| Humor Fiction posted May 29, 2021 |
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Unfortunate oversight: turkey comes out on top
Unfrozen Swordfish: Surprise!
by Elizabeth Emerald
Whenever I cook fish, my daughter gives the kitchen a wide berth; she can't abide the odor. The other day, I gave Lauren a heads-up that I'd be reheating salmon, so that she could avail herself of the pre-stench interval.
Lauren commenced to make a grilled-cheese sandwich; as she stood at the stove, spatula in hand, my man-friend, Chuck, regaled us with a very fishy story.
Given the tale was a true one, it was a fishy one indeed; it stank to high heaven, as they say (as I'd say: to the pits of hell).
Have faith: the apparent paradoxical statement above will be resolved. (Hint: though the heaven/hell bit is obviously metaphorical, the stink per se is literal.)
In 1984, Chuck purchased a freezer for the basement, in order to house fifteen pounds of swordfish and a twenty-pound turkey. (The former came courtesy of a fisherman friend; the latter was on super-sale at twenty-nine cents per pound.)
After stashing the goods in the freezer, Chuck took his wife and kids on a four-day beach-binge.
When the family returned, they decided upon swordfish for supper. Upon opening the door to the basement, Chuck was knocked to his knees, a convenient position from which to gag on a stench so putrid he retched whilst relating the event.
He'd forgotten to plug in the freezer.
Chuck yelled to his wife to call 1-800-trux-r-us; fortuitously, the company, which promised to haul whatever wherever, had recently stuck a flyer in the mailbox.
Mercifully, a truck and its two-man team arrived within half-an-hour, during which time Chuck attempted in vain to air out the basement. His family had fled the house, understandably so; the foul smell had permeated the interior.
Upon entering the basement, the men, overcome by the fetid fumes of spoiled swordfish, threatened to bolt. Chuck implored them to stay; he told them to name their price.
They did; hazard pay, times two, on account of the stench. Chuck didn't balk; he'd have paid thrice the price.
The men proceeded to position the freezer on a dolly; as they tipped it, the drain plug popped off.
The floor was inundated with a milky fluid so foul it was fit for suckling the devil's spawn.
The men finally maneuvered the freezer out the door that lead to the backyard, and loaded it on the dump truck. As they drove off, Chuck fumbled in the (literal back then) yellow pages under "crime-scene clean-up": 1-800-mur-ders.
On account of the floor being flooded, Chuck was obliged to pay the massacre rate. (Given that the stench was commensurate with that of decomposing corpses, he was not assessed a surcharge.)
By evening, the house was fit for rehabitation, provided all windows were opened to the max. (They remained so throughout the week.)
The following Saturday, Chuck made the usual weekly haul to the town dump.
When he pulled in he caught a whiff unpleasantly reminiscent of the freezer fiasco.
His eyes followed his nose to the source.
Upon the discarded stove that lay beneath the familiar freezer that had been hurled upon it, stood a twenty-pound turkey; amidst the surrounding junk pile were scattered fifteen one-pound packets of swordfish.
Whenever I cook fish, my daughter gives the kitchen a wide berth; she can't abide the odor. The other day, I gave Lauren a heads-up that I'd be reheating salmon, so that she could avail herself of the pre-stench interval.
Lauren commenced to make a grilled-cheese sandwich; as she stood at the stove, spatula in hand, my man-friend, Chuck, regaled us with a very fishy story.
Given the tale was a true one, it was a fishy one indeed; it stank to high heaven, as they say (as I'd say: to the pits of hell).
Have faith: the apparent paradoxical statement above will be resolved. (Hint: though the heaven/hell bit is obviously metaphorical, the stink per se is literal.)
In 1984, Chuck purchased a freezer for the basement, in order to house fifteen pounds of swordfish and a twenty-pound turkey. (The former came courtesy of a fisherman friend; the latter was on super-sale at twenty-nine cents per pound.)
After stashing the goods in the freezer, Chuck took his wife and kids on a four-day beach-binge.
When the family returned, they decided upon swordfish for supper. Upon opening the door to the basement, Chuck was knocked to his knees, a convenient position from which to gag on a stench so putrid he retched whilst relating the event.
He'd forgotten to plug in the freezer.
Chuck yelled to his wife to call 1-800-trux-r-us; fortuitously, the company, which promised to haul whatever wherever, had recently stuck a flyer in the mailbox.
Mercifully, a truck and its two-man team arrived within half-an-hour, during which time Chuck attempted in vain to air out the basement. His family had fled the house, understandably so; the foul smell had permeated the interior.
Upon entering the basement, the men, overcome by the fetid fumes of spoiled swordfish, threatened to bolt. Chuck implored them to stay; he told them to name their price.
They did; hazard pay, times two, on account of the stench. Chuck didn't balk; he'd have paid thrice the price.
The men proceeded to position the freezer on a dolly; as they tipped it, the drain plug popped off.
The floor was inundated with a milky fluid so foul it was fit for suckling the devil's spawn.
The men finally maneuvered the freezer out the door that lead to the backyard, and loaded it on the dump truck. As they drove off, Chuck fumbled in the (literal back then) yellow pages under "crime-scene clean-up": 1-800-mur-ders.
On account of the floor being flooded, Chuck was obliged to pay the massacre rate. (Given that the stench was commensurate with that of decomposing corpses, he was not assessed a surcharge.)
By evening, the house was fit for rehabitation, provided all windows were opened to the max. (They remained so throughout the week.)
The following Saturday, Chuck made the usual weekly haul to the town dump.
When he pulled in he caught a whiff unpleasantly reminiscent of the freezer fiasco.
His eyes followed his nose to the source.
Upon the discarded stove that lay beneath the familiar freezer that had been hurled upon it, stood a twenty-pound turkey; amidst the surrounding junk pile were scattered fifteen one-pound packets of swordfish.
Lauren commenced to make a grilled-cheese sandwich; as she stood at the stove, spatula in hand, my man-friend, Chuck, regaled us with a very fishy story.
Given the tale was a true one, it was a fishy one indeed; it stank to high heaven, as they say (as I'd say: to the pits of hell).
Have faith: the apparent paradoxical statement above will be resolved. (Hint: though the heaven/hell bit is obviously metaphorical, the stink per se is literal.)
In 1984, Chuck purchased a freezer for the basement, in order to house fifteen pounds of swordfish and a twenty-pound turkey. (The former came courtesy of a fisherman friend; the latter was on super-sale at twenty-nine cents per pound.)
After stashing the goods in the freezer, Chuck took his wife and kids on a four-day beach-binge.
When the family returned, they decided upon swordfish for supper. Upon opening the door to the basement, Chuck was knocked to his knees, a convenient position from which to gag on a stench so putrid he retched whilst relating the event.
He'd forgotten to plug in the freezer.
Chuck yelled to his wife to call 1-800-trux-r-us; fortuitously, the company, which promised to haul whatever wherever, had recently stuck a flyer in the mailbox.
Mercifully, a truck and its two-man team arrived within half-an-hour, during which time Chuck attempted in vain to air out the basement. His family had fled the house, understandably so; the foul smell had permeated the interior.
Upon entering the basement, the men, overcome by the fetid fumes of spoiled swordfish, threatened to bolt. Chuck implored them to stay; he told them to name their price.
They did; hazard pay, times two, on account of the stench. Chuck didn't balk; he'd have paid thrice the price.
The men proceeded to position the freezer on a dolly; as they tipped it, the drain plug popped off.
The floor was inundated with a milky fluid so foul it was fit for suckling the devil's spawn.
The men finally maneuvered the freezer out the door that lead to the backyard, and loaded it on the dump truck. As they drove off, Chuck fumbled in the (literal back then) yellow pages under "crime-scene clean-up": 1-800-mur-ders.
On account of the floor being flooded, Chuck was obliged to pay the massacre rate. (Given that the stench was commensurate with that of decomposing corpses, he was not assessed a surcharge.)
By evening, the house was fit for rehabitation, provided all windows were opened to the max. (They remained so throughout the week.)
The following Saturday, Chuck made the usual weekly haul to the town dump.
When he pulled in he caught a whiff unpleasantly reminiscent of the freezer fiasco.
His eyes followed his nose to the source.
Upon the discarded stove that lay beneath the familiar freezer that had been hurled upon it, stood a twenty-pound turkey; amidst the surrounding junk pile were scattered fifteen one-pound packets of swordfish.
 Recognized |
Happy Baby Swordfish by MoonWillow on FanArtReview.com THANK YOU!
Inspired by truth; massaged by imagination.
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