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.”