I have convinced myself that I will deliberately sabotage any meal I plan on preparing for myself. I don’t anticipate it, I just think that I’m being creative, by adding the right spices, sauces, and whatever unidentifiable sitting objects are left over in the fridge.

I’ll go to my beloved Shop n’ Save, (there’s another story in itself) pick out the plumpest, juiciest ingredients, (whatever is on top, or what box is in front) and precariously place them in my cart. (yep, I throw ‘em).

So this is it, right? I have my meal all planned. Stir-fry chicken and rice, accented by a house salad and bread, and some chocolate milk to boot. God, I’m an asshole.

I typically buy those bachelor meal kit thingies, complete with directions, which, of course get chucked into or somewhat in the vicinity of the garbage can as soon as I empty all of the market freshness out of it, only to be dug up once I’m done cooking to find out how I actually screwed it up.

But on these singlehood enabling meal kits, they always say that the secret to success is a piping hot skillet. Check, roger that. I pull out my burn proof sauté pan that I stole from the Olive Garden when I worked there some 6 years ago, put about one cup of oil in, crank the heat to high, and take a shower. Boy do I have this down.

After my refreshing shower, once I’m Zestfully clean, and I’ve had enough of singing Elvis, I return to the meal project.

At this point, my pan is near black and the oil is bubbling like lava. I’ve aced my first task. Cool. I remove the chicken type product from it’s air sealed shrink wrapping with a knife that’s way too big and sharp, and nearly remove one of my digits. Typical. I hunch over the pan, and toss the chicken-food in.

When I was in school, I studied alot on volcanoes. I don’t remember all that much, except that they were really hot, and that they erupted.

This stir fry is similar in so many ways.

The oil explodes all over my kitchen and myself, and my refrigerator is melting. I the only way I can sense this is through smell, because my face has been burned off. I may have to skip the salad course tonight.

All right, all of the ingredients are in, and this is where I get cocky. The Chef de’Cuisine in me leaps out like a disfigured Emeril, and decides that the fridge holds the answers. All of the exact spices and sauces are in there to make this meal a smash.

Wait a second. I don’t even know what the spice aisle at the grocery store looks like, so what makes me think that I’m going to find the answers amidst the beer and pickles? That’s right, I’m Shane Kinney. Your go-to guy.

I grab every ancient crusty condiment from my fridge and toss them into the pot. Somehow my chicken stir fry has turned into Alcatraz Bouillabaisse. But, it’s almost done! I fix myself a cup of chocolate milk, and prepare to sit down and enjoy my daily leavened bread.

I’m sure it’s no surprise to you that the food was disgusting, and bore no resemblance to Chinese/Polynesian cuisine whatsoever. The Chocolate milk was divine, though.

Do me a favor. If you see a faceless guy in a shiny shirt at the Wok-Inn, please let him to the front of the line, and order the orange chicken for him. He can’t talk, his mouth has been burned off.

Shane Kinney has lost his mouth? I can think of many people that would satisfy.