Dear God. Where do I start?
Here’s the thing: as TWR’s long-distance friend, domesticated suburbanite, Sarcasm Linguistics Expert, and token conservative, I get a little lonely sometimes. I’m not all “big-city” anymore; I’ve lost my New York street cred. I’m not a friend of the biased liberal media; Jon Stewart and Rachel Maddow never invite me to their parties. Any vomit that I wipe off my clothes is sadly no longer my own, a reaction to the previous night’s festivities; it’s pureed sweet potato remains from my son’s most recent meal. Sure, I have the consolation of knowing that I’m always right and am therefore better than everyone else, but still: lonely. So I decided to surprise my commie friends at TWR by making a trip to DC and barging into the office to try and catch them in the act of talking about me behind my back.
What I found upon my arrival was even worse than I could have imagined. Because I had my kid strapped to my chest and flasks of liquor taped to each ankle (I figured it would be a long day), covert infiltration was difficult. I shoved a paci into the baby’s mouth and a flask into mine and cased the perimeter of the office, looking for an entry point. This search allowed me a view into every window—you could call me a panoramic witness of sorts. What follows is an account of the horror I beheld from all angles.
Juliet (the Founder) placed what she refers to as a breakfast sandwich into the office’s lone toaster. When she stepped away, I was able to get a look through the toaster window (and the office window: double-window technique, you’re welcome) at said sandwich. This was our first problem: green crap and flaxseed do not a breakfast sandwich make. What the hell?! If it doesn’t have bacon, egg, and cheese on it, it’s not a true breakfast sandwich. This hippie nonsense currently grilling in the trusty toaster was just insulting to breakfast connoisseurs worldwide (oh, did I not mention I’m also a breakfast expert? I thought you knew).
I walked to the next window because some foam was starting to block my current view, and that’s when I saw a male figure running away from the toaster as it sparked up. I can only assume it was Ryan (the Dude) as that good-for-nothing Tommy would never have shown up in time for breakfast. The smell of Axe body spray permeated the window, causing me and the baby to gag, so I hurried over to the next window in time to see a female poke her head in the room, look around guiltily, and disappear. It was Faith (the Doodler) and her stench was White Diamonds. Another change of location, another view: this time of the staff (now joined by Sarah (the Reader) and Alison (the Cooker), who tried to provide the Founder with advice on how to toast her bullshit hippie food. Excuse me, ladies—no one around here offers unsolicited advice but ME. Recognize.
After a few minutes, the group cleared out, probably to go eat at some sustainable farm and hand out Planned Parenthood fliers. I gracefully got past my disappointment over not busting them gossiping about me (or mentioning me at all—weird) and took it upon myself to assess this grave situation with the toaster. The baby was asleep by this point so don’t bother asking him what happened next: I’ll just tell you. The toaster was sparking pitifully on the counter, stray flaxseeds scattered around its innards as if to mock its hard-working American ideals. I placed a finger on the toaster to test for heat and found it only slightly warm. The appliance was clearly on its last breath. I looked around for a piece of sausage or sourdough or something to give it an honorable last duty, but there was nothing befitting such a task, so I simply said a good Christian prayer over the toaster and began to walk away.
“Wait,” I heard behind me, and turned to see the toaster light up inside, then flicker red a couple of times.
“Yes, toaster?” I asked, because that is what one does when addressed by a toaster.
“I can tell you’re a good person,” the toaster said, and I smiled in recognition of the toaster’s assessment. “Can you do a dying toaster one last favor?”
“Anything, toaster,” I replied.
“Take me away from here so I can be laid to rest where I belong. Not in this corrupt town with these hippie writers who don’t even know what a good biscuit tastes like. Take me to a diner in a red state where the cooks use lard. Grant me this last wish?”
I teared up and took a swig from my flask. “You got it, toaster,” I whispered through a thick throat.
The toaster heaved a couple of ragged breaths. “Thank you,” it said. “Oh, and Romney Ryan 2012.” Then the lights went out and the toaster was no more.
And there you have my account of the events that transpired that fateful day. If I had to diagnose the source of the toaster’s demise, I would simply say this: it didn’t have me around to protect it and tell people how to use it correctly. (How many times do I have to tell you people that it’s all about me?) But I was there for the end, and for that I am grateful.
*As a back-up story, should it turn out that it was the material in my flask talking rather than the toaster, I would like to provide the likely explanation that the Dude did it. After all, guys don’t know how to cook/handle kitchen appliances, and there is this catchy precedent