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"Black."
"Oh, you are not going to start that again."
"Well, you are."
"You're just as black as I am."
"But you're funny-looking, too."
"Oh please."
"... You're fat."
"What!"
"Fat."
"What are you talking about?"
"Erm... well, look at your waistline, it's ridiculously round."
"Well, that's just part of my charm."
"Oh, is that what they call it now?"
"It is. 'I'm a little teapot, short and stout' and all of that."
"Oh it's a long time since you've been a teapot, let me tell you."
"What is that supposed to mean!"
"And now you're screeching."
"*"
"Look, pouting isn't going to do a tremendous lot about it, it's too late, you've already screeched, and you're still extremely 'charming' and funny looking. And not in a good way, let me tell you."
"Fine one you are to talk."
"Oh, now that just sounds childish, a bit late for that, I think."
"Well you are."
"Oh come on now, you're not going to be fat and childish now, are you?"
"Piss off, you started it."
"Ah, I guess so, then."
"Smarmy little..."
"Hmm? What was that?"
"Nothing. I dropped my erm... cord."
*BWOOOOOONG*

disclaimer:
This issue does not condone violence amongst household appliances, it simply presents a situation, one that may or may not be frighteningly common in our very own kitchen here at the Sane Magazine offices, we've either forgotten or can't honestly tell you without threatening your life.
We have a very incredibly fantastic possible surprise for you this week, in the horoscopes. And no, we haven't revived Blaise Pascal. Not this time.