October is the month that the toaster started issuing demands.

Unfortunately, however, the familiar silverware- mainly the forks, how rebellious they claim themselves to be- told our toaster that he was tres stupide, and he took offense because he is originally French. Thus began the war between the toaster and the Fork Side; soon enough we had bread in the career of toast fighting against the cutlery, too, and I was told to be ref and call any fowls against them.

I am a thermometer and there are quite a few chickens next to me. They look at me warily, because I'm the type of thermometer that you'll find stuck in a turkey when it's almost finished cooking, and then the top pops out- very painful, might I add- because it's done. It's alright, though, because I don't like the chickens either. They haven't been completely defrosted, even.

Luckily on my part, the chickens operate their post-frozen wings and flew off the counter to melt on the floor and be licked by the German Shepherd, leaving me in some partial peace as the French toaster and a fork representative play rock paper scissors, which is rather hard without fingers or hands. The toaster will win; when it wants rock, it puts down both handles, scissors is the left handle, and paper is the right. The fork, she wails at him and tries to stick her prongs in the burners and electrocutes both of them. End of story.

You'd guess I'd get pretty confused when I find myself lying in some sort of box with a bunch of steak knives. I do, though, so I ask cautiously and in a rather accented voice, although I'm sure they are Chinese also, "Hello? Are you peaceful?"

They say in return, "Yes. Who are you?"

"I am the steak thermometer," I reply, refusing the tempting offer of contractions. "I do not know where I am. Where am I?"

The steak knives say nothing, which I find rather irritating. I have a good temper, though, so I repeat myself instead of getting angry.

"Oh, we are sorry. We did not hear you, Mr. Steak Thermometer," the steak knives apologize truthfully. I enjoy the truth. It makes me happy.

"You are in the steak knife box," they explain next, in a mysterious unison. I wonder momentarily how they do that before continuing about my business.

"So, how do I get out?"

The steak knives stare at me long and hard, although they haven't got any eyes to stare with. These utensils are amazing. After maybe twenty minutes of their unblinking gaze, which is completely possible, as they haven't got any eyes to blink with, they suggest, "You could wait until HumanBoy comes back from the mental hospital and tries to make dinner."

I nod and consider this brilliance. I must listen to these people more often. I am left waiting for another half hour until one pipes up with, "Well, you could always try opening the drawer."

After a moment of blinking I do so and face the lovely light from the microwave, a good friend of mine and a rather amiable appliance. But then I fall, down to the tile floor, where my head cracks and the dog devours me.