Those of you who are old enough to remember the term "ice box" or have lived in regions that still use that term (other than 3/4 of the U.S which is currently an actual ice box)' although I suppose if someone still really uses the term ice box they are just being weird, but I ramble, as usual, will know that I am describing the refrigerator.
Who cares, one may ask? I DO! I do, because after reading about creepy crawlies infecting people I decided it was time to remove the bloodlike splatters that would greet me each time I opened the fridge door. Of course, Mr. Froth's credo is "It's refrigerated! You can eat it forever! It's been cooked!"
To which I reply, "Dead bodies in a morgue are refrigerated. Would you eat them?" And, I know, surprise, just because something has been cooked doesn't mean it will last forever. Look at Keith Woods. QED
So, anyway, even though my right arm is still aching like a bastiche from playing Wii bowling, I manned up, put on my gas mask and lit up the acetylene torch and started dislodging the bigger chunks. Our fridge is old and the doodads that support the drawers and shelves are haphazard, so once you remove them you have to have someone expert, like Mr. Froth, reinstall them. That's the easy part. That doesn't require you to slog through strange fluids, crispy bits and fuzzy shit.
The grapes in the bottom crisper appeared to have been marinating in turkey juice. (Mr. Froth is smoking a turkey today in honor of it being Sunday. Or, because it was thawed or the Super Bowl or something. The smoker smoke awoke me and I thought I was Bambi.) But, the grapes. Eh. I washed them off. They've been refrigerated!
Do you know we have approximately 15 different salad dressings? All open. I didn't detect any living organisms on the containers so I kept those. I mean, you know, they've been refrigerated.
Somebody was definitely kilt in that fridge. And put up a struggle during the process. I don't know whom to accuse.But, if you see anyone with Bloody Mary flank steak marinade on their hands, avoid that person.
Did you know we have approximately 27 jars of pickles? All open. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The piece de resistance, however, was the opened can of Mandarin oranges. Cunningly accessorized with a spoon. In the back. Behind the crushed pepper flakes and grits. WAAAY behind. Behinder even than the pudding cup leftover from the youngest Frothlet's ninth-grade year. In fact, I believe he may be responsible for this grotesquerie.
The contents of the can were black. Like ebony black. Congealed black oranges. No mold. They'd jumped directly to horror film. Mr. Froth started with the "But they've been re..." I steadily aimed the torch and he stepped back from the fridge and threw them away. They're in the sewer drains now. I'd watch my back if I were y'all.
Most everything else was easily identifiable-pea soup,chicken hearts and livers-I sense a certain morbid trend in this description. As if life is, indeed, imitating art and what I'm reading is incorporating before my eyeballs...
except for the mustard yellow mass in a sealed plastic container. I really don't recall making any mustard yellow masses recently, but I know the elder Frothlet works in a DNA facility wherein they produce a peanut-butter consistency e-coli mush to create vaccines. I'm hopeful they didn't ask him to bring his work home.
It smelled like mustard but it obviously had a hidden agenda somewhere because it was ALIVVEEE!
It joined the oranges in the drain, so it is conceivable that there is a mustard yellow black orange mutant slithering down to your local wastewater treatment plant. I don't know. I just live here. For now, at least, until they seek revenge and return via the toilets.
It's clean now. It sparkles. Ready for the next death match.
