Deady McDead Dead

The fridge in the kitchen finally bit the dust last weekend.

It was already on it's last leg when we bought if off of The Fonz's mysterious ex last fall. And it's not like anyone really takes good care of it.

Actually, I never put anything in it for the following reasons:

a) It's always stuffed full.

b) An annoying theater troop moved in down the hall and they think it's okay to eat everybody's food.

c) I have a mini-fridge in my room (flashback to dorm life, anyone?).

d) No one ever cleans out the fridge and as a result, there is a whole colony of moldy food growing in the back of it.

You get the picture. It's a big stinky mess even when it's working properly. Which is to be expected, I guess. After all, it's used by about twenty people, most of which eat a lot of weird vegan-friendly food and forget to throw it out when it goes bad. I have nothing against vegans (except that I love to make fun of them...sorry, vegans), but sometimes they feel the need to make kombucha and forget about it in the community fridge for all of eternity.

Anyway, our "FRIDERATOR OF LOVE" died about a week ago (yes, it really says "FRIDERATOR OF LOVE" on it in permanent marker...I blame The Chef). It's not only merely dead - it's really most sincerely dead. I think it's leaking freon. It needs to go away. This is an ex-fridge.

Of course, no one wants to take responsibility for this rotting corpse of a refrigerator. I probably shouldn't complain about it because I don't want to touch it either. But I never used it when it was working. I have an excuse.

And now that it officially smells like death on a stick, no one will open it. So it's still full of strange, rotting, unrecognizable food-type things. Gross gross gross!

However, people have been very proactive in the sign-making department. As you can see in the picture, there are five very ominous notes regarding the death of the fridge. And those are only the ones on the front. There are a bunch on the sides, too. The Chef even wrote a eulogy for it on one side in bright pink Sharpie.

And then there was the funeral and requiem.

Yes, despite the fact that no one will touch the damn thing, there was already an event held in it's honor last Friday evening.

Okay, maybe it was just an excuse for people to get together and drink. But still, it was a time to say "goodbye" to something that's actually still with us because no one knows what to do with it.

The memorial service was held in the courtyard outside my window during our monthly art open house. Everyone was instructed to bring either a bag full of corn or a cheap pack of beer. The plan was to cook a bunch of corn on the community grill and enjoy the warm August night as a community of kooky artists. The Chef hung up some art on nearby trees to create a festive atmosphere. All systems were go for a wonderful night in remembrance of our darling dead "friderator of love."

Except that the minute The Chef put a piece of corn on the grill, The Management went berserk. Apparently, barbecuing corn during a gallery opening is some sort of heinous crime against humanity. It wasn't long before our crazed hipster asshole of a landlord was throwing a hissy fit.

Stupid Landlord: "You guys can't do this! You just can't!"
The Chef: "Um...well, we are."
Stupid Landlord: "Well...well...I'm going to call my boss and you'll have to deal with him."
Mr. Syracuse: "Fine, call him."
Stupid Landlord: "Why are you guys doing this???"
Pretty Much Everyone: "Um...we live here."

And that's the story behind the incident we now refer to as Corntroversy 2011.

We ended up having to relocate, which was so ridiculous. People got really riled up. Even the infamously grumpy fat lady with the rat-faced dog was on our side. Usually, she sides with The Management, but on this night, she was the one raising an ear of corn into the air and yelling "FREEEEEDOM!"

In the end, we still got to eat our corn and drink our beer.

And we still had a big, stinky, bio-hazard of a fridge sitting in our kitchen.

The Poet suggested that we move it to our landlord's parking spot in the middle of the night. Preferably face down and still full of food.

I doubt anyone will have the nerve to actually do that (I know I certainly don't), but it's a completely fabulous idea.

In the meantime, Mr. Friderator Of Love is happily rotting away. And I no longer go into the kitchen because it totally reeks. I've started just making sandwiches in my room when I get hungry.

Hooray for sandwiches.