An interesting thing just happened. On my way home, I began craving a simple-but-elegant peanut-butter sandwich on toasted potato bread. I entered the kitchen minutes later and began the process of penetrating the toaster with two slices – fine slices. After rapidly confirming that the toaster was toasting properly and was set to my all-time favorite potato-bread toasting strength, which is 4.5 out of a maximum strength of 9 S.T.P.V. (Super Toasting Power Vortex, my proprietary measuring system), I graduated myself to the familiar position of Peanut-Butter Location and Retrieval Specialist.
The peanut-butter is a brand-name I do not regularly buy unless I’m virtually broke, but cannot delete peanut-butter from my personal life, for whatever reason. ‘Hamilton Farms’ – a company that hides behind a bastardized deviation of an otherwise honorable handle. And when I claim honorable, I mean it. Today, in a town of Hamilton there have been less than one-hundred murders since the year 2000! Try that here in Baltimore. Go to the baltimoresun.com and check the year-to-date murder tally. All you have to do is refresh the page every 20 milliseconds or so and it’ll increase by more than one-hundred people every time.
Let us not forget to remember the most lovely Hamiltonian entity ever to live: Alexander Hamilton. One of our Founding Fathers, a staunch defender of the Whiskey Tax, and thwarting-drive of the 1794 Whiskey Rebellion.
So, yes, back to the peanut butter. With spreading knife in hand, I stared at the toaster in anticipation of its spring-loaded tray, and the release of my toast. Indeed, this occurred, but was accompanied by a telepathic announcement:
Here is your damn toast. Take it out of me.
I stood still in the kitchen a moment, trying to grasp the new and depressing fact that my toaster is not only articulate, but snide, smarmy, and seems to have a sense of entitlement to a better life for itself- something I will make certain it never knows – and decided the best thing to grant priority was upholding my composure, appearing aloof, and completion of my sandwichian agenda.
With one liquid-smooth motion acquired during a recent incarceration, I extracted the fresh toast and shrugged off the sentience of the appliance as hallucination or hyperbole on my part.
I spread the peanut butter quickly, and took it back to my desk to consume while communicating with various other persons. Persons that were themselves great distances away from me in the flesh, but by way of “Electrical Connections”, could interact with me in a number of ways, and I with them. Not two minutes into my consumption of the devil sandwich did I start to notice a very slight warming of my chest and upper abdomen. At the same time, A brownish, peanut-buttery color appeared in the lower-most quadrants of my vision.
I peered down and beheld the cherry-on-top of the toasters’ evil cake of smuggery: nearly all of the peanut-butter had spilled onto my shirt, squirting so readily and without notice that it rivaled even the most over-active periods of my ancient teenage libido. I set the sandwitch on my desk and smiled. I had been bested by a toaster once again.
The toaster is the Cuisinart PG-13592.
[box type=”info”]major hat-tips to the great SJ Perelman – this is in part a variation on a theme of his, written in the New Yorker in 1949. [/box]