(Notes: A North Carolina dumpster is what we in New Zealand call a skip. I don’t know what the things are called anywhere else. The long-named oven is taken from a junk email I received. China was trying to sell me one!)
Butch Carson loved his meat. Every night he’d expect a roast dinner. None of this namby-pamby vegetarian nonsense that the wives of others foistered on their husbands. Steffie had learnt early in the marriage that roast beef was almost a minimum requirement. Not even chicken fitted the bill.
“Chicken is for sissies, just like vegies are for dorks.”
Honestly! If Steffie didn’t have a plasmon-induced-photoelectrochemical-biosensor-for-in-situ-real-time-measurement-of-biotin-streptavidin-binding-kinetics-under-visible-light-irradiation oven, then there was no way she could hold down a full-time job and raise six kids at the same time. The plasmon-induced-photoelectrochemical-biosensor-for-in-situ-real-time-measurement-of-biotin-streptavidin-binding-kinetics-under-visible-light-irradiation oven was a godsend. She had saved up for it over two years, secretly putting aside every week a few dollars from her meagre wages until she was able to go into a shop and say:
“Could I have one plasmon-induced-photoelectrochemical-biosensor-for-in-situ-real-time-measurement-of-biotin-streptavidin-binding-kinetics-under-visible-light-irradiation oven please.”
Butch wasn’t too happy about it. He reckoned the oven affected his television reception during the day when she had set the oven to slow cook the roast while she was at work. When the plumber came to fix the shower Butch got the plumber to throw the oven into the dumpster.
The next day, Steffie took the six kids and buggered off.