Out of the Frying Pan

Ironically, I wanted to shout “Snap. Crackle. Pop,” but I quickly realised how unwelcome that turn of phrase might prove.

You see, when sausages are freed from the barricade and launched into the pan to endure the intricately delicate art of grilling and charring until their faces are burnt more crudely than any crisp, there really are no words that can plausibly ease this exposure.

Children often wonder whether inanimate objects might nuture secret objectives between griddle and grave, though if they knew the truth, perhaps those callous knives would not bleed so cruelly.

For when passed from pan to plate like so much precious poison, there is no exclamation of ecstasy when friable skin is peeled back from the open flame, for it is simply the next chapter, the punctuation mark dividing the succession of satanic sentences prior to the sequel.

It does not matter how sweetly you butter your oven-baked breads, or sandwich us between each honey scented glaze, for despite each jovial jest, brother sausage crackles

and pops just the same as I when leaving the jaws of burning death, only to enter the salivating human mouth of hell instead.

How I wish I were a Rice Krispie: Snap, Crackle, Crunch!

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