The Existential Crumb

Arthur, a man whose emotional range resembled a particularly flat pancake, decided a piece of toast was in order. The first slice, after an eternity in the machine, opted for a dramatic, unannounced exit directly onto the kitchen floor. "A bold leap of faith," Arthur observed, retrieving it with the tongs usually reserved for serious laboratory work. The second slice, evidently striving for a career in competitive tanning, emerged a shade of charcoal typically found at the bottom of a well-used barbecue. "Ambitious," he noted, tapping it. "Definitely makes a statement." The third, finally, achieved a level of golden perfection that would make breakfast cereal weep with envy. As Arthur reached for the butter, the toaster, with a faint sigh of mechanical exhaustion, gave up the ghost entirely. He looked at the perfectly golden bread, then at the now-silent appliance. "Well," he stated, a slight tilt of his head his only sign of contemplation, "at least one of us understood the assignment." He then, without further ado, placed the pristine toast into the bin. "Some victories," he concluded to the empty room, "are purely theoretical."