We've all been there. Sometimes, you just want a phallic-shaped piece of pork, and you can't be bothered to fire up the grill or wait for water to boil. Ain't nobody got time for that. So you chuck your mystery meat in the microwave, set it for ten minutes, and go back to your two-monitor battle station.
Next thing you know, the apartment is filled with smoke and you realize your kitchen is on fire. But you're too hungry to care about that. You're more concerned about whether or not your meat stick is still edible. (Spoiler alert: It is. You can eat anything if you put your mind to it.)
But you need to learn to cope with life's tragedies, and this is the perfect time to learn about the stages of grief, how they apply to your burnt wiener, and what you can do to move on with your sad, pathetic lunch — and life.
Stage 1: Denial
Denial goes something like this: “That did not just happen, dude.” But while you say it, your bathrobe is just starting to catch fire, so you shake it a bit to put it out. This, of course, only fans the proverbial flames — or in this case, the actual fire that is now actively consuming your favorite jammies.
“Seriously?” is all you can manage to say as you stop, drop, and roll. From the kitchen floor, you can no longer see the flaming microwave above your grime-encrusted stove, so you get into the whole rolling-around-on-the-floor-thing for a while. Out of sight, out of mind. Plus, rolling back and forth like that is kind of fun.
But next thing you know, the microwave is melting, black flaming goo is dripping all over the floor, and you're now approaching the next stage of grief.
Stage 2: Anger
Suddenly, you remember that this isn't about rolling on the floor, your bathrobe, or your burning kitchen at all. It's about that delicious chunk of “other white meat” that's probably ruined now, and you are seriously pissed. That was the last dog in the pack, and you weren't planning to leave the house today.
So you dig out your fire extinguisher, carefully wrap your weenie in plastic wrap, and spray the entire kitchen with white foam, spelling out “Oscar Mayer Rulez” in graffiti-style for good measure.
Stage 3: Bargaining
The fire is now extinguished, and you're entering the bargaining stage of grief. This happens to occur just as the fire truck is parking outside your apartment. You run outside and throw your arms into the air like the weird kid in that Pearl Jam song, and you beg God himself to please let the firemen have wieners. You swear you'll never binge eat Twinkies again if he'll just grant you that one small request.
The firemen, who can hear you, ignore your sudden display of religiosity, and ask where the fire is. You calmly explain that you've already put it out, so you kinda did their job for them. You politely ask if they could pay you back by hooking you up with a foot-long dog with extra onions and relish from the food truck down the street.
Stage 4: Depression
When you realize they're not going to do even this smallest of favors for you, depression slowly creeps in. Your adrenaline rush is over, and you're now overcome with profound sadness. “What am I supposed to have for lunch then?” you ask the fire chief, who is now in your apartment looking over your handiwork. He asks why you wrote “Oscar Mayer Rulez” instead of putting the fire out, but you're too busy sobbing to hear him.
A giant hose is dragged through the apartment and millions of gallons of water are sprayed all over your kitchen. You throw your entire body over your rather sad looking hot dog while sobbing uncontrollably.
Stage 5: Acceptance
This is the final stage of grief. The one where you accept your loss, and attempt to rebuild the life you had before this life-altering tragedy.
For you, it happens like this: You wake up, having cried yourself to sleep on the floor, with the pork prize in your hand. You've been sucking on the tip in your sleep like it's your thumb and you're still a toddler. Life does, you suddenly realize, go on. It has to. You're starving.
So you do what any normal person what do in this situation: unwrap the slobbery prize, place it between two slices of soggy bun, and devour your charred porcine wonder like a champ.
Stage 6: Clean Up
Just kidding. There's no stage six. You don't bother to clean up. You go back to your living room battle station, make a Reddit post about how you never get laid, and go back to trying to figure out how to get your money back from Steam for your very disappointing purchase of No Man's Sky. But you're no longer hungry, and that dog was delicious. So all in all, you realize, it was a pretty good day.
When your landlord learns about this series of events, you might have a bit of explaining to do, but you adhere to a strict “Don't Ask, Don't Tell” policy when it comes to your rental agreement. And so you give a special knock code to the pizza guy, and otherwise, you don't bother answering the door ever again.