It all started when I tried to toast the bagel. You know how you pull it apart and sometimes there is a little more bread on one side. Well, that’s what happened. I pulled it apart and it had a big clump on one side but I stuffed it into the toaster anyway. I don’t know why I didn’t just pull that extra piece off and pop it in my mouth. That extra clump of bagel pressed up against the coils of the toaster and it began to burn. I smelled the smoke. I heard the sizzle. I did nothing. I don’t know why. When the bagel ejected and there was this diamond hard calcified rock stuck to one side, I made my stupid sandwich anyway. This is why they need a warning on the side of the toaster; Please do not attempt to use a toaster if you are not fully awake. I threw my lean turkey, tomatoes and all the rest right on top of that bloody boulder. I never bothered to cut it off. And I would love to tell you that I actually chewed my food that day but I would be lying. I practically swallowed it whole and it would be a meal that I will not soon forget.
That fucking rock. That hard as nails piece of bread made its way through my digestive system. The long trip through my intestines scraping the sides as it went. I have never felt such pain in my life. I was screaming at the top of my lungs (It’s amazing that none of my neighbors bothered to check on me; I think I need to be nicer to the people in my building). It was excruciating. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t watch TV. Nothing. I just drank lots of water and laid in bed screaming.
It was like being stepped on by a chick in stilettos and she wouldn’t get off my stomach. It was like having a pixie with a chisel and hammer working away inside my belly like fucking Rodin on a deadline. It was like I had swallowed the Hope Diamond and the reanimated corpse of Liz Taylor was working me over with body blows to try to get it back (and don’t be fooled Little Liz packed a punch). It was just like all three of those very plausible events combined.
24 scream-filled hours later (you read that right) I rolled out of bed after what amounted to a 24 hour cleansing fast and I was starving. Do you know what the first thing I had to eat was? Just guess? That’s right. I had a bagel. A fucking bagel. I; Mel, the stupidest man on the planet; had another bagel. I thought that, as long as I didn’t toast it, that I’d be fine. And I was not. Not even a little. Not at all. It made the same trip, the only trip, scraping against the scars made by the previous… torture device, all the way down… and… it… was… just… as… painful.
24 scream-filled hours later (and still no neighbors bothering to check on me; I’ve been screaming for like 2 days!) but this time I was screaming at myself for being such a moron… and also because of the pain (Don’t forget about the pain), I rolled out of bed and promptly threw away the package with the two remaining bagels (Fool me twice and all that), then I chucked what was left of the loaf of whole grain wheat I had been working on, I put my toaster in the dumpster out back and swore off bread forever.
Bread was dead to me. For awhile, when I walked past a bread aisle, I couldn’t even look at it. It knows what it did. Lousy, stinking bread.
Even though our feud only lasted a few months, there were a lot of mean things said from both sides (the buttered and the bread side); but I still haven’t found it in my heart to forgive toasters (evil implements of pain that they are) and I don’t think I ever will.