Smoke gets in your eyes.

A few years ago, I had a little run-in with my parents’ toaster, and Karma’s a bitch.*

When I moved to my current apartment, I realized that there just wasn’t room on my kitchen counter to keep my toaster. And, because I use it approximately once every three months (unless Pop-Tarts are on sale, of course), I was able to justify its storage with the other Seldom Used Appliances (see also: itty-bitty Crock Pot, food processor).

But this toaster ain’t dumb. Fucker knew that the blender and the mixer got to stay on the counter all the time, and that sumbitch got jealous. So jealous, that it started being a brat.

First, it wouldn’t pop up when my toast was finished. Okay, fine. I can work around that. Sort of a pain in the armpit to hover over it and make sure nothing is burning but whatever. You want the attention, Toaster. I get it.

But then, it started playing tug-o-war with me, with the poor, innocent Eggo suffering in the middle. Once it got something in its pincer-grasp, it would not. let. go. Sigh. Okay, asshole. You win. Let me get the tongs.

But today… today, dear reader(s), was perhaps the final straw. For approximately twelve seconds after oh-so-carefully placing a Toaster Strudel into the “good” side of the toaster, smoke began to pour out of the slots.

Like, a lot of smoke.

My first reaction (after the yelling: Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! What the hell?!) was to unplug the toaster.

Except today it didn’t “pop up” like it’s supposed to when power is cut.

RELEASE MY BREAKFAST, YOU DEMON BEAST! I (didn’t really) scream.

So, with the damn thing still smoking like I’d packed the bottom with dry ice, I took it to the kitchen sink, turned it upside down, and shook it until: splat. Out came my breakfast pastry, still almost-frozen.

Imagine my surprise: No char-marks. No still-smoking crumbs. Nothing, absolutely nothing, to indicate that this processed piece of Death Breakfast was about to erupt into a ball of strawberry-scented flame.

Not to mention that my once perfectly-good breakfast was now sitting in my kitchen sink.  I don’t care how clean I keep it (read: not very): ain’t no way in hay-ell I was gon’ eat it now.  Sigh.

Against my better judgment, I tried again. This time it worked perfectly. It even kinda-sorta popped up when it was finished! Ha ha! I could hear the toaster say. Just fucking with you! 

Don’t give me that look, asshole.

All I gots to say is this: Watch your back, toaster. You are replaceable, and I still haven’t told Juanita what I’d like for my birthday, motherfucker.

 

*Side note: I have a great-aunt Carma. I don’t know her very well (she actually may have already passed – if so, may she rest in peace) but I can’t not think of her when I say that phrase. Unfortunate? Probably. But hey – being remembered is being remembered… or something like that.

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