Never again

I did a horrible thing last night. I was going to use some left over ground beef to fashion delicious beef patties, but instead I spied some Hamburger Helper in the pantry. That ugly, white, anthropomorphised hand must have slapped any sense in me to the floor, as I started to cook Hamburger Helper.

I beg of you, please never make Hamburger Helper. Learn from my mistake – a mistake so horrible I have vowed to never bear children in case there is something in my genes or soul that might one day cause my offspring to take up the box and stir its vile contents into a saucepan.

As I cried myself to sleep that night I tried to rationalize my beefy atrocity. Maybe my subconscious, unbeknownst to me, quietly demanded vengeance for a forgotten offense. Perhaps I wanted to take the metaphorical beef bullet to my own mouth and sheild my family, or mayhaps when I saw the clearly written instructions in a nice font on the back of the box I decided it would be enough to just follow orders instead of thinking independently. Well you know about another group that was just ‘following orders’ and the horrors they caused? That’s right. Aerosmith roadies.