• It was a very sleepy November afternoon. I had just awoken from a nap at the crack of noon, and for whatever reason, I craved popcorn. And so I ventured forth to satisfy the craving.

    I stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards for the popcorn popper and the kernels.

    “Ah…here they are,” I mumbled to myself as I dragged them out. I set everything up and then unceremoniously dumped the kernels into the popper, causing some of them to bounce right back out, scattering all over the counter and tile floor. I ignored them for the moment and plugged the popper in.

    “Boy, what a slob,” my dæmon sniffed. “Clean up your mess.” I rolled my eyes at him as I picked them up and threw them away—I certainly wasn’t going to put them back in the box or into the popper after they’ve been on our filthy floor.

    We leaned against the counter and watched the machine in a bored stupor—which didn’t make a whole lot of sense as we couldn’t see the kernels inside (curse that cheap, nontranslucent plastic!). It was mildly interesting to listen to the kernels rattling around as the hot fan shifted them, though. And I put an emphasis on ‘mildly’. Finally, some of the kernels started popping, and we eagerly awaited the soon-to-be generous flow of popcorn to fall into the bowl. Soon, the bowl (and it was a pretty decent size) was overflowing, but the popper showed no sign of relenting, still merrily spewing out popcorn.

    “…Methinks that’s more than just the cup required,” my dæmon said suspiciously. “How much did you put in there?”

    “Just a cup, I swear,” I insisted, eyeing it warily.

    “Well I think that that’s more than enough popcorn,” he said matter-of-factly. “Just unplug it.”


    I unplugged it, but the motor didn’t die down, oh, no, it wasn’t even close, not by a long shot. It continued to spit popcorn out, much to our confusion and astonishment.

    “WHAT THE CRAP! THIS DEFIES PHYSICS!” I protested indignantly as I quickly got out a new empty bowl to catch the popcorn in.

    “It owes science an apology,” L’ehve said, sounding far more irritated than afraid. “It’s making science very angry right now.”

    I bit my lip and watched the machine. “The worst part will be trying to explain this to my dad,” I said hopelessly.

    Half an hour later, I was fetching a thirty-seventh bowl, positively fuming. “Impossible,” I muttered with clenched teeth. “This is so stupid, why is this even happening. Just magically spewing out over a hundred times the amount of popcorn I put in it…makes no sense.”

    “If this madness ever ends,” the magpie began, trying to steady the camcorder—solid proof of the malfunctioning popper—“What shall we do?”

    “I’m going to write,” I told him, "A very nasty letter to the company that manufactured the popper. I demand an explanation for this cesspool of failure.”

    “Oh, goody! Can we sue them?” L’ehve asked hopefully. “We could get quite a hefty chunk of money for this.”

    “Beautiful idea, L’ehve!” I cried triumphantly. I quickly opened the back door and threw the popper outside, onto the grass, where it could continue to spew out popcorn without my having to keep an eye on it and having to replace a bowl every two minutes. I sat down at my computer, typing up a really nasty letter, while calling up the family lawyer.

    “Yo, hey grandpa,” I said when he picked up, “Grandpa, want to help me file a truly ridiculous lawsuit?”


    Long story short, we got a hefty chunk of money because we won the lawsuit—L’ehve’s decision to record the phenomenon proved to be a very good one. The popper was humanely destroyed by the FBI (and it is survived by its spouse and two children). And we all lived happily ever after.

    The end! biggrin