Andrew Canard did not know that by opening his refrigerator door this morning he would be putting his life in danger. This dreary fifty-something-year-old man thought it would be a typical morning in a dystopian world where Nazis, plague, and rampant idiocy are the norm. However, his morning ritual of boiling up some eggs was cut short by the rancid odor lurking in his Frigidaire.
The smell made him gag, and vomit shot up from his gut. Thankfully, Mr. Canard kept his mouth shut, but that did not prevent a small amount of biley acid from finding its way into his nasal cavity.
Stomach acid did not belong in the nasal cavities. He learned that on his thirtieth birthday in what he refers to as the Linguini and Clam Sauce Incident. He rushed to the sink, threw his head under the faucet, and rinsed out everything that needed cleansing.
“Is everything OK down there?” his girlfriend asked from their bedroom on the second floor.
“In the name of fictitious God do not come down here. Something died in the refrigerator.”
She didn’t respond. She knew not to engage with him during his episodes.
The Frigidaire’s door was still slightly open, filling the first floor with the rancid smell of rotten eggs, thoughts and prayers, as well as Planned Parenthood bombings.
I bet this smells like the Republican National Convention, he mused.
And somehow the horrendous scent reminded him of his childhood. Of church of Sunday. Of telling homosexuals they were going to hell. Of figuring out why evolution can’t be true.
He peered into the heart of darkness. You would think the heart of darkness would be, well, dark. The one in his refrigerator was illuminated with the glow of a 40w light bulb.
Everything inside was moldy, dumb, and aggressive. That religion from his childhood absolutely ruined everything. The roast beef from the deli was slimy with Intelligent Design. The homogenized milk demanded it was heterogenized milk and yelled it wasn’t gay. That loaf of bread was fuzzy with Christian apologetics. His homemade chili screamed Jesus Saves!
He slammed the door.
Mr. Canard had no idea how religion noodled its way inside his refrigerator, but it did.
“I’m heading out for a while,” he called upstairs.
“Where are you going?” his girlfriend asked.