to appropriate it, so I could only be sooo angry with him, as I, apparently, share in the blame.
(Note to self: Don't cook anything big. You now have no way to hold sumthin' hot with two hands.)
Never.
A.
Dull.
Moment.
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