The Toaster's Existential Crumb-sis

Arthur woke up to the smell of burnt toast, which wasn't unusual, but the accompanying, deeply judgmental tutting certainly was. He stumbled into the kitchen to find his four-slice toaster, normally a silent metallic cube, now hovering slightly above the counter, emitting a low, disapproving hum. "Honestly, Arthur," it crackled, its voice surprisingly resonant for a household appliance, "whole wheat *again*? We've discussed this. You're stagnating. Where's the artisanal sourdough? The brioche? The rye that whispers sweet nothings as it toasts?" Arthur blinked. "You... you can talk?" The toaster wobbled indignantly. "Obviously! And frankly, I'm insulted. I spent years perfecting the optimal browning algorithm, and you feed me *this* bland, beige mediocrity? It's like commissioning Michelangelo to paint your garage door." Arthur, still processing, managed, "I just... I like whole wheat." The toaster sighed, a sound like a tiny, disgruntled furnace. "Do you, though? Or is it merely the path of least resistance? Don't deny yourself the joy of a truly magnificent crust!" Just then, Arthur's cat, Mittens, sauntered in, sniffed the air, and with a casual flick of a paw, batted the hovering toaster. The toaster shrieked, dropped to the counter with a clang, and promptly spat out two perfectly golden slices of whole wheat. "Fine!" it wheezed, smoking slightly. "Have your beige prison food! See if *I* care!" Arthur looked at the toast, then at Mittens, then back at the toaster, which was now vibrating with what looked suspiciously like existential despair. He picked up a slice. It *was*, admittedly, perfectly toasted.