Knusper the Angry Toast

Angry white bread Knusper was angry. It wasn't bad enough that he was just another slice among slices, pasty white and tasteless, with no more nutritional value than the jelly beans in the cupboard above the stove. He had been watching the calendar himself, knowing this day would come. And now it was here, having arrived with ominous precision at exactly midnight, and not one second more.

"This is bad," said Knusper, scanning the kitchen for omens. "This is very, very bad."

The phone rang. Knusper spun into the crouching position he had seen, day in and day out, in all the martial arts films. The phone rang again. Knusper screamed, and then the world went black.

"That's correct," said the faraway voice. "Paraskevidekatriaphobia. We see it all the time. Well, not all the time, exactly. On the thirteenth, mostly. Worse on Fridays. Quarantine. Quarantine."

Knusper opened one eye. The voice was familiar, yet impossibly smooth. Like peanut butter, Knusper thought as he peered over the lip of the toaster. He couldn't see the smooth-voiced man, but he knew that asking questions would only give him away. Not smart, thought Knusper, shaking his head and opening his other eye.

"I know you're there!" he shouted.

Nothing. Knusper eyed the lever on the side of the toaster. He'd watched the other slices disappear, two at a time, but the pressure had been too much for him. He'd lost consciousness, and when he came to there was no proof of anything. A few crumbs, but crumbs aren't proof. They're just crumbs.

"Well," said Knusper, "I'm toast."

It wasn't at all what he had expected. No angels, no guys with beards and long hair, and most of all, no white robes. In fact, there was no observable whiteness no matter which way Knusper turned. There was only music, and for the first time, Knusper felt the music.

"Feels good, doesn't it?"

Knusper nodded. He didn't turn to see who had spoken; he knew the voice was his own.

"No wonder it felt so wrong," said Knusper.

"I know," said the other voice. "It's not easy being white."

"Feels so wrong it can't be right!" sang Knusper.

"Lucky day?" asked the voice.

"Lucky day," said Knusper, and then he danced.



  1. Angry bread. It's worse than depressed pickles.

    Great story.

  2. Thank you. Thank you very much.

    (With enough love, depressed pickles can be almost sweet.)

  3. ...and with enough pressure, de pressed pickles can be juice... Now i know what that thing is i have..."Paraskevidekatriaphobia" explains everything.

  4. Yah! De pressed pickles, dey're yummy, no?