Iron Poet.

Hey there loyal readers (the loyal ones are the prettiest by the way).  The Toastygod is hungover tired today and so I've decided to host the very first Comment Contest of Cozy Delight.  Today's challenge:   haiku!

Here's how it works:  leave your haikus in the comments and I will pick the one I like best.  The judging criteria is nothing more or less than my arbitrary whim and whatever mood I'm in when I read them.  The winner will get the much coveted Mad Props of the Toastygod (redeemable for praise, admiration, and the divine right to rule small island nations) , a get out of lame free card (perfect for those unfortunate acts of accidental lameness), and a pie.  Unless I don't know you in person or you don't live in my town, in which case you get Props, card, and picture of a pie.  I assure you it will look delicious.

Let Battle Haiku begin!

Allez Cuisine!

Note: To see other submissions, please see the mirror zlog at toastygod.wordpress.com

It's Not a Namesake, It's Blasphemy.

I need to clear something up for everyone. Toast is fucking lame. Toast was sent to the world by the evil forces of frigidity to give my name a bad reputation. It takes something as innocuous as bread and something as pure and right as warmth and transforms them into MOUTH SHREDDING TERROR!

And think about it: toast is just overcooked bread. When someone overcooks chicken everyone is all, “Oh this chicken is overcooked, it’s dry and tasteless. I would prefer not to eat chicken like this again.” But when bread is cooked to the point of being dry and tasteless, everyone is like, “OMG, I think I just came. Let’s eat this EVERY FUCKING MORNING!”

…I hate everyone so very very much.

Did people really think this up on their own? Of course not. It’s a plot, by those that would oppose me. I’m pretty sure dentists had something to do with it. Who wants your mouth to be in blood-soaked agony? Dentists. I hate dentists. One yelled at my little sister (Toasty Mini-Wheats) once and I have to drill out his eyes. True story.

So toast has propagated itself to every corner of the globe. What pisses me off the most is when you get no warning of a toast attack. I’ll sit down at a restaurant or deli and order a tasty sammich. I’m sitting there all thinking, “Oh man, I can’t wait for this sammich. It’s going to taste so good.” Then BAM, they throw down what should be my delicious symphony of meat and cheese (let’s face it, the bread is only there as packaging) and instead it’s a steaming pile of burnt bread. What the fuck are you supposed to do with that? It’s sadistic. You can only stare at the savory sammich insides, trapped in a prison of impenetrable, stone-like bread. You are left with few options:

1) Starve.

2) Take the insides out of the sammich and eat it with a fork, totally defeating the purpose of a sammich. Also, because toast is so fucking dry and selfish, it soaks up a lot of the sauce and juice, leaving shriveled husks where juicy morsels of cholesterol should be.

3) Beat the toast monstrosity against the table, breaking it into pieces small enough to fit in your mouth, which you can then suck on like a piece of hard candy. Bread flavored hard candy. Fucking yum.

4) You can TRY to bite into the thing. That can only end in tears.

Restaurants that ask, “Would you like that toasted?” crack me up because it’s like asking “Would you like me to stab you in the roof of your mouth?” or “Your gums aren’t bleeding, let me help you with that.” Yeah no guys, thanks I’m good, your girlfriends insist I keep my mouth in perfect working order. But at least they ask. Even if it’s on the menu I can lead a preemptive strike of, “Seriously don’t toast that shit.” But when there is no warning at all. This is why, no matter where I go or what I order I tell them, “Not toasted.” “I’d like a PB&J, not toasted.” (Yes I order those at restaurants) “I’ll take a Whopper with Cheese, not toasted.” “Vanilla malt please, not toasted.” Mmmmmm, malts. I haven’t had one of those in forever. It’s the perfect mid-morning snack. Ok, I’ll see you guys at the ice cream parlor. I’ll be the one ordering my milkshake, “Malted, but not toasted.”

Get a Real Job.

So everyone needs to get off my nuts about posting. I’ve been in prison and the internet there was spotty at best. “Prison Toastygod?” Yes, prison. “What for?” Glad you asked. I had to kill a man. I’m not exaggerating, I HAD to kill him. He clearly did not want to live. How do I know?Because he was one of those fucking guys that stands on the street corner trying to get your credit card number to save the whales or trees or children or some other ambiguous group that you will never see and can therefore not validate 1) their existence, 2) their need for your money, or 3) the effect your money is or (more probably) is not having on their plight. Taking this job is tantamount to shoving a gun in your mouth. It’s beyond a cry for help, nothing can help now, it’s a cry for someone to fucking kill you.

I used to just tell these people, “Get a real job.” And when they’d be all, “What do you mean?” I’d break it down for them:

“Real businesses offer goods and services that people want. They market themselves and then interested parties seek them out for said goods and services. Customers come to them, they don’t force themselves on anyone stupid enough to go outside. You try to hock the intangible commodities of ‘good karma’ to people who are at best apathetic to you and your cause and at worst hate you for your intrusion into their lives.You are nothing more than snake oil salesmen mixed with panhandlers. But at least most pan handlers will dance or sing or make a sign or say ‘please’ so they have somehow earned my meager contribution. You earn nothing but my scorn and are a blight on all of society. Your existence shames humanity.”

At this point they are speechless from the ruination I just dealt them so I tip my top hat and walk away with a jaunty spring in my step that says, “I’m so much better than you in every way.” My treatment of them has probably led to many an inevitable suicide (I inspire people with the courage to kill themselves), but, admittedly, I have never had to resort to actual murder before. And this was murder. I didn’t just kill him, I murdered him. Premeditated style.

He would not stop talking to me. I tried to walk away, he blocked my path. I told him to fuck off he said, “I will, just sponsor a child, fish, acre, unicorn first.” Then he did the unthinkable. The sin for which no one escapes my realm unscathed. He hugged me. He was some stupid hippie fuck that thought everyone should just get along. He was all, “Here have a hug for your trouble” and the next thing I know he’s leaning in to FUCKING TOUCH ME.

I don’t know what happened next. I went into blind smiting mode. I woke up in a jail cell covered in blood. They tell me there wasn’t enough of the guy left for the family to bury. They’re going to have to fill the coffin with his black light wall art and Grateful Dead CDs. I said nothing, because everyone knows you never talk to cops. EVER. You hear me loyal readers. Let Toastygod give you this life lesson. NEVER TALK TO COPS. For any reason. They could be behind you in line in the Krispy Kreme, and they’d say, “Nice day isn’t it?” and you’d say “Yeah. Sunny.” And the all of a sudden you’re on the floor, coming to after a taze to the temple. True story.

Ok so now you may be wondering, “Well then how DID you get out of jail?” Why do you have to be all up in my kool aid? But I’ll tell you anyway. I waited until they charged me and I went to court. The judge asked for my plea and I said “Not guilty by reason of that guy was a hippie douchebag with a clipboard who wanted my money and a hug.” And the judge said, “Wait, from Children International?”

“Probably.”

“Case dismissed!”

And now I’m free and back on the streets to spread my even-handed justice and make this world a better, more hippie-free place. You’re welcome.