He's sitting in the refrigerator, telling the ceiling about the first time the tire fell off his bathtub. He's back in the refrigerator today because the tire fell off for the third time. The first time, someone took a screwdriver to the edge of it and scratched it until it started screaming. This time, someone poured gasoline down the drain until it started to smoke.
He's sitting in the refrigerator with the ceiling, and the ceiling asks if the bathtub has a history of bursting into flames in the middle of the highway. Does the bathtub ever overflow with cicadas? Does the bathtub ever turn blue with mold? He says no but yes. He says yes but no.
The ceiling scribbles the inside of a fortune cookie in front of him and sits down to leave. He (the first he, not the ceiling he—can't you keep up?) turns to smell the news playing on the microwave. His bathtub was never supposed to be in this refrigerator. He takes care of his bathtub. He sweeps it every day, sometimes more than once. One time his bathtub tried to drown itself in its contents but he thought it was just a bad Tuesday. Every day since has been a bad Tuesday.
Do you get it?
Do you get it?
Do you get it?