Ay! Ay! Eye!

From the Labor Relations Desk, here's a story out of Spartanburg, South Carolina, where, the other day, a Taco Bell employee crowned his boss with a burrito.

Let's back up, because it's not like a fast food worker would just wing a flying burrito at his superior just for no reason at all, no sir. 

The others who *still* work at the Bell say the wrap tosser did not like the work schedule that he was given, and also that he was arguing with some co-workers, which is always a dead giveway that meat, cheese, and refried beans are about to fly across the room. The way WYFF TV news reported it, the breaking point came when the boss told him to "stop being a crybaby" about having to work the morning shift.

Well, I mean, after all. Working the morning shift would have meant his afternoons were free, allowing him more time to visit libraries and museums, but anyway.

A man can only stand for so much derision, so this fellow armed himself with one of the many tasty varieties of burritos and let it fly. For the sake of the boss, let us hope the atomic warhead was not the vaunted XXL Grilled Stuft Burrito (pictured at right), which for the low-low price of $4.49, weighs heaven knows what, and packs a meaty, cheesy 870 calories. It's got your seasoned beef, your basic three-cheese blend, rice, refried beans, reduced fat sour cream, guacamole, avocado ranch, and pico de gallo, wrapped in a flour burrito and grilled.

Good thing they use that low-fat sour cream! 

The Flying Burrito Bros
were among the first country-
rock bands in the late 60s.
It's not known if this Taco Bell
employee had been listening
to their music at the time.

The local cops wrote in their report that, fortunately, the supervisor had "had turned away when melted cheese splattered on the employee’s arm and side." 

The unnamed employee was also accused of "making a mess in the kitchen," although many South Carolina legal observers are indicating that a case can be made for the preexistence of a mess in that very kitchen.

The nature of fast food employment being as it is, chances are, the guy will be back working there soon, with his first task being to clean up some really ganky dried beef, rice, refried beans, sour cream, guacamole, avocado ranch, and pico de gallo from the kitchen walls and the boss's eyeglasses.

Sunday Rerun: Going my way?

After we got our pneumonia shots the other day (retirement is a continuing series of thrills!), Peggy and I headed down to my old high school to walk around the track four times and get fresh air and exercise.

As I love to do, I reminisced about my high school days, and showed Peggy where the sub shop and delicatessen called Smetana's used to stand on York Rd.  And how, after detention, I would hurry to get there to join the crowd for a cold cut sub, chips and soda, and how after that I would walk up to Read's Drugstore for an ice cream before cutting through Hutzler's and Towson Plaza so I could get to Goucher Boulevard and Providence Road and hitchhike home for supper.

By the way, I weighed 140 lbs at the time, and had to run around in the shower to get wet.  I could not drink from a straw, lest I fall in.

Anyway, that word hung heavy in the air. Hitchhike! When is the last time you saw someone hitchhiking around here?  Man oh man, the time was that you would see guys and the occasional teenaged girl with their right arm and thumb akimbo, waiting for a ride from a suburban mom in a Buick Estate Wagon, a businessman with time to tell a young person his theories about personal and business success ("And one thing I learned from taking that course is, no matter what you think you're selling, be it cars or buggy whips, you're really selling yourself !"), or a three-time loser with nothing else to lose, driving a stolen Dodge.

Sorry.  That last one was from Dragnet.

Maybe movies ruined everything

If you moms of teenagers can even think of it, yes, there was a time when we got around by hopping into cars driven by total strangers, without a cell phone or tracking device of any sort on us for our parents or Inspector Flanagan from Police Headquarters to track us with. I know the last time I saw someone thumbing a ride, gas was about 45 cents a gallon but I still didn't pick the guy up.


Frankly, I don't know who stopped hitchhiking first - the kids who were afraid to get in the car of Harry Homicide, or the innocent driver scared to death to stop for Stanley Slasher with his algebra book and his looseleaf notebook with "ME + YOU = ?" on the front in magic marker.

Good times.  Good times.

The Saturday Picture Show, February 10, 2018

With a little paint, and some stencils, and a good amount of time, even an old wall can become a work of art.

Modern houses don't have these, but I remember some from my rural upbringing. It's a milk door, and it allowed the milkman to come to your house every morning and leave fresh milk, butter, eggs and cheese. No, I am not kidding.

This is what I preach to those looking for advancement in their jobs - prepare and be ready when the chance to move up comes along. They won't wait for you to get ready. Right, Don Jr?

This looks unbelievably cool! To think, Yosemite Sam sees this every year!

Why the long face?

Amateur gardeners need not get upset when a terra cotta pot breaks. They can turn it into something even cooler!

This Eagles fan was out there with the celebrators after the Super Bowl, hefting a Crock Pot over head. He was either bringing a huge vat of Sloppy Joes for everyone, or trying to burn the place down. You decide.

This male cardinal is sitting atop a branch festooned with what they call hoarfrost. No, really. And in case you think I made that up in my adolescent mind, nuh uh. "Hoary" means old, as in gray or venerable. And "hoarfrost" has been around since circa 1290 in the Oxford English Dictionary, expressing "the resemblance of the white feathers of frost to an old man’s beard." You can bet that I worked that word into any classroom discussion into which I could wedge it.

Big Shot

Yesterday, we spoke of the folly of chugging 25 energy drinks.

Today, as much as I wish it weren't necessary to even bring it up, we need to spend a moment on the non-salubrious effects of shooting each other in the head with a pistol.

The location is a restaurant in Memphis and the event is the "No Lackin' Challenge," the latest fad in a year that began with children biting down on detergent pods. My wood-workin' whittling Dad used to know an old guy who demanded a dollar payment from any of his friends who couldn't produce a pocket knife on demand, but this challenge means that you'd better be able to show your friend a shooting iron if he asks to see yours.

You can go on the YouTube thing and see videos of this nonsense. It's just supposed to be an excuse to pull out your substitute phallus and show it off. No bullets are supposed to be fired.

But at the restaurant, E's Cafe on Union Avenue, a 17-year-old guy was shot right in the melon.

According to police, 21-year-old Sherman Lackland was sitting in a booth with two friends, playing the No Lackin Challenge, when he reportedly, accidentally, shot his friend.

Thomas Fitzpatrick was inside E's, and says there was a "a real loud bang, then I see the guy across from him fall in the floor."

There's no report on the condition of the young man shot, but Lackland is now facing charges for playing this dumb game.

Memphian West Moore spoke for all sensible souls when he said, "It's something that you shouldn't tamper with. It's too many kids being killed as it is."

So we wrap up another week of Tips For Healthy Living by reminding all people of all ages and genders not to eat soap, or chug-a-lug dozens of caffeine drinks, or shoot others in the head.

We really should set the bar a little higher, no?

Big Gulpin'

People who know about nutrition, the science of fueling one's body with the right kind of food and drink to keep our precious engines running, never recommend cheating.  They will tell you that crash diets are foolish, that binging and purging is worse than foolish, and not a one of them will recommend guzzling caffeinated energy drinks over getting enough sleep and taking in proper nutrients.

Nick Mitchell is not one of those people. 

Nick is an Englishman, father of three, divorcé, and an avid karaoke participant. (Would that be a "karaoker"?)

He eight years ago saw fit to gulp 25 energy drinks - Red Bulls, if you please -  and paid a mighty price. Quite frankly, he overdosed on caffeine to such an extent that he suffered a brain hemorrhage and a series of mini-strokes.

To be 100% accurate, he downed 23 Red Bulls and two Monsters, and now he has trouble remembering and pronouncing words due to the strokes.

“Caffeine can cause a hyperactivity episode in the brain,” neurologist Mohammed Dashti says. “Too many of these in a short space of time can lead to a rapid surge of blood flow and the narrowing of vessels. This is a very dangerous combination and can cause the rupture of a blood vessel that can lead to a bleed on the brain or a heart attack.”

The Red Bull people (Red Bullians?) report that each 250 ml can of Red Bull contains 80 mg of caffeine.  So that is about as much caffeine as you get in a cuppa coffee. 

And those who study such things say you can swill down 400 mg of caffeine a day - that's five 250 ml Red Bulls, or five cups of coffee - without doing harm, all other things being equal.

BUT because people seem unable to strike that happy medium, and insist on chugging an ocean of Red Bulls or whatever other go-go juice they get at the Exxon, Mitchell is beating the drums to have these drinks banned.

“These drinks nearly killed me. I was so close to death and thought I might not make it through surgery,” Mitchell told the news in England. “They should not be sold. They are as bad as drugs and should be banned.”

Seems to me, this is one of those deals where people ought to be able to tell the difference between drinking an appropriate, healthy amount of energy drinks, and drinking 25 of them.

It's really not that difficult, is it?

Giving it the bird

The list of reasons why you will never* see me traveling by airplane grew by one last week, when a traveler sought to take his/her "support peacock" on a flight out of Newark, N.J.

I will repeat that for those of you living far away.

Someone in America (in fact, my second-favorite state, New Jersey) sought the emotional support that one can only find in the arms of a peacock.  And wished to take that rather large squawking bird aboard an airplane, placing one of God's magnificent creatures into a metal tube as it hurtles across the sky, headed for Kankakee or something.

The official reason from United Airlines was that  the exotic bird was barred because it “did not meet guidelines for a number of reasons, including its weight and size.”

“We explained this to the customer on three separate occasions before they arrived at the airport,” said a spokesperson for the airline with the same patience one uses to explain to a three-year-old why it's a bad practice to stick a knife into an electrical outlet. (Three-year-olds with knives? Bad idea.)

United won't tell you who this bird owner is, which, trust me, will someday make that person very happy as soon as he/she comes to his/her senses about this whole "support animal" thing.

United Airlines did not identify the bird’s owner, citing privacy policies.

It's federal policy that airlines must allow passengers with disabilities to board with trained service animals or emotional-support animals of many types. The policy said this must be allowed even if the animal has the  potential to “offend or annoy” others on the plane. But there's leeway to disallow boarding to “unusual” service animals, including snakes, other reptiles, ferrets, rodents and spiders.

I don't think I would want to be sitting next to someone with his/her service rat.

And so if the airline determines the animal is a threat to the health or safety of others, or would disrupt the flight, they can politely delineate the difference between a 747 and Noah's Ark and give them the gate.

The Department of Transportation says that complaints about  service animals nearly quadrupled between 2012 and 2016.

If you wish to take an animal on the plane with you for emotional or physical support, you can be asked for documentation from a mental health professional. And still, one hears stories about a loose duck quacking its way up and down the aisle of a plane, and a dog asking the flight attendant to give oxygen to a support dog whose owner said it was having an anxiety attack.

And of course, as it is in so many things, something that was good and helpful for people truly in need is being ruined by the fools who want their slice of the pie, even though they a) don't like pie b) don't need pie  and c) can't stand to see someone else get something.

*unless it's to someplace really cool for free

Calendar Boy

I have a certain sort of odd ability to remember certain dates and events and old phone numbers, and hardly any ability to remember the name or phone number of "What's his name" whom I met fifteen minutes ago. 

I used to smirk when my grandmother could tell you who brought the deviled eggs to the church picnic in 1947, but not what she had for lunch yesterday.

I don't laugh anymore at that sort of thing, but at least when I go walking down memory lane with a walking stick, I have some very clear reminiscences to enjoy.

It cost $8.

The game was played at the U of Penn stadium

After the Super Bowl game the other night, a radio announcer was saying that 20,859 days had elapsed between the last time the Philadelphia Eagles won the NFL championship (December 26, 1960) and Sunday's epic game.

To show how long ago that was, in the pre-Super Bowl era, that championship game was played on a Monday afternoon, since Sunday was Christmas that year, and I didn't get to see it because we went out to visit family friends.  I was home in time to see "The Andy Griffith Show," the one about the stranger coming to Mayberry and knowing everything about everyone.

20,859 days...days in which a president was killed, stupid wars began and ended (but not without staggering tolls), lifesaving medicines and surgical techniques were brought forth, people travelled to the moon, the World Wide Web was introduced, the Hubble telescope gave us views of worlds beyond, tsunamis, hurricanes and earthquakes reminded us that nature is still in charge...and the world changed 20,859 times.

I'm very happy that the Eagles won, not only because it meant that Brady and Belichick didn't, but because it allowed me to take that walk down that road.  If you're a Patriot fan for some reason, the next Super Bowl will be held in Atlanta, 362 days from today.

There may not always be an England

There's a fellow down in Tennessee who paid a bit too much attention to that Carrie Underwood song "Jesus, Take The Wheel."  

A bit too much attention, in this case, means he took it entirely literally, and stopped steering the car, in favor of letting Divine Force take control of his Isuzu, or whatever beater he was piloting along the happy highway.

This is exactly why I fear the onset of those self-driving cars, by the way. Too many people will be doing this, believing that ALL cars are Google-driven.  You watch and see! (From a safe distance.)

Say hello to Mr Chad O. England, who is the genius who had a vision in which Jesus appeared to him and said, "You look tired, son. I'll drive. You get some rest."

Police who investigated the resulting accident, in which the driverless car careered off the roadway and rolled over five times, suspect that the hallucination might have been helped along by what they found in the car, to wit "six grams of marijuana, 0.6 grams of cocaine, a pipe, rolling papers, a 3/4 empty bottle of Crown Royal, a small empty bottle of Crown Royal, and several cans used for 'huffing.' "

The police say, unsurprisingly, that England was speaking gibberish, and attempted to flee the scene while carrying a jar of some sort.

If the jar was empty, it contained all the common sense he has. 

Tennessee man told police this week that Jesus personally came to him and told him to let Him drive on his behalf. Asked to take a blood-alcohol test, he said no, although in his defense, who knows what he thought they were asking?

England rounded out his Trifecta Of Legal Problems by having no valid driver's license (although any sharp lawyer will make the point in court that he wasn't really driving), and it won't surprise  you to read that his car was uninsured, will it?

Highlights of the charges against him include DUI first offense, felony possession of schedule II narcotics for resale, possession of schedule VI narcotics, and possession of paraphernalia.  

I don't know whether his crack defense team will call Carrie Underwood in as a witness, but anyone who knows me knows that I do try to walk the straight and narrow, but I am no Biblical scholar by any means.

I can tell you this, though.  If you hear a voice that says, "Hey, it's Jesus. Shove over. I got this" you should pull over immediately and await a prowl car's arrival.

Because of that 11th Commandment:  God Never Told Anyone To Be Stupid.

Sunday Rerun: Tell me about it

Collectors of 911 lore always enjoy hearing my story from just after 9/11/01, when the nation was in the grip of anxiety from people mailing anthrax to others.

And then some joker started sending emails to others, with the message that by opening the email, the addressee had been exposed to anthrax.

And some of those people called 911 to report their exposure.

So you understand the level of concern that unknown powdery substances can bring about in Americans, and justifiably so. Biochemical warfare is a scary thing, and who knows where the next attack might take place?

And that's why the person involved in this story needs to go sit in a corner (of a jail cell) and think about his foolish actions.

A man whose opera mentor recently passed away brought a vial of his cremains to the Metropolitan Opera in New York. And then, during the second intermission to the afternoon performance of Rossini's "Guillaume Tell" ("William Tell"), he sprinkled those ashes into the orchestra pit, forcing Met officials to cancel the rest of the show as well as an evening performance of a second opera.

The New York Police Department said they know who the man is, that he is from out of town, and John Miller, the NYPD deputy commissioner in charge of intelligence and counterterrorism, said the disposal of ashes at an opera house may violate city codes but, "I don't believe at this point that we see any criminal intent here."

One person attending the show requested medical attention, and the general manager of the opera, Peter Gelb, said, "We appreciate opera lovers coming to the Met. We hope that they will not bring their ashes with them."

The investigation meant that the Met had to cancel that evening's performance of another Rossina opera, "L'Italiana in Algeri," ("Algebra is Even Harder in Italian"), another Rossini opera, because of the investigation.


So the well-dressed audience filed in from the intermission, and so did well-equipped NYPD tactical officers.  Shortly thereafter, an announcement was made that there was a delay caused by technical problems, and then, the announcement came that the audience could leave without having to sit there for the fourth act. And people in the seats who were all ready to shout "Bravo!" at the end started hollering that they wanted their money back. 

Just like when a ballgame is rained out, disappointed ticketholders will be allowed to come back another time.

Maybe the Met will hand out William Tell bobbleheads to bring the crowd back. 

Jay Silverheels (born Harold J. Smith) (Left)
and Clayton Moore

They had not performed that opera for more than 80 years until this season, which means that while the hit song became known to all as the theme from the "Lone Ranger" tv show, it was not being performed at the Met.

All cultural references aside, what sort of unthinking goof thinks that spreading the cremated remains of a human being in a public place is a good idea?

The Saturday Picture Show, February 3, 2018

These are Eastern grey kangaroos in Australia’s Kosciuszko National Park. I don't know what I would do if I were ever to see a kangaroo hopping along. Especially because I don't live in Australia.

This is Ke$ha at the Billboard Awards a couple of years ago, dressed in a real actual Nudie suit by Nudie's Rodeo Tailors. I told my friend Kristin during the Grammys the other night that if I were so lucky as to have one of these magnificent garments, the ne plus ultra of country music outfits, I would wear it everywhere.  Maybe that's why I don't have one.

This is the good ship "Latitude," a 170 foot yacht that is leased to big shots like Rihanna, people who need a floating porch. I would change the name to "Seafood" in honor of Al Czervik.

 A nice looking stack of 45-rpm records from the good old days.

The Surgeon General's report on the hazards of smoking came out in 1964, far too late for these young men, who may be described as "rakehells," "ne'er-do-wells," and "whoresons." I miss those good old words. Today, these guys would be called "maladjusted," which lacks a certain something.

This is the Swedish ship "Vasa," built in 1626 and sunk in 1628. She was found in the waters off Stockholm in the 1950s, and rebuilt for exhibition in a museum.  I think I'd prefer to sail on the "Latitude."

Now that pot is legal in some places, Girl Scouts won't have to sell cookies door-to-door anymore. Just set up shop where people are getting the munchies.

Some people have all the luck when it comes to getting their cats to strike a pose.

The Dye-It Workshop

I have no idea whether he was involved in sexual harassment or not, but that guy Steve Wynn from Las Vegas seems to have touched up his hair a bit and maybe had "some work" done and maybe some other touchups.

Steve Wynn, né Stephen Alan Weinberg in 1942, is a casino mogul out there in Nevada, and that fact alone makes you feel warm toward him, right?  He's in 279th place on the list of the richest Americans, he's an art collector (he blew spent $33.2 million on Rembrandt's "Man with His Arms Akimbo," a wise investment if ever there was one) and up until the day last week when several dozen people came forward to tell of his ALLEGED sexual fol-de-rol, he was a bigshot with the finances of a certain disreputable political party.

But I am not here to talk about politics, or art, or sexual harassment, or any of the other sickening aspects of America 2018. No sir, I am here to tell aging men a deep dark secret that has been kept from them by their superheated egos, and it is this:

You aren't fooling anyone with your dyed hair.

You see how those letters sort of stand out in the sentence above? Well, Jack, that's how you look when you parade down to the spa with your freshly lacquered pate. 

In the first place, Wynn just blew out 76 candles on the old birthday cake the other day, and it's not normally the case for a man four years short of four score years not to be at least salt-and-peppery, if not all gray or white. And if a touch of gray is good enough for Geo. Clooney, then who are we to step out of line?

In the second place, once chemistry and science have eliminated all disease and suffering, perhaps they can look into why women below the age of 147 can get their hair "rinsed" (don't use that 'd' word) and no can tell they get it touched up with a little L'Oreal. But men who go that route might as well wear a t-shirt with big letters proclaiming "I DYE MY HAIR" on the front.

You couldn't see the words anyway for all the gold chains and whatnot those guys sport, anyway. 

Malls are Yesterday's News

H.H.Gregg. Toys "R" Us. Radio Shack.

"What are 'Stores that all closed in 2017,' Alex?"

And now Sears, J.C. Penney, Claire's, J.Crew, Charlotte Russe, Bi-Lo, Barnes & Noble, Nine West, Payless Shoes, GNC, Vitamin World, and Perfumania all face the possibility of a similar fate.

Perfumania is that store you can't walk by without getting the stank all on ya. But they seem to do a business.  GNC sells that stuff that will make you look like Lou Ferrigno if you aren't careful, and Payless is where women go on Saturday afternoon when they need a pair of purple pumps for Saturday evening.

Walk through any mall and you'll see any of these stores.  

But - there aren't that many malls any more. A lot of huge malls are now distant memories where Sam's Clubs sit.

Two things I know about malls. The boom is over for them. There was a time when, if you went to another town, all the stores in the mall were different from the stores in "your" mall, but now, every store tends to be part of a nationwide chain, snaking across America. You notice this when you see a story on the news - there will be a story about a sad news event in Kankakee, Chattanooga, or Opelika, and behind the reporter you see a Panera Bread, a Bank of America, and a Home Depot.  

Just like home.

The other thing is that last week I needed kitty litter. Now, our cats are just ever so slightly spoiled, and will only do their business on Yesterday's News, which is a litter made of pellets of recycled newspapers.  I generally purchase it in big bags from the Giant Food or Pet-O-Mania, PetVille, or whatever they call it. 

But last week I couldn't find it on the shelves at the store, so I checked the price on Amazon late Friday night.

On Sunday afternoon, Amazon delivered three big bags of litter right to my front porch for less than the price of two big bags at the big pet stores, and I didn't have to hump them out of the store, into the car, and out of the garage.

Boom.

Let It Go

One of the things that everyone seems to get out of ninth-grade Biology is the old maxim that "You are never closer to death than when you sneeze."  Apparently, you stop breathing, and your heart stops beating, and your duodenum stops doing what it oughta do, during the moments when it's sneezin' season.

I don't know if that's true; I shall ask Dr Deloskey the next time I see him, although I do tend to spend most of my time in the exam room discussing what I want to die from (either rickets or scurvy; I'm not picky. I will be very old when it happens, or at least, as old as I'll ever get.)

But I have to pass this along, and that is what I read about how bad it can be for you to try to stifle a sneeze. 

First off, there is a lot of energy behind your sneezes. Stuff (mucus and air) comes flying out of your nose and mouth at about 100 miles per hour, which exceeds the national Cootie Speed Limit, according to the Cleveland Clinic. And whether or not you hold in a squeeze, that horsepower is generated, and holding it in just creates big problems. 

Dr. Rachel Szekely is an immunologist at Cleveland Clinic, and she says, "Occasionally, people will cause some damage to their eardrums or their sinuses if they stifle a very violent sneeze," in an post on the clinic’s website, a post that urges sneezers to let 'em fly.

It's a long way from Cleveland to Great Britain, so that's why a certain 34-year-old man living in Jolly Olde wound up in the "hospital," as hospitals are called over there.  He tried to stifle a sneeze and wound up tearing some of the soft tissue in his throat. 

He said it actually sounded like "Snap, crackle and pop" and he is trying to tell us all not to pinch our noses while clamping a hand over our mouths when Mean Mr Sneeze comes walking down our lane. 

"This 34-year-old chap said he was always trying to hold his sneeze because he thinks it is very unhygienic to sneeze into the atmosphere or into someone’s face. That means he’s been holding his sneezes for the last 30 years or so, but this time it was different," Wanding Yang, who wrote the report for the British Medical Journal, says.

That chap felt a "popping" sensation in his neck, and then his neck began to swell, causing his voice to change.

This X-ray shows streaks of air
in the neck’s soft tissue,
 caused by a stifled sneeze.
 (British Medical Journal)

So he went to see a doctor, and was asked if he had "eaten anything sharp." No.

So into X-ray with him, and here's the nitty: that pressure, that sneezulated air, has got to exit the body somehow, and if it's not allowed to fly out of your nose and mouth, it will take a detour through the lungs and punch its way out. 

The whole thing about sneezing is, it's your body's way of expelling harmful irritants in the nose, throat or lungs. In other words, it's healthy, even though it happens on the very day you're not exactly feeling aces. 

TIME magazine had a piece on this very thing three years ago, and it said that doctors have seen "patients with a ruptured eardrum or pulled back muscles, and ... cracked ribs..."  

And the Cleveland Clinic points out that if you don't send the irritant cooties flying out, they stay in your body, and you can get a whole new infection from that!

In other words, Doc says you will be Grumpy and not really Happy if you curtail being Sneezy. So don't be Dopey or Bashful about it. 

Plug it in

When it comes to newfangled kitchen appliances, I have found it best to think twice.  

Take that Ronco, or Popeil, whichever, home rotisserie. Owners tout the ease with which you can run to the Food 'N' More, come back with a Perdue fryer, sauce it up and put it on the skewer, and then "Set It and Forget It!"  Just push a button and come back later to claim your cooked bird.  And then eat the chicken and spend the evening cleaning the rotisserie machine and all the inside parts, and putting it away under the cabinet where the cat stores her toys. Cleanup time, at least an hour, plus the time it takes to get the cat to move her stuff.

OR - run to the Food 'N' More, and come back with a nicely done chicken in a plastic tub that makes a great container in which to throw away the bones etc.  Cleanup time, one minute.

Take the bread maker (please.)  The big hits of the early 90s are still around in the lower cabinets by the steamer pot, and used about as often as a dictionary in the Oval Office.  You can run and get flour and yeast and I don't know what-all else and bake yourself a loaf of bread in an hour.

OR - mix three cups of self-rising flour, 1/4 cup sugar, and a can of beer into a greased loaf pan, bake it for an hour at 400°, and enjoy the beerbread yeastfeast.

OR - stop in the bakery section of the Shop4Eats and get a loaf of bread.

So I was thinking about the combination air fryer/instant pot/printer/scanner/automatic vacuum cleaner.  Some friends have them and are raving about how great they are for cooking ribs and fries and soups and pot roast.

Some say the fries are dry, the ribs come out 1/2 done, and the soups are no better than Campbell's red and white cans contain.

I can get ribs and fries and soups and roasts from my standard sources, and not have to get rid of the unused breadmaker, because that's the only way we could wedge an instant pot up in here.