Bread vs. Shelly

My mother made bread rolls.  I wanted one.  Simple as that.... or so I thought.  I tried simply pulling the roll off of the pan that was in the oven-wrong move.  As soon as I put my hand in the oven, the roll latched itself onto the pan with every fiber of strength in its tiny little bread body.  Which turned out to be a lot.  I had burned myself twice before I opened the oven door more, but even then I couldn't grasp the hot roll adequately enough to take it's bready goodness out of the hot, and might I add evil, oven.  Before my mother came onto the scene, I had broken the roll that I wanted in four different places.  She handeled the situation with a level head and acted quickly.  The pan came out of the oven, the metal spatula got beween the bread and the pan, and I got my brutally mutalated roll.

Oh no, it's not over quite yet.  After I cut the roll in half, I put butter on it.  Why not?  I had to wash the butter knife, so I set the roll on the hand towel that was on the counter, just because it was there and I was too lazy to move it.  My mother then whipped the towel out from under my roll, which then plunged through the air and onto the floor.  I worked way too hard for some dirt, dog hair, and whatever else could possibly be on that floor.  I ate my roll.  (Thankfully my mom had recently cleaned the floor.)

Now it's over.