The Hot Plate Escapades

2. The End

My fingers froze on the keyboard and I watched as the Hot Plate God is typing format scrolled at the bottom of the IM window. We waited nervously with bated breath as the "Hot Plate God" took a very long time to type... making my drunken mind question whether it had hands or not. I was about to get up and look, but then the little dingy thing went off and there was a new instant message.

Hot Plate God: 1. I am the Lord thy Hot Plate, thou shalt not have strange gods before Me.

Once again, Mark and I looked at the Hot Plate, which I am now considering capitalized because of the way it was addressing itself. "Why are you being a stupidhead?" Mark asked it, walking over and tapping the top of it. Suddenly, he screeched, and then he staggered away from the kitchen, sporting some nice burns on his hand.

"Do not question the Hot Plate," I mocked, screwing up my face and macho-izing my voice.

Mark and I sniggered under our breath and turned back to the computer.

Hot Plate God: 2. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy Hot Plate in vain.

A loud, intoxicated laugh was emitted from Mark, as he spit out the vodka that Collins had left by "accident". "HOLY HOT PLATE!" he shouted like the Marky Jane (don't tell him I call him that, he gets so mad, hence my damaged retinas) he is, and then clenched his heart and fell off the table.

And suddenly, Mark's hair lit on lavender shaded flame. He screamed, I laughed, we both cried. Him of pain, me of blissful joy. See, I was wise enough to heed the Hot Plate's words.

I grew up until I was three—by the time I was that age, I was a very well-spoken man. I knew what antidisestablishmentarianismmeant, I had a serious girlfriend—she was twenty-eight and expecting our first child, and I also had a very steady job delivering pizzas, the three-year-old that I was. I carried them in a knapsack as I walked down the highway, or took my go-cart. The wind would blow in my long luscious hair.

But enough about me!

When Mark's head was extinguished, which involved him beating several hard surfaces around the head, and breaking his glasses and hang on with one ear—which gave him a very drunk and sordid appearance. When all was said and done, we turned back to the screen, obedient puppies that we were.

Hot Plate God: Tres. Keep holy the Hot Plate ritual/worship day, Wednesday, because, back in the day, it was a Wednesday. And Wednesday is the most difficult to spell, and I am evil when it comes to spelling. Hot plates have a very difficult time typing, you see, for We don't have hands, it is a fault that even your God the Hot Plate has... and so, you must all chop off your hands, so you are all lesser than I.

So Mark and I did chop off our hands, but when we looked back down at them when we were done, HA, they were back. The Hot Plate gave us new powers. "For your obedience, I shall grant you new hands, and give you special powers! Roger, the hair. It's very sexy. Mark... the..." he stopped. "The camera. Because technology is hip... like Roger."

I bowed. "Thank you, O Wise One."

"But for your disobedience," he thundered, and then smothered Mark's name with a cough, "I shall light your heads ablaze, with lavender flames, for lavender is thine god's favorite color. And it brings out Roger's striking green eyes."

I bowed again, and I blushed. "I thank Thee, O Mighty God, for Your wonderful gifts and Your wonderful compliments, and bag of complimentary peanuts that I found in my pants earlier." I nodded when Mark looked at me, a little freaked out. "Yes, it's true, there were nuts in my pants. And they were delicious, O Hot Plate God."

"That actually wasn't My idea," admitted the Hot Plate, in what I imagined to be a bashful voice.

"Then who—"

The refrigerator, who sounded a bit like Christopher Walken, chuckled, and then coughed loudly.

Mark, who seemed grumpity that he wasn't being paid attention to, grunted and pointed toward the screen as it ding-a-doodled.

Hot Plate God: 4. Honor thy Refrigerator and thy Stove, for They are mighty appliances and are My henchmen. You disrespected Them, you disrespect Me. Whatever you do to the least of My henchmen, you have done unto Me.

Mark threw a donut from behind the computer monitor at the stove, and it opened and then blew flames at us. The flames danced merrily around me, while they managed to singe Mark and give him third degree burns on his face and hands. "We loooove you Roger," chanted the dancing purple flames.

"THEY'RE LAVENDER!" the Hot Plate James Earl Jones shouted. "Bwahaha! Embrace the lavender fury!" We looked at each other nervously. "Roger, your eyes are popping."

A longing sigh escaped the Stove, which sounded like Johnny Depp speaking with a British accent. "So sexy. Oh, my Lord, Hot Plate, he's so dreamy!"

DONG! The computer made a different sound this time.

Hot Plate God: 5. Thou shalt not kill each other, for if there were no Roger and there were no Mark, there would be no worshippers of the Hot Plate God, or His Refrigerator and Stove henchmen—hence, the Hot Plate God would be no longer.

"Which would be very bad," Mark prompted, trying very hard to kiss ass.

"YOU SNARKY BASTARD!" the Hot Plate roared, "HOW DARE YOU MOCK ME!"

"No, my Lord," said Mark quickly, holding up his hands in surrender, "I would never—"

"YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR SNARKY ATTITUDE!" the Hot Plate cried evilly.

"If I may intervene," I interrupted, stepping in so as to save Mark's face and body from ham. I mean harm. There's nothing wrong with ham! I sincerely mean it! Unless...you are a vegetarian, which I was for the three years in which I grew up...but that is a story longer that the Neverending Story of NOTENDINGNESS.

"Yes?" the Hot Plate cooed, scooting closer over the counter towards me.

"Ahem. Well, err, yes," I said and, in what I hoped was a pleading voice, continued, "could you perhaps, not harm Marky Jane?"

The Hot Plate and the other appliances sniggered. "Is that what he is really called?" it asked.

"Well...uh...sure, why not."

NEEEEEEEEEXT COMMANDMENT.

Hot Plate God: 6. Thou shalt not commit electrical homicide to thy room mate, or anyone for that matter. It's just sick and wrong... and it does not please the Hot Plate God.

Silently, Mark and I looked at each other and then back at the screen, not needing to dwell upon this commandment. Quite simple, actually.

Hot Plate God: OMG, Roger, you so sexy.
Hot Plate God: Sorry, that was the microwave.

"No it wasn't!" cried the microwave shrilly, and I smiled sheepishly at it. "Okay... maybe it was..."

"But it was me too," the Stove confessed. "Just smile at me, please!"

The Fridge rattled. "And I."

"A mi tambien," muttered some Mexican appliance.

"Well," I said, "I guess I'm just gonna have to tap you all."

"NO!"

DING.

Not Plate God: 7. Rodgger must bang da totstar, NOWski.

My face fell and I looked hesitantly at Mark, wondering if I should ask him how to go about banging a toaster, when I realized that it did not say Hot Plate God, but Not Plate God. Looking over at the toaster, I shook my head, disappointed, and wagged my finger at the toaster. "Naughty, naughty, toaster. I shall now punish you by... tapping you!"

"NO!"

Hot Plate God: 7. Thou shalt not steal another hot plate to replace thy Hot Plate. This would make Me very angry and result in much smiting.

8. Thou shalt not, like, lie to the Hot Plate, because that is totally uncool, dude. I am watching you.

"Well, that's mildly creepy," Mark commented. I shook my head and indicated the screen. We continued to read.

Hot Plate God:9.Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's hot plate, for there is no hot plate greater than I, or can hold a match to Me and My godliness.

"Do our neighbor's have hot plates?" I asked Mark, who shrugged. Back to reading...

Hot Plate God:10. Though shalt not covet thy neighbor's appliances, because your Fridge and Stove are already pretty frickin' good.

12. The Hot Plate rules, woot.

"Uhh..." said Mark hesitantly, "...you skipped one."

"WHAT?!" the Refrigerator screamed. "HOW DARE YOU SAY SUCH AN OFFENSIVE REMARK TO MINE LORD HOT PLATE! SOMETHING SO OFFENSIVE! AND WHO ARE YOU TO TALK? YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FISTS!"

"That was Roger!" Mark shriefled like a little kid point an accusitory finger at me.

"Yeah," said the Stove, "but it hottttttt when he did it."

"In comparison to when I did it? I never did it!" Mark yelped defiantly.

"Did WHAT?" inquired the toaster, the eavesdropper of all kitchen appliances. "We ALL know you've never even rounded second BASE with anyone!"

"ACTUALLY," called the lawnmower from the yard outside, "HE'S NEVER EVEN BEEN TO FIRST! I WOULD KNOW—I WAS THERE! EVERYONE KNOWS A BOY ALWAYS BRINGS HIS LAWNMOWER ON HIS FIRST DATE!"

"Oh yeah..." said the iron, "I remember you told me about that. He showed up on his first date, and was like, 'We're gonna drive the lawnmower to the prom.' And then the girl was all, 'But you don't have a sit-down.' Mark stupidly replied, 'Oh, we'll work something out.'"

"Oh, yes," said the microwave, joining the conversation. "So he told her to get into the underside compartment, and she listened. And halfway through the ride there, she tried to get out to ask him if they were close, and the blades were spinning and her arm got all—"

"YEAH WE KNOW THE STORY!" Marky snapped.

I lit up a joint and grabbed the bowl of popcorn from the microwave, which giggled as I grazed its side with my arm.

"And THEN," continued the rather persistent iron, "all the kids at school called him LAWNMOWER KID! And that's why no decent girl will touch him."

"No DECENT girl?" asked the toaster indignantly. "How about 'NO GIRL PERIOD'?"

Everyone agreed on this and eventually we all calmed down. But I still had half a bowl of popcorn to go, so I decided to stoke the fire, if you will.

"Maureen was a decent girl," I muttered, just loud enough for EVERYONE in the room to hear me.

The outcome of this statement was a very uproarious uproar. "MAUREEN NEVER TOUCHED MARK!" yelled the Refrigerator.

"YES SHE DID!" cried Mark. "YES SHE DIIIIIIIIID! I SHOULD KNOW! I WAS THERE! It was the best five minutes of my life!"

Everyone burst into simultaneous giggles. "You only lasted five minutes?" guffawed the stove.

"No he didn't!" shouted the TV in Mark's room. "There was no activity in here!"

"Oh yeah?" challenged Mark. He pointed to me again. "Well what did ROGER'S TV see then? HMMM?"

Mark really needs to understand the shit he gets himself in before he does so. Challenging the One Who Bangs Women is not a good thing to do, if you are the One Who Does Not Bang Women, "Roger's TV is dead," said the stove knowingly. I shivered. "But we don't like to talk about it," it added.

"Yeah," said an appliance from the other room. "Everything Roger taps dies."

The microwave squeaked with fright. Everyone stared. "What? I saw a mouse."

I shook my head. "You can ask the curtains," I suggested to Mark, thinking of my beautiful satin and floral girls hanging off of the stainless steel rods—just in case a tornado happened to rip through New York City... the rods would not stain. I knew my girls would stick by me, for they are beautiful and covered in flowers.

"I thought we were only speaking to appliances," Mark commented.

"Ahh, we're drunk anyway. Oh curtains!" I called.

"Yes, master!" they called back, "We love you, master!"

I know, chicks. I smiled at my lovely curtains. Did I mention how floral they are today? "Have I mentioned how floral you guys look today?" I mentioned, mirroring my thoughts to the present time. They laughed, and I felt myself get all excited. "Mark would like to know how much action I get."

I heard the curtains giggle. "Why? Is he...interested?" asked Martha, the first curtain.

"No, no," I assured them. "I haven't banged him."

"Yet," added the Hot Plate.

"What do you mean?" I asked nervously, biting my lip and fearing the words. "Please tell me, dear Lord, one who is so shiny and heated. And new. And from Mark's mother. And beautiful." I seriously didn't want to end up banging Mark anytime soon, for it would give me nightmares and tears.

"I have plans for you," and then the Hot Plate grew eyes and winked, "O Sexy One."

And then the appliances all shut up.

And as I took one last longing look at the computer screen, so full of html and vibrant colors, I saw one IM that I hadn't seen before, alone on the background of Mark and some photoshopped girl on Collins' body. I shrieked and collapsed, twitching at the memory this instant message triggered.

Hot Plate God: What about the penguins?

A/N: –giggles–

The Our Hot Plate

Our Hot Plate
Who art in kitchen
Hallowed be thy heat.
Thy coffee come
Thy will be drank
In the loft
As is done in the warehouse.
Give us each day our daily soup,
And forgive us our fruit baskets
As we forgive those
Who do not worship thou.
Lead us not into cremation
But deliver us from
Non-caffeinated beverages
AMEN.

So, I'd like to say one thing.

The whole paragraph that follows "DON'T ASK ME ABOUT THE PENGUINS!" great thanks to Sara for acting that out and proceeding to give me nightmares and scar my mind. She actually did wave her arms quite flamboyantly and shouted it in a high pitched voice.

Haha, well we had WAY too much fun... honestly.

RENT TOMORROW! –SQUEE–

Thanks for reading.

–Steph
(And Sara)