The Day My Toaster Tried to Kill Me

I never thought I'd have to fear my own kitchen appliances, but life has a funny way of proving you wrong.

It all started on an average Wednesday morning. I shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and half-conscious, desperately craving toast. My trusty old toaster, a relic from my college days, had never failed me before. Sure, it had a few quirks—sometimes it launched toast across the room like a medieval catapult, but nothing too alarming.

That morning, however, something felt… off.

As I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, I could’ve sworn I heard a low hum. Not the usual click or pop—more like an ominous hum, the kind you hear in movies before a robot uprising. I shook my head, blaming my lack of coffee.

Big mistake.

The moment I pressed the lever down, the toaster shuddered. Yes, shuddered, like a tiny demon had just possessed it. A flicker of blue light pulsed inside, and before I could react, it shot my bread out like a missile.

One slice hit the fridge. The other? Directly into my unsuspecting face.

I screamed. Not a dignified scream—no, this was the high-pitched screech of a man whose breakfast had just assaulted him.

My cat, Mr. Whiskers, watched from the counter with mild amusement.

"Did you see that?!" I asked him, wiping butter from my forehead.

Mr. Whiskers blinked. I took that as a no.

At this point, any reasonable person would have stopped using the toaster. But I am not a reasonable person. I was hungry, and the only thing standing between me and a perfectly crisp slice of bread was a potentially haunted kitchen gadget.

So, like an idiot, I tried again.

The toaster accepted the bread too easily this time. It didn't vibrate or hum—just sat there, eerily still. Then, after a long pause, it refused to pop the toast back up.

I tapped it lightly. Nothing.

I pressed the cancel button. Still nothing.

I unplugged it. Nothing.

I bent down to inspect it closer, and that’s when it happened.

A loud BANG echoed through the kitchen as the toaster exploded my toast into a fiery projectile. The slice shot into the air, did a full backflip, and landed squarely in my hair—now very much on fire.

Panicking, I flailed like an inflatable tube man outside a car dealership. Mr. Whiskers, proving his loyalty, watched with deep satisfaction as I dunked my head into the sink.

I emerged, coughing, my hair slightly charred. The toaster sat there, smug and silent.

It had won this round.

At work, I confided in my coworker, Greg, who claimed to be an “expert in technological malfunctions.” This was a bold claim for someone who still used Internet Explorer, but I was desperate.

"Sounds like a classic case of toaster possession," Greg said, nodding sagely.

"That’s not a real thing, Greg."

"Is it? Is it?"

I regretted asking for help.

Greg advised me to "cleanse the toaster’s spirit" by offering it a gift—preferably something electronic. I considered throwing my old alarm clock inside it just to see what would happen, but instead, I opted for a more rational approach: buying a new toaster.

That evening, I returned home, armed with a state-of-the-art, Wi-Fi-enabled, voice-activated smart toaster. This thing could toast six different shades of brown and even had a “bagel mode.” It was a toaster fit for royalty.

As I set it on the counter, I heard a distinct click from the old toaster. A challenge.

Fine.

I plugged the new toaster in, slid a piece of bread inside, and pressed the lever. It worked flawlessly—no explosions, no burnt hair, just perfectly crisp toast.

I turned back to the old toaster, smirking. "You're done, buddy."

With dramatic flair, I carried it to the trash, lifting the lid triumphantly.

And that’s when the toaster made its final move.

With one last act of defiance, it flung an old, charred crust from its depths, hitting me squarely in the chest.

I yelped, stumbled, and knocked over the trash can—sending myself, the toaster, and about a week's worth of questionable leftovers tumbling to the floor.

From the counter, Mr. Whiskers let out a slow, judgmental blink.

I sat up, defeated. Maybe Greg was right. Maybe the toaster was possessed.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was trying to teach me an important life lesson.

Either way, I was never making toast again.