I Don't Belong Here.

a humor blog from the trenches of suburbia.

Melinda tried to kill me at dinner again last night.

She made chicken and broccoli and baked a roll of Pilsbury biscuits. I thought the biscuits smelled a little funny when she took them out of the oven, but when I took a bite, I knew they were moldy. 

It was the same taste I remembered from several years ago, when she made pancakes one Sunday morning and used expired mix. Despite them tasting weird, I powered through. The result was a bout of anaphylaxis that sealed up my throat and could only be loosened by a heavy dose of Benadryl.

“I don’t understand,” Melinda said. “We ALL ate the pancakes, and you’re the only one who reacted to them like that.”

“Clearly I am more sensitive to moldy pancake mix than the rest of you,” I said.

This time around, I was more wary, and I stopped eating after the first bite. Fool me once… “How old are these biscuits?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “They were in the fridge.”

Dominic went to the trash can and found the container. The expiration date read June, 2020.

“Jesus Christ!” I said. “That means we moved with them!”

“Who knew biscuits could go bad?” she said.

“They’re REFRIGERATED,” I said.

She frowned. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you again.”

“You know, in journalism, three of something is considered a trend. One more time, and you’re basically a serial killer.”

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