Stirring up my wrath
I have not one but two guitar-shaped cooking implements in my kitchen. They suck. I don't know how they made their way into my house or why they were made in the first place. They make me angry each time I look at them. I despise them. And yet for some reason, I can't bring myself to throw or give them away.
That might be because I need something innocuous and unharmable to be mad at right now. The wooden spoonish spatula and the red, silicone thing—I guess it's a spatula—are not, so far as I know, sentient, and I feel no compunction about telling them just how shitty and useless they are. The irregularly contoured bottom of the guitar body (it's a douchey-looking electric guitar) renders the spatula impractical for scraping the bottom of a pot, and the cutaways (I had to look up what those swoopy things on either side of the neck are called and I'm so irritated) serve no purpose—they just jut and flop and make the whole thing extra-difficult to clean.
Who is this spatula for? Cool dads who grill in cargo shorts and are in a weekend cover band that mortifies their children who go to the shows and bite their lips and bob along? A lady in your office who you hate or who hates you? Is it for The Red Hot Chili Peppers? That would make sense because they, too, are terrible. But I have two of these spatulas in my home and I don't take Ambien so I'm pretty sure I didn't fugue-buy them in the middle of the night. So how did they get there? My husband doesn't own cargo shorts and isn't in the Red Hot Chili Peppers so far as he's told me, so I'm pretty sure they're not his fault, either. Why us? Why me?
I am possessed of a sense of whimsy, I swear. Of my own volition, I purchased a spatula with a smiling skull on it, but that in no way impairs its function. It is a good spatula that earns its place.
I suspect I am spending so much emotional energy on these terrible novelty kitchen implements because I really want to scream at Trump Senior Advisor Stephen Miller—the architect of the zero-tolerance immigration plan and all around racist ghoul—until he weeps like a feverish toddler. I'd say that I had daydreams about whapping him about the bulbous head and hindquarters with them, but violence is wrong and he might actually like it, so I won't. An internet scamp posted Miller's phone number and address yesterday, and I considered bulk-shipping guitar-shaped spatulas to his home and office as a physical indicator of my wrath, but instead I diverted the funds to a project that's helping immigrant kids get reunited with their parents because that's an infinitely better use for the cash, and because I fear the makers of these godawful things might think there's an actual demand. No need to stir things up.