My friend Mark lives in a great apartment complex in Los Angeles called the Palazzo. It has a huge pool ringed with plush cushioned lounge chairs, a clubhouse complete with a buzzy little business office and concierge for all your concierging needs, a bright gym and spa full of the tanned toned celebs of tomorrow, and beautifully landscaped grounds full of constantly pruned shrubs, bougainvillea covered trellises, trickling fountains, and swaying palms. And of course he has a fully appointed apartment… and he pays dearly for it. He personally has everything he needs.
And then there was… the toaster. This metal box lived on his granite countertop mocking us daily with its lousy features, non-dinging toast function, and all around crap-tasticness. It was the most excruciatingly slow toaster I’ve ever encountered in all my travels. You want your bread to turn brown and crunchy with just the right crust on top sealing in a chewy center? Good luck. It was uneven at best and ‘es’, ‘el’, ‘oh’, ‘double-you’ – SLOW. You want a piece of bad toast? Well, pull up a chair and wait about thirty minutes. The thing sucks at toast. And, let’s remember what it’s called. That’s right – a toaster.
SO, I took it upon myself to buy him a brand-spankin’ new twenty-first century toaster with all the bells and whistles and dingers. You want it light? You got it. Dark and slightly burnt – a little more your style? Not a problem. All was good in the breads and whole grains world once again.
But what to do with the old piece of crap toaster? Only one thing of course – smash the hell out of it.
I had the genius idea of taking it out and basically clubbing it to death just for fun. See what happens when neither of us is working and we have too much time on our hands? Don’t tell the toaster-lover protesters. We don’t want them picketing outside or pelting us with bagels, slices of marble rye or, even worse, dense flax seed and multi-grain loaves.
Here’s how it all went down:
Operation: Kill the Toaster
- The Tools: One toaster, one hammer, one golf club, protective eye gear (aka swimming goggles)
- The Location: Ross Back Parking Lot
- The Motive: Years & Years of Shitty Toast
It was a total smash-for-all. I took the hammer and wailed as hard as I could at the top of the toaster. The metal buckled and clanged and plastic bits went flying everywhere. Now it was Mark’s turn. He took the 3-iron and did his best golf swing right into the toaster door. The glass shattered with a crunch and shards of glass went flying all around. Wooo! This was fun. It was like a reality episode of “when toasters suck” or “when bad toasters happen to good people.” We were onto something. I know FOX will call soon.
I decided just to let it rip. I went ballistic and start pummeling the damn thing with my hammer shouting with each blow, “YOU STUPID NO GOOD TOASTER. I HATE YOU! SHITTY, STUPID TOASTER!!” Ah, it was cathartic and way cheaper than paying a shrink for the hour.
By now we were making quite a ruckus and I think other ‘would-be’ parking lot loiterers and hoodlums were possibly scared of us. I think I even heard a M63 gang member whisper to his comrade: ‘watch out for those toaster thugs—they’re ruthless.’ Just then a security guard rounded the bend. Were we some thugs wreaking havoc? Were we gangbangers out to get revenge? Were we drug addicts beating up a toaster to score some change to keep our habit going?
No, we were just two white whack-jobs with nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon. But when the guard saw these two strange, casually-dressed Caucasians get out our little dust pan and broom and clean up the mess we just made he turned around and went about his business. I think I heard him mutter, ‘stupid, bored white-folk.’
Just remember friends: Don’t ever take crap from your toaster again. You can have your toast and eat it too.
Go ahead, make my toast. Yippe-ca-yay mother Toaster.
And one more thing… wait for it… that toaster was… toast.