He's a Reptilian Beast of a Spoon, He is

This is no ordinary spoon. The mocking, jovial face warns the spectator of that. I was walking along past the oven range that night and saw his beady eyes. What ho! The unique markings on his face, especially the diamond figure above his eyes, entranced and hypnotized me. He began to speak in pulsing slick tones. He was not like the other spoons. No, he was not, he assured me. Other spoons had the simple purpose in life to hold liquids, retain watery substances. But he was different. He took steamed vegetables in his grasp and drained them of their vital juices. He carried vegetables to dinner plate to dinner plate, carrying them to their deaths. He began to tell me (though I pleaded with him not to) of all the different vegetable he had encountered in his lifetime. He left not one single kernel of corn, nor one single lima bean untouched. They would all suffer the same fate. Then, squirming a little in his ceramic container, my attention was drawn to the pool of water he so comfortable laid in. Gasp, it was not water, nor an innocuous drink. It was the juices of steamed peas! I could see the pieces of green skin, floating like detritus. It was a testament to the horrors he so mockingly flaunted. I was appalled. This utensil had the power to drain savory juices from the best of culinary masterpieces. He made his home at the end of the silverware drawer, where he would lie atop or between other large spoons, spoons with wholesome faces. How dare he associate with such pure utensils? They were spoons with a decent purpose. A purpose one would not be ashamed to discuss at the dinner table. But him… It was awful. How could I have not been exposed to his dark side? I had been using him almost every week my entire life. How can we continue to use kitchen utensils, how can we ignore their evil depths? We are blinded when it comes to usefulness. I thereby resolved never to use him again, a promise that was swiftly and easily broken when I thought of watery corn on my plate. I was brought back from my reflections when he snarled, judging, by the look on my face, I’m sure, that no good would come of our conversation. He boasted that he was the best of all utensils, the most useful of all silverware. (Which, I must add, is a boast no utensil should make.) He claimed that no dinner table would ever be complete without him, that he was even more important than the dinner guests. Even the peculiar markings on the exterior of his nose seemed to taunt me. I was ashamed that I had stayed in his slotted presence for such a long time. I turned my eyes away from the intricate and beautiful detailing on his handle, which still held a suspicious captivating power. The spoon was not very happy with the sudden lack of attention, but I left him alone, to face the rest of his evil, yet none the less useful, existence. Utensils, whether slotted or not, are not to be trusted.