“Danger, Danger! Fire, Fire! Move to open air!” These were the rather monotone instructions our voice-activated fire alarm told us when our carbon monoxide alarm went off last night. Thanks detector.
I’d rather program it to say, “HOLY SHIT, grab the dog, grab every Apple product you own, grab the cast-iron/enameled Martha Stewart pans. Don’t forget your girlfriend.” (I love you baby.)
Turns out, our decaying gas stove was to blame for this alarm. The previous tenants most likely spilled a combo of Cheeze Whiz, grape soda, and fried grease all over the stove, broiled it until it turned into a viscous glue, and conveniently forgot to clean it. Slowly, over time, this buildup of gunk caused a backup of gas in our apartment. Awesome. The best possible outcome to this situation, however…a new stove! Thanks landlord. Even though you blamed me. Let me drop some CSI your way. I cook duck fat. Not Cheetos.