It fucking sucks. It deprives me of my dignity and it makes me want to kill myself. Not the toaster like a reasonable person, just myself. Others may die also. My toaster is the physical manifestation of the word malevolence, which, by a strange coincidence, is what my shit consists of the day after miserably choking down the burnt, massacred revulsions almost every day of my rotton existence. Breakfast used to be awesome. Now every morning is about as enjoyable as drinking anti-freeze or stepping on the easter bunny.
You see, I love breakfast. I've never really considered myself a morning person, because it usually takes me a few hours after waking up to regain all of my energy and general ethusiasm about living. But when I voraciously devour a delicious breakfast sculpted in the very eyes of the Gods themselves, this process rapidly quickens. Breakfast is a good indicator of how the rest of my day will be. So when I eat an exceptionally terrible breakfast, all the joy is instantly sapped out of my already dried up, flea infested heart. Here's my normal morning routine during the summer, which differs from my morning routine during the school year in that I don't want it to suddenly catch fire and get sucked into a jet turbine.
I awaken at around one in the afternoon, staring at the strange, yet compelling fuzz hanging from my ceiling, realizing that I stayed up until two in the morning on xbox live playing Halo 3 with very angry and very loud children who really hated me. I then hope the rest of my day will be more rewarding. I stand, give specific areas of my body firm scratches (my balls and ass), then proceed downstairs with very little clothes on to blatantly stretch infront of the enormous window in my living room. The horde of hot women who live on my street and are conveniently my age typically catch me at this interval in the day, and shriek because I'm just so toned and hot. They then begin stripping down infront of my house, sensually delivering back massages to each other while another woman of equal tenderness dumps buckets of sunscreen on them in slow motion. Now it's breakfast time, bitches!
I proceed to my kitchen, my underwear not doing the greatest job of containing my junk, mostly because my underwear is partially jammed in my ass crack. In the industry we call this a "wedgie". I pop two pieces of bread into my toaster. If you've ever attended an english class, this is what is referred to as the initial incident in the story. Given the title, you probably know where this is going. You may be asking yourself, "why doesn't this idiot just have cereal?" I could eat cereal, but all my parents ever buy is Raisin Bran which tastes like shit, and only grandmas eat it. Toast is awesome and manly, because you can put a whole array of interesting things on it, the majority being suitable for breakfast purposes. Butter, jelly, peanut butter, nutella, etc. etc. When it's around, I take to smearing absurd amounts of nutella on my toast, because it's like... delicious angel poo?
Anyway, about two seconds later, I hear the familiar sound of toast being done. But what's this? Only a short allotment of time has passed! This is puzzling to me, and disturbing. I return to the toaster to find that my toaster hasn't conjured the magnificent toast befitting of my sexiness. I push it down again, only to have it pop straight back up because the stupid switch thing is broken, meaning I have to stand there holding it down looking like an idiot. I suppose one could classify this as advantageous, because one could then keep a better eye on their toast. People who think that are obvious failures at life. Nevertheless, I courageously trudge forward.
About a minute later I let go of the switch to find that I can't actually see my toast. You see, the slots occupying my toaster were actually 10 foot rifts. I would either lift my toast out of its respective slot to be left demeaned clutching a tiny chunk of unsinged bread and having the remains of the bread return to the depths of my toaster, Gandalf style, or I would attempt to lift my toast out of its respective slot, only to suffer a mild electric shock, a second degree burn, then have the fire department kick down my door and ax off my hand. Thankfully that morning I planned ahead and used freakishly tall bread, so I was able to remove my toast with relative ease, only to discover that one side of my toast had been cooked with the delicacy of a flamethrower, and the other had barely been singed. I then turn the toast so the unsinged side could be delightfully toasted, and I would at least manage to salvage half of my toast. But no, this seemingly intelligent move was met with failure and humiliation.
The unsinged side of my toast would somehow manage to remain unsinged, while the already burnt side would break off into the toaster and set ablaze, stinking up that section of my household, so that the piercing stench could act as a constant reminder of my total failure for the rest of the day. My soul partially reduced to rubble at this point, I attempt to salvage the remains of my toast, gloriously buttering every inch of it. Similarily to how most women liberally attempt to fashion my nipples with butter the second they lay eyes on me. But no, the butter knife snaps upon reaching the surface of the butter because my family always leaves it infront of the open window all night for some fucking reason. At least I think it's my family. Who knows, maybe it's the evil butter gremlins.
Operating my toaster is the equivalent of being forced into a closet with an extremely attractive, extremely intoxicated woman. Your heart racing, thumping furiously in your ears, your untrained hands sifting through the dark, searching and finding. But what you find is not the luscious, golden sweater kittens you had perceived, but is actually the oddly firm and pulsating ball sack of an ex-sex offender recently released from prison. I hate my life.
Thankfully I can officially call my toaster my old toaster, as I've received a brand new toaster which has the potential to crash the FBI database, deep space exploration and time travel. But I will forever scold my old toaster with scathing severity for leeching the happiness from my veins and filling them with disgust for all living creatures. By the way, the usage of the word "all" in the previous sentence is a bit misleading. What that sentence should have read was, my toaster leeched the happiness from my veins and filled them with further contempt for Jeff Hardy, who currently occupies the advertisement on the left side of my screen. Fuck off, Jeff Hardy.
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