bloodshot

good Lord. Nine hours at work and three hours on public transportation, and I come home to a nice dinner cooked by my unemployed layabout of a boyfriend.
RIGHT.
Oh, he STARTED dinner. He started cooking the fish, reading the directions carefully off the wrapper, which said, "place fish on greased broiler pan and bake in 425 oven 14-19 minutes. For best results, brush with butter." He joyously rubbed some butter on the fish. He lovingly placed the fish in a piece of tinfoil, placed the tinfoil in the broiler, turned the oven on 425, and left the room to ask me if I wanted the fish broiled or baked. "What do the directions say?" I asked. He read them back to me.
"Dude, I think "bake in oven" means you're supposed to bake it in the oven," I said. We laughed. He opened the broiler. He grabbed the edges of the foil. I said, "Pick up the whole broiler pan and stick it in the oven." He said, "No, I'm just going to put the foil in the oven." I shrugged.
Two minutes later, smoke was pouring out of the oven.
Now my eyes are itching, both smoke alarms are going off, the cats are diving for cover, I'm swinging the porch door back and forth and coughing, and S. says, "Let's just let it burn in there."
WTF is THAT? Ancient Bahamian Kitchen Fire Secret?
That shit ALMOST worked on me, until I snapped awake (thanks to the alarm, maybe), gave him the finger and made violent, frantic arm movements signaling him to yank Fishy back out of the oven. "We're doing this MY way now," I shouted/coughed at him.
He peered into the oven and pointed to the puddle of grease on the bottom. "Is that the source of the smoke?" He asked. I just stared at him. He grabbed a wet, soapy sponge and dabbed at the stain. It released a fresh cloud of smoke and hissed. "Maybe we should use some sort of oven cleaner," he suggested.
Ya THINK?
We used the toaster oven for the fish. Many curse words and a few thrown punches later, we're about to sit down to dinner. I'll let you know how it is.