The revenge of Eugene the toaster
There are people out there who think I’m strange, and I really don’t get it. I think it’s a safe bet that at some point in just about anyone’s life, they’ve chased turkeys with a hose, attempted to electrocute themselves on a livestock fence, or made a documentary about a police chief who licks windshield wiper blades. And yes, let’s admit it — most of you have been in a club founded to appreciate an appliance.
Like the Toaster Lovers’ Association. Founded 1993, Springfield, Ohio. To appreciate toasters and all they have done for us.
To prove I’m not kidding, I’m posting our logo below. It may or may not have been created by Keith Haring, but mostly not.
“We have gathered here today to pay our respects to an appliance that has done so much for us, yet asked for so little in return,” said my friend Tom at our first gathering, for which he was unable to secure any club funding from our school. “And that is the humble toaster.”
“They really only ask for electricity,” said Brian.
“And so we hereby form this club, here at Uncle John’s Pancake House, to honor the toaster, in the presence of Uncle Tim and Aunt Joan and all of the other waiters and waitresses,” said Tom.
“And we offer as a door prize this toaster,” added Brian, “who we have named Eugene.”
I raised my hand. “We’re honoring toasters by selling one into slavery?”
“Let us give our thanks for toasters, oh toasters who always brown toast to a crispy tan crust, except for that time that mine burnt like four fucking bagels in a row before I beat the shit out of it with a crowbar.”
“Amen,” said Brian.
“And now let us eat pancakes.”
And so pancakes were eaten by the dozen, with the plain syrup and the chocolate syrup and the raspberry syrup that we called “Robitussin.” And it was good.
Admit it. Most of you just abuse your toasters. Most of you never stop to appreciate them, let alone have a banquet in their honor. I thought my affiliation with the TLA ended in 1994, but I realize now that I have never stopped appreciating toasters. I have never stopped thinking about them. On Twitter (where I sometimes spout such wisdom as “I’m pretty sure Morrissey is stealing my newspaper”), I find myself Tweeting a lot about toasters. Which, again, people find strange.
Like this Tweet, back on January 8th:
JohnnyBTruant: I think my toaster suspects me of something.
Which was actually crap, because I suspected the toaster more than it suspected me. Yet it was still watching me, waiting for its chance. Several fellow Twitterers expressed their concern. Then, an update:
JohnnyBTruant: Now the toaster is all eyeing me and shit. As if it doesn’t have some skeletons in its closet.
Now people were getting curious. And I got a lead, from an English lady who has already proven to be not quite right in the head:
TheCharmQuark: It’s one of my spies.
JohnnyBTruant: I KNEW it! I knew it when it started toasting crumpets!
Time passed. I started to forget about the toaster, which, ironically, was probably exactly what it had been waiting for. I think it was remembering Eugene, who I won at that first TLA meeting because, in Brian’s own words, “everyone else left.” But then I lost Eugene. From slave to MIA, soon to be remembered only in a limited series of commemorative buttons.
I kept working. And then then I got an email notification that I had a new follower on Twitter. This happens a bunch of times every day and I thought nothing of it, until I noticed who it was. I’m not even kidding. I sent this:
JohnnyBTruant: Shit. Now I think my toaster is following my Tweets. http://twitter.com/toasterferret
Sympathy was low. As if people didn’t care about my plight.
TheCharmQuark: Yeah, you may have identified the toaster but you don’t know how many of your kitchen appliances have turned to the dark side.
JohnnyBTruant: I suspect the coffee maker. It will no longer brew anything but Earl Gray tea.
I don’t know how this happened. Plenty of people beat their toasters up every day and never offer a thanks. Yet, those people remain unmolested by their toasters. I was supposed to be one of the good guys. I was their friend, their ally.
I was part of the TLA. I loved toasters. Sure, we only had the one meeting. Sure, it was more about pancakes than toasters. Sure, we were ostracized at school as weirdoes. But we were there. We made the effort.
Yet:
JohnnyBTruant: Toaster missing. Calling air- and seaports. It can’t get far. I have its passport.
MaryRW: Do you have a toaster oven? If so, does it look guilty?
JohnnyBTruant: The toaster oven is apparently sticking with the oven, but for a while, it looked like it could have gone either way.
Then, an interesting development:
JohnnyBTruant: Toaster has returned. Says it was “just out and about.” Has urged me to ignore what looks like a camera in its hat. I remain suspicious.
Oh Eugene. Where art thou, Eugene? I have this photo, which I can’t scan because Chet McGovernson slathered it with paint and cobbled it into this giant wonderful mess that is on the wall behind me right now, showing me with Eugene. With his power cord in my mouth, the way we used to play. More and more, I was feeling this was about Eugene. About a seek and recover mission. Or possibly revenge.
JohnnyBTruant: I want to keep sight of the fact that this began because my toaster suspected ME. I may be being set up as a pawn in a spy game.
A lot of people started to swap toaster tales. My toaster does this. I own a such-and-such kind of toaster. My toaster was owned by Mickey Rourke. And so on. NOW toasters were getting appreciation. Now that they’d shown that they will only take so much.
I told these people:
JohnnyBTruant: I’m getting a lot of pro-toaster sentiment. Let’s not forget who the guilty party is here.
Astrogirl426: Can YOU brown a piece of bread perfectly? Huh? Can you? Huh? I didn’t think so.
JohnnyBTruant: That’s true. But for my part, that toaster cannot do a flip, and I can. ……. WAIT: Never mind; it can.
Tension mounted.
I sat in my office, afraid to move, afraid to trust anything that consumed electricity. Luckily, my computer had not yet started altering my messages. But it was really only a matter of time.
Most troublingly, my last communique on the subject was this:
JohnnyBTruant: HOLY CRAP THE TOASTER IS UNDER MY DESK STALKING ME TOTALLY FREAKING OUT NOW OH OH OH OH OH OH
Disturbing to say the least. I’m still not sure if I made it out okay.
But things are, I guess, cool. In fact, right now there are a pair of glowing orange lines in the shadows in the corner. What could it be? Probably a baby bird or a friendly bunny. I’d better go check it out. Man, those Samoans are a surly bunch.