Sleeping on the ground and a lack of hot water is getting to us. A little punchy. This morning I note that purchasing a tube of some vile-smelling substance called “Fire Paste” that some brain surgeon invented for “quick, clean fire starter.”
Yeah, right. And I’m the tooth fairy.
I’m reading the directions: “Squeeze on. Starts campfire, fireplaces, primes stoves and razes small children in a single application.”
Alright. The tube doesn’t say that exactly. But it should.
I take a closer look at the yellow and orange tube. Clearly lettered on the label are the words: “Caution: Flammable.” Duh. What else can you say about a substance that’s only slightly less combustible than jet fuel?
Whoever came up with the idea of fashioning dual-speared grilling sticks and dubbing them “roasters” ought to be tarred and feathered. Great. Just what every Jr. Pyromaniac needs—a red hot, smoking, double-pronged lethal weapon with which to swashbuckle his brother and turns his mother’s hair gray.
Snatching one of said lethal weapons out of Nathan’s hand, I ogle the label. Sure enough, it clearly advises: “Not a toy.”
What kid can resist that?