Pot Calling The Kettle What?

Mark has a great gourmet kitchen. He has all the utensils, appliances, and cookware that a chef would need to produce the fabulous meals I get to eat every day. I swear, Mark could open a restaurant with all the crap he has in there. He has mixers, blenders, knives, choppers, graters, and drawers full of weird gadgets of questionable use, but most of all he has pots, and pans. Everywhere I look in that kitchen are pots and pans. They are hanging from the ceiling, stacked in cabinets, hidden in drawers, and stuffed in the oven. Mark has pots and pans lining the hallway to the bathroom, which creates a dog awakening clatter as I knock into them on my way to the toilet at night.

Unfortunately this great kitchen Mark has assembled is crammed into an area the size of a small walk in closet. That's why I kind of went off when he informed me that I needed to go with him to pick up his new set of cookware.
"What's the matter with the Cuisinart, and the All-Clad crap in there? Where are you going to put all this new shit?"
Mark shrugged his shoulders, and let out a sigh, as if he was tired of explaining the obvious to one ignorant of his needs, "I just want it, so shut up and help me go pick it up."

I've heard straight guys refer to a friend as pussy-whipped. Technically, I as a gay man couldn't be pussy-whipped, because Mark is obviously lacking in that area. Call me what you will, but sometimes it's just easier to go along with Mark than submit myself to the whining, and screaming that would ensue if I persisted in saying no. All I know is that I had to lug those damn things from Macy's out to the car, and then from the car, into the house. God knows where he will put these new pots and pans, or where we will stuff the old ones that look just fine to me. I guess I could put the old pots and pans right next to that sewing machine I said I'd never, ever buy him.