Azure Jane Lunatic (Azz) 🌺 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
azurelunatic) wrote2003-09-28 12:40 am
azurelunatic) wrote2003-09-28 12:40 am
That Idiot Shawn and the Can of Beans
Once upon a time in high school, I had a best friend: That Idiot Shawn.
One weekend he called me up, not quite all there. Being the innocent that I was, I did not put together the rather glaringly obvious clues and conclude that he'd been smoking the weed. I rest assured now that this is what had been happening. At the time, I chalked it all up to uncontrolled ADHD, since that was what he had, and that was what I was accustomed to dealing with.
We chatted. After a good period of time, he decided that he was hungry, and that he would go to the kitchen and find some food. After many mishaps and trials, including an intervening door ("Ow!" "What, Shawn?" "I just closed the door on my nose. ... It hurts. ...I wonder if it hurts any less if I do it again? Ow!" ...Nor did it hurt any less a third, a fourth, or a fifth time...) he made it to the kitchen.
He decided that he would cook himself a can of beans.
All was going relatively well, or so I thought. He got out the can of beans, and there was kitchen noise. We continued to chat.
After some time, I gently reminded him, "Make sure to stir the beans."
"Why?"
"So they won't burn."
"Oh. ...I can't."
"You mean you left it in the can? Please tell me you at least punched holes in the top for the steam to escape..."
In the midst of my impassioned lecture on why this was vital (water expands, becomes steam, wishes to escape, blows up can if no steam holes), Shawn suddenly started yelling.
"Oh my God, it's on fire! The label's on fire!" Any sane person would have not found themselves in this situation. "Ow ow ow ow ow!" (sounds of scuffling, clanging, and finally, water running. "Ow, my hand!"
He had picked up the flaming can of beans in his hand and dumped it in the sink. As he wondered what to do about the pain, whether he should take three or four of the pills in the prescription bottle belonging to his mother, I hung up on him, firmly, and called our mutual friend Dot of the Blue Hair and refused to answer the call-waiting beep.
Come Monday morning, I was animatedly finishing up the tale of Shawn's Encounter with the Can of Beans to a circle of amused classmates, when Shawn barged in and interrupted the bit where I hung up on him.
"Guys, the weirdest thing happened to me this weekend!" he exclaimed. "I came to, and there were beans splattered all over the kitchen walls, and I'd been, like, cleaning them up or something. And I've got this burn on my hand. It's a perfect circle. I don't remember anything. It's so weird."
The guys started laughing. The Lunatic had just explained all... and it was evident that he hadn't listened to the Lunatic, and had put the beans back on the stove, and the can had, as I'd warned him, blown up...
"What? What's so funny? It hurts!"
The guys proceeded to die of laughter.
One weekend he called me up, not quite all there. Being the innocent that I was, I did not put together the rather glaringly obvious clues and conclude that he'd been smoking the weed. I rest assured now that this is what had been happening. At the time, I chalked it all up to uncontrolled ADHD, since that was what he had, and that was what I was accustomed to dealing with.
We chatted. After a good period of time, he decided that he was hungry, and that he would go to the kitchen and find some food. After many mishaps and trials, including an intervening door ("Ow!" "What, Shawn?" "I just closed the door on my nose. ... It hurts. ...I wonder if it hurts any less if I do it again? Ow!" ...Nor did it hurt any less a third, a fourth, or a fifth time...) he made it to the kitchen.
He decided that he would cook himself a can of beans.
All was going relatively well, or so I thought. He got out the can of beans, and there was kitchen noise. We continued to chat.
After some time, I gently reminded him, "Make sure to stir the beans."
"Why?"
"So they won't burn."
"Oh. ...I can't."
"You mean you left it in the can? Please tell me you at least punched holes in the top for the steam to escape..."
In the midst of my impassioned lecture on why this was vital (water expands, becomes steam, wishes to escape, blows up can if no steam holes), Shawn suddenly started yelling.
"Oh my God, it's on fire! The label's on fire!" Any sane person would have not found themselves in this situation. "Ow ow ow ow ow!" (sounds of scuffling, clanging, and finally, water running. "Ow, my hand!"
He had picked up the flaming can of beans in his hand and dumped it in the sink. As he wondered what to do about the pain, whether he should take three or four of the pills in the prescription bottle belonging to his mother, I hung up on him, firmly, and called our mutual friend Dot of the Blue Hair and refused to answer the call-waiting beep.
Come Monday morning, I was animatedly finishing up the tale of Shawn's Encounter with the Can of Beans to a circle of amused classmates, when Shawn barged in and interrupted the bit where I hung up on him.
"Guys, the weirdest thing happened to me this weekend!" he exclaimed. "I came to, and there were beans splattered all over the kitchen walls, and I'd been, like, cleaning them up or something. And I've got this burn on my hand. It's a perfect circle. I don't remember anything. It's so weird."
The guys started laughing. The Lunatic had just explained all... and it was evident that he hadn't listened to the Lunatic, and had put the beans back on the stove, and the can had, as I'd warned him, blown up...
"What? What's so funny? It hurts!"
The guys proceeded to die of laughter.
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"Now don't be like Shawn," you point out to your grandchildren. "Think things through before you do them." :)
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...I guess I need to write up the Squirrel Incident (the Shawn one, not the one with my father)...
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Ta-daa!
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A guy like that could easily have been convinced that he'd been abducted by aliens.
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*considers*
Naaaah, he'd enjoy that too much...
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Now, you have to understand, my grandmother Grace came from a very traditional Itallian family, and her mother was an excellent cook.
And never let ANYONE else into her kitchen. So none of her kids could cook. . .
Anyway, they elope, and go back to Ralph's apartment, and Grace says, "Well, what do you want for our first meal as a married couple?" and Ralph says, "Oh, nothing fancy -- why don't you just heat up a can of hash?"
So she does.
It, of course, blows up, and they scrape their first meal off the walls.
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I think That Idiot would have had a better handle on heating up lunch if he hadn't been so stoned.