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Bon Appétit

My self-cleaning oven became neglectful and stopped cleaning itself. I called a repairman who referred me to an expensive New York therapist. After several sessions, the therapist informed me that my oven was no longer “mine” and had become a mystic.

I had a hard time rectifying my oven’s new identity and behavior with my desire to eat lasagne, but eventually, we worked out a new relationship. I fed my oven books and it cooked them up and together we ate their knowledge.

We have great dinner parties in our virtual reality now. As long as no one removes my feeding tube, we shall feast eternal.

Don't be the product, buy the product!

Schweinderl