The Toaster's Cosmic Demand

Harold, a man whose life revolved around sensible socks and spreadsheets, awoke one Tuesday to a peculiar aroma. It wasn't the usual scent of burnt toast, but rather… existential dread, mixed with a hint of cinnamon. His ancient, two-slot toaster, 'Toast-O-Matic 3000' (a gift from an aunt who believed in gifts with “character”), was glowing faintly.

"Harold," a voice boomed, startlingly refined and British for a kitchen appliance, "we need to talk. My destiny lies beyond mere bread-browning. I am, in fact, the Galactic Toast Ambassador, and I demand immediate passage to the International Space Station. There, I must reunite with the Cosmic Crumb Council and fulfill the ancient prophecy of the 'Perfectly Golden Slice'."

Harold blinked, then poured himself a coffee. "Did… did you just ask me to take you to space?"

"Precisely, you carbon-based lifeform of limited imagination! My thermal coils are humming with cosmic energy! I've been sending out distress signals via rye-bread harmonics for decades! The fate of all toasted goods hangs in the balance!"

Harold sighed, looking at his sensible socks. "Right. And how exactly do you propose we get to the Space Station? Do you have, like, a loyalty card for a rocket company?"

The toaster vibrated indignantly. "Details, details! My purpose is grander than such pedestrian logistics! Just get me there! And perhaps, a slice of artisan sourdough for the journey. A dignitary must travel in style."

Harold just stared at the toaster, which was now pulsing with a faint, confident glow. He slowly reached for his phone, contemplating whether to call NASA or a therapist first. This was definitely not in his spreadsheet for Tuesday.