Baptized in Three Kinds of Hair

Homer, for the last time, these are salad tongs. Salad. Not barbecue tongs, not fireplace tongs — you cannot use my grandmother's salad tongs to pull that thing out of the drain.

A chicken nugget, Homer. In the drain. Do you hear yourself? That nugget has been baptized in three different kinds of hair and whatever else lives down there, and you want to eat it off my grandmother's tongs.

The five second rule is for a dry kitchen floor, Homer, not for a black hole that's been marinating since the Clinton administration! That nugget has been down there since Tuesday!

You haven't eaten because you gave your lunch money to that raccoon again, and I told you, Homer, I told you that raccoon has a job. Fine. FINE. Take the tongs. But if you fish out anything with more legs than the nugget started with, we're calling the landlord, not a priest.

Upset? No, Homer, I'm transcending. I'm watching my late grandmother's wedding tongs go spelunking for a nugget in a drain that already ate two spoons and my will to live, and I'm just — I'm at peace with it now. That's not upset. That's surrender.