The pie.

What is it with the lack of knowledge that instills fear? Could it be that we're no longer apes? I think so...but so does the pie. It talks too, ya know. And it won't let me go, not now, not ever. It's my teacher, and I'm the student. I refrain from calling myself the slave of this relationship, because the pie told me that it would beat the everliving shit out of me if I did. Regardless, the pie takes care of me...gives me clothes and feeds me. No, I don't eat the pie, that's forbidden, but thanks for asking. I need the company. It's been so lonely here in the oven with just the pie. And hot, it's very hot...around 350 degrees hot. Hell, I should be dead, long-combusted in shards of ash and pain...but maybe it is hell. I tell you, the oven is the last place you want to be, especially with the pie. You won't believe what the pie makes me do. This one time, the pie would just start boiling over its liquidy insides, and I offered to scoop them up and put them back in...but no, the pie wanted me to suck them up with my anus, my anus for God's sake, and squirt them back onto the pie's shell. The pie called the spectacle "oven-bathing," whatever that means. I'm just glad it's over...you won't believe how incredibly unpleasant it is to have sudsy thick liquid boiling at 350 degrees in your colon.

Just be glad you're not in the oven with me and the pie.