Mrs. Chicken sighed the way only a long-suffering spouse can. “You know, Chainsaw, living with you is like living with one of those new gadgets.”
I perked up. “High-tech? Advanced? A marvel of modern design?”
She gave me that flat stare over her glasses.
“No. Tap-and-go. Push button. That’s it. There’s no mystery left. You’re predictable. Tap the coffee pot, and you grumble about how it’s not percolating fast enough. Push the TV remote, and you’re yelling about the announcers. Tap your shoulder, and you’re snoring in thirty seconds.”
I straightened my mask. “So what you’re saying is… I’m efficient?”
Mrs. Chicken shook her head.
“No, what I’m saying is: you’re not a marvel of modern design, you’re a toaster with opinions.