The Man Who Woke Up with a Toaster for a Head

Bartholomew "Barty" Butterfield stirred, a vague, metallic hum resonating through his very being. He reached up to scratch an itch on his forehead, only to encounter not skin, but the cool, brushed stainless steel of a moderately priced, two-slice toaster. His eyes – or rather, the small, slightly singed vents where his eyes used to be – fluttered open. "Well, that's... toasty," he thought, the idea feeling strangely warm, like a heating element on its second setting.

His morning routine, usually a well-oiled machine of caffeinated efficiency, became a slapstick tragedy. Trying to drink his customary Earl Grey proved futile; the liquid simply pooled in his toast slots before dribbling unceremoniously down his pajama front. "Mmph!" he attempted to exclaim, but it emerged as a muffled *ding* followed by the faint aroma of rye bread. It seemed his vocal cords had been replaced by a crumb tray.

He considered calling work, but explaining his predicament ("My head's a toaster, I might pop out a crumpet during the budget meeting") felt like a career-limiting move. Just as he was contemplating the existential dread of becoming a kitchen appliance, his slots glowed a cheerful orange. With a familiar *ka-CHUNK*, two perfectly golden slices of rye toast sprang forth, landing precisely on his chin. "Oh, for crumb's sake," Barty muttered, the toast now gently buttering his neck. At least breakfast was served, whether he liked it or not.