A flight of hairy angels sing the to thy rest

March 5, 2013

Some facts in this story have been changed to protect the guilty. Duh, da duh duh. 

So, me, I’m sweet on this lady-type, but she cuts it off, and I’m singing the Massachusetts Blues. They’re like the regular blues, except a lot colder, and there’s free healthcare. Anyway, me, I am not devoid of a certain… greasy charm. Much like a used tuxedo or brand new chimichanga. Somehow, I manage to lure a lady into visiting my abode. Someone may have claimed that they have a large collection of etchings which should be looked at. The young lady, she asks if she can bring a friend? I think the same thing every young man thinks when he hears two ladies want to come visit him in his home: “I hope they make the Arrested Development movie soon”. 

So I’ve got to impress this duo. What to do? I go, I get myself some chickpeas. Some chickpea flour. A lemon, some parsley, an onion. A case of beer. A bottle of tequila. I’m going to make homemade falafel, and also beer and tequila. The young lady had heard that I’m a good chef. So the ladies come over, I’ve got all the falafel stuff mixed up in a bowl, and I fill the deep fryer with oil. We mix some drinks and engage in, if I may be generous, “conversation”. But that’s how first two-on-one dates are, everyone’s sort of feeling everyone else out, just trying to make sure no one’s a serial killer or whatever. Everything we said to each other sounded like we were trying to determine if they were being held hostage without alerting Hans Gruber who is listening in on the phone call. So, time goes by, some mixed drinks are mixed with mixed messages, and I figure, it’s time to make some falafel. I mean, the lemon is cut up and everything. I’ve got a plate just sitting there. The oil’s hot, the chickpea mush is ready, and I’m ready. I’ve never been so ready. I scoop up some falafel in a hand, moosh it into a ball, look over at one of the young ladies, wink, and drop the falafelball into the oil. 

Now, it turned out to be good luck that I was looking at the young lady, because as soon as the falafel hit the oil A SIX FOOT PILLAR OF SCREAMING FLAMES SHOT OUT OF THE DEEP FRYER. Three things happened at almost the same moment: my sideburn was singed off; my sleeve caught fire; and the falafel was rocketed about the room with a splattery sound that would have been comical if I HADN’T BEEN ON FIRE. 

Fortunately, as a total physical coward, my first instinct was to curl into a ball, and in doing so, writhing on the floor, I put out my garment and managed not to knock over the oil. The oil, I guess put itself out. I’m not a physics guy, maybe there was some falafel-reactive vapor or some shit, I don’t know. Anyway. I calmly unplug the fryer. I try to laugh it off, but the ladies leave, I had to shave my beard, I need a new hoodie, and my kitchen smells like burning middle-eastern hair that would go good with hummus. I’m sad and I’m lonely and my face is cold and I hate this stupid world.