Three Prong Adapter

WHERE I WOULD BE IF I WERE YOUR THREE-PRONGED PLUG ADAPTER THINGY

I'll tell you where I wouldn't be. I wouldn't be in that melange of madness you so flippantly refer to as the "junk drawer." I've been there, done that, mister, and I ain't going back. You don't know what it's like mixing company with dead batteries, and dried-up tubes of crazy glue (crazy is an understatement), and mangled sunglasses, and grubby rubber balls and pennies - the horror! And that's not to mention the half-melted trick birthday candles, constantly taunting, "Light us! Light us! Then try to blow us out! Yeah! Yeah! You know you want to!" Or that plastic baggy full of defunct keys. I still wake up in cold sweats to their tortured cries. "I need my keyhole!" they shriek. "My door is unlocked, I know it!" One of them even tried to penetrate my - for the love of God, it's too painful to recall!

Excuse me for asking but, if it's junk, shouldn't it be in a waste basket, rubbish bin, garbage can, dumpster or some other receptacle for unwanted materials? Or might I suggest a cardboard box in the basement. Perhaps I'm out of line here - as, being a mere three-pronged plug adapter, my sense of domestic taxonomy is obviously less refined than yours - but I think you need seek professional help. With any luck your condition may still be treatable with electroshock therapy (and you know I'd love to help in any way possible).

Don't even think about your toolbox, because I wouldn't be in there either. In fact, I shudder at the very thought of touching that dingy, grungy, testosterone-laden sin bin with a 50-foot extension cord. Needless to say, placing that many different varieties of pliers and wrenches in such close quarters is a recipe for disaster. I mean, at least have the foresight to segregate them into their own trays for chrissakes - it's like the Gaza frickin' Strip in there. Besides, why would I want to hang out with a bunch of tools? You think Andrew "Dice" Clay has an abrasive personality? Try 40-grit sandpaper my friend! It's no picnic. And I take particular issue with Mr. Phillips-Head, that sick, depraved bastard, always bandying about his - well, you know, his pointed end - and describing in gory detail how and where he wants to screw you. I bet 220 volts up the shaft would change his tune in a heartbeat! Of the lot, the only one with a modicum of civility was Allan Wrench, although he tends to be somewhat overbearing with all the talk about how specialized he is, how many sizes he has, blah blah blah.

So where would I be, Mr. I'm-Too-Cheap-to-Retrofit-My-Two-Pronged-Outlets-Per-The-R ecommendation-of-the-National-Electrical-Contractors-Associati on-(NECA)? After all, then I'd be nestled in the back of your local hardware store, or maybe even a Home Depot, with all my Three-Pronged Adapter buddies. Oh, the fun we would have! Making fun of the doorbells, changing our prices from $1.99 to $19.90 ... You're robbing me of that, you know. It's all your fault that I've been doomed to this miserable fate, stuck on the end of your old, broken-down microwave on top of those rickety metal shelves in the garage. You never would have found me if I hadn't told you! And you don't deserve to use me again, but I'm desperate. I'm desperate to feel that surge of electricity in my veins again! Well, not my veins, per se, but you know what I mean. My 16-gauge copper Made-in-China guts. If you need any extra inspiration, I wrote you a little poem that goes like this: Plug me in, big buddy! Plug me in and let's go to town. Plug me in, big buddy! And I promise not to burn your house down (unless the device sucks more than 15 amps, in which case you're just a fool).