Kitchen

Keith and Michael have a very important discussion.

“Why are you in my kitchen? Why is that on fire? You don’t even live here.”

“Calm down, Michael. I know what I’m doing.”

“Since when? I mean, look at you. Is that jam or blood?”

“Jam! Obviously jam! The blood is over there.”

“Keith, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Is it because I used the last instant coffee packet?”

“No.”

“Is it because I used your bathroom door as fuel for heating the cauldron?”

“N- cauldron? What cauldron?”

“What, you thought this was it? There’s so much more, my friend. I had to use a cauldron because all of your pots are tiny.”

“Well, no. It’s not because of the cauldron.”

“Is it because of the cow heads? I swear, I still have no idea where those came from.”

“Oh, my sister works for a traveling slaughterhouse. I asked for them because I thought it’d be a nice treat for my dogs.”

“That’s nice. Why can’t I stay?”

“You got mud on the floor, Keith.”

“I also got mashed centipedes and baking soda on the floor, Michael. You’re going to complain about wet dirt? Really?”

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

“Fine, fine. I’m leaving. But you might want to turn the oven off. I kind of broke it, so I don’t know if it will turn off at this point, but I do know that if whatever’s in there keeps cooking, you’re going to forget about the muddy floor pretty quickly.”

“Lovely. Just go, already.”