Ever know a kid who desperately wants his stepfather’s approval so he helps him with various tasks but keeps effin’ things up? That’s how I feel about the Hamburger Glove. You heard me limp triscuit. You are a worthless little red-nosed glove. “Oh, but Rudolph had a red nose and people eventually came around.” You ain’t Rudolph bub. If you were, rest assured you’d have given Santa and all the workshop employees (sans Mr. Hanky) some horrible vomit/diarrhea-inducing ailment and ruined Christmas. You’re nothing but a stumpy five four-fingered Richard, and I have but one (the middle one btw) for you.
Your packaging is deceivingly innocent. 1 lb ground beef. I like beef. 1 1/4 cups water. Yeah, water’s healthy. 2 cups milk. Milk’s good, I need calcium. Wait, what’s that packet? Sauce mix? WTF is sauce mix? Last I checked sauce implied liquid. Aw, eff it. Can’t be any worse than Ramen Noodles. Zippity do dah, mix mix mix, and 14 minutes later I have what appears to be a hearty meal. A quick taste test confirms my suspicions. Delish.
Oh, but your destruction isn’t readily apparent…is it Glove? Dinner comes and goes. Primetime TV plays out. And then once your victim (ME) is snuggled in their bed…BAM! A time-delayed colon bomb explodes with the force of 5 or 6 Hiroshima bombs, ripping through my insides like an alien offspring.
Glove, you are a mother flippin’ culinary sociopath. Heed my warning and share it with your buddies, los osos de Charmin and the Pepto glee club, you’re all finished. That’s right, as soon as I drop the kids off at the pool I’m going to hunt you and shoot you down like a duck!
How do you feel about the four-fingered dinner disaster? Share your thoughts below or send me an e-mail at me@y2kemo.com.
