the sloppy copy

I don’t even know these people anymore.
Yet, I grew up here. Somewhere along the way, I assumed that my food routines paralleled those of my family. But now – today – I was shocked to discover the state of a kitchen appliance that, in my own kitchen, has always held a place of esteem:
the toaster.
As I prepared my morning meal today, I was appalled to see that the toaster, that most glorious of cooking devices, was covered in not just a fine layer of dust but a thick, horrifying quilt of it. It was as if a sewing circle of dust mites had pieced together a little toaster cozy. It was disgusting, and all I could do to stop myself from vomiting directly on the kitchen counter.
After thoroughly bathing Toaster with a clean damp cloth in warm sudsy water, I gently placed him back on the counter. Lo and behold, I found that his cord had a maximum length of approximately 4 inches, thus greatly limiting his placement during the preparation of breakfast. After arranging the coffee pot, knife block, sugar and flour containers, and that one old nasty ashtray that holds keys that don’t go to anything anymore, I was finally ready to allow Toaster to fulfill the destiny that he had been prevented from achieving for so long.
This is when I noticed the broken dial.
As it was impossible to adjust the level of my rye bread’s toastiness, I was forced to pull up a chair and keep Toaster company while my breakfast crisped within him. I murmured encouragements as I used a wooden spoon to force the up-down-lever-thing into the “up” position, revealing still-soft bread.
After seven-or-so tries, a goldenly delicious piece of toast arose before me, ready to be adulterated by shitty “squeezable” grape jelly from a plastic container (bleh!). But before I assembled my breakfast, Toaster needed to be returned to his home.
And this is when I realized that the entire fucking toaster became red-hot with use.
Okay. This was getting ridiculous. No other toaster I’ve used or owned needed to be handled with potholders after cooking one lousy piece of bread. This, combined with the broken dial and fucking short-ass cord? Fuck you, Toaster. Now I see why no one ever uses you, you little piece of shit! I just want a goddamn fucking piece of toast and now I have blisters on all five fingertips and almost electrocuted myself when you nearly fell into the fucking sink. I see how it is, you sneaky motherfucker: “Oh, poor little me. I sit in the corner of the kitchen counter and nobody loves me. Julie, will you love me? Will you? I promise to cook your toast perfectly and I swear I won’t cause you bodily injury!” Like some nasty old man who cons the hot lady nurses into giving him a sponge bath, this Toaster fucking used me, man! Shit.
Some breakfasts just aren’t worth the heartache.