I once worked in an office where there was a communal microwave that was used and abused more than a piece of kitchen equipment ever should be.
I once bought some snails (pretentious, moi?) from the nearby deli and thought I'd be a smartarse and warm them up in the microwave. The results were spectacular as the contents of each little shell reached boiling point, tried to expand and then exploded like little mortar bombs.
In desperation I dragged open the door to get them out, but the little buggers continued exploding as I hurled the plate towards the bin, covering me and three other people in the kitchen with gloops of dead snail and garlic butter.
Then there was the time I nicked a jar of white phosphorous (don't ask - but like most kids, I was seriously iinto pyrtechnics) and tried sawing a small stick of the stuff with a hacksaw.
Of course, once out of water and exposed the the air, there was spontaneous ignition - resulting in a pool of molten burning phosphorous on my bedroom table and panic as I rushed out for the CO2 extinguisher my father kept in the kitchen (he always was paranoid - wisely, with me as a son) and blasted the blazing pool before throwing a wet towel over the stinking mess on the table.
It did the trick - but when I turned the light out I found I had my very own planetarium, with tiny fragments of phosphorous glowing greenly on the floor, walls and ceiling, and I spend what seemed like hours with a pair of tweezers and damp cotton buds removing the evidence before my parents returned.
Return they did - to ask why I'd set fire to the kitchen bin, which was giving off some very acrid fumes. The sodding towel had dropped some of the phosphorous onto dry stuff in the bin, which had started the conflagration all over again.
Now I've got kids of my own, I have to bite my tongue sometimes when saying "Don't do this or that", knowing full well what a little sod I used to be.