Murphy's Law Of Toast

Herb bought a brand new toaster that weekend. This was a reckless act of spontaneity. Herb never bought new appliances; New. It’s so different… so permanent. Yet the apathetic, young cashier (whom Herb had вЂ" in his reckless state of being вЂ" begun to play connect-the-dots with using his rampant acne), did not seem to realize, much less care that this could possibly be the apex of Herb’s strictly scheduled 9-to-5 existence. He only popped his gum vacantly and mumbled something to the effect of “Have a nice day.”

Meanwhile there was Herb in a bipolar state of hysterical uncertainty. Why am buying this ridiculous appliance? I do not eat toast. Should I return it? No. He felt dangerous, invincible. That cashier had no idea; all he saw was a stout, little man. To the outside world, Herb was just another slave to routine, a mindless office drone, but Herb knew the truth. Beneath this middle-aged faÐ"§ade, a daring youth had roused from his slumber and was hungry for the exotic thrill of toast.

Herb returned to his apartment and eagerly ripped open the package, setting the appliance carefully down on one of the less cluttered counters. He adjusted it meticulously so that it was perfectly parallel with the wall. NO! Suddenly, in an action uncharacteristic of himself, he readjusted it, angling it precisely to a calculatedly careless angle so it would appear nonchalant вЂ" a shiny beautiful object at home in his kitchen full of grubby, half-broken things.

It glimmered there in all its newness and splendor, and Herb admired his reflection in its shiny, flawless face. The front was curved and distorted Herb’s features slightly, in such a way that his wrinkles and receding hairline blurred most pleasantly. This was the real Herb. And now the real Herb would quench his desire for toast.

Herb placed two slices of bread ceremoniously into the toaster’s mouth, and it received them readily with a dutiful click. It may have been the subtle heat that permeated the room, but the red-orange glow emitted from the toaster’s dual-opening mouth reminded him strangely of the smoldering embers of a fire that expired so hurriedly as if to deprive its camp goers of the warmth they sought. He situated himself on a chair in front of the fantastic appliance and began to watch intently as it adeptly performed its function.

This was not so strange. He, the real Herb, could have toast without some grand production because he, the real Herb, was fearless in the face of all things unknown, and this was, after all, only toast. There was no need to sit here and stare at the toaster as if it were some foreign, mystical source of excitement. The toaster was at home in his apartment; there was nothing special about it that separated it from the other appliances.

Herb grabbed the remote from the counter and turned on the television to occupy him as he waited impatiently for the toaster (which was no big deal) to finish toasting the bread (which it was not doing in any particularly awe-striking fashion). He turned his attention over to the TV, stealing enthralled glances at the toaster only once every few minutes.

“And you just pour the batter in here, flip it and voila вЂ" perfect Belgian waffles.”

“That’s amazing!”

An infomercial. The plump blonde woman wearing an apron beamed out the box, lauding the Deluxe Belgian Waffle Maker which miraculously cost only the “low, low price of $29.95”, while her younger brunette accomplice asked questions prompting for more information about the appliance’s amazing features. Herb loved the infomercial channel; the women always smiled, the products were always amazing and fantastic for some obscenely low price. It was like some parallel universe.

“But that’s not all it does, Joanne! There are tons of creative uses for it as well. Watch this; it makes fun grilled cheese,” continued the blonde woman displaying a perfectly square grilled cheese sandwich with waffle indentations, already precut by the shape of the waffle maker.

“Oh that’s so clever!”

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