The Chrono-Toaster and the Crispy Magna Carta

Bartholomew "Barty" Crumb owned a toaster with an existential crisis. It refused to brown bread, preferring instead to gently crisp historical documents. Barty, a man of simple pleasures and simpler explanations, had initially thought it was broken. But after it perfectly singed a faded copy of his grandmother's passport from 1923, leaving only the photograph perfectly legible, he began to suspect a niche talent.

One Tuesday, while attempting to make toast for his pet newt, Nigel (who insisted on buttered crumpets, not toast, a point of constant contention), Barty accidentally dropped a newly acquired antique map into the slot. It wasn't just *any* map; it was an authentic 13th-century chart, mistakenly purchased from a particularly shifty seagull at a flea market.

The toaster whirred, glowing with an unusual, almost academic intensity. When it popped, out came not a browned map, but a perfectly legible, slightly smoky fragment of what appeared to be... the Magna Carta. Not just any fragment, mind you, but the long-lost "Clause 64b: On the Royal Right to Own a Miniature Donkey Named 'Sir Reginald' for the Sole Purpose of Delivering Extremely Urgent Biscuits."

Historians were baffled. The world rejoiced (mostly the miniature donkey enthusiasts). Barty, however, was more concerned that Nigel the newt had used the commotion to teach himself advanced astrophysics via YouTube, and was now demanding a telescope. The toaster, satisfied, subsequently decided it only wanted to toast abstract concepts, starting with "the feeling of impending Monday mornings." Its first output was a slightly burnt, crinkly piece of paper emitting a low, mournful hum.