It's relaxing to think of a rubber-band-powered ornithopter, a device so lightweght it seems to swim through air as heavy as soup.
I can almost forget the rage and horror: My toaster has betrayed me for the last time. It has developed an unnatural hunger for Pop-Tarts; it's sad enough I can only find the one flavor without frosting, sadder still that it's not blueberry -- alas, Babylon! Alas, vaccinium corymbosum! -- and saddest of all that the toaster merrily pops up a pair of 'em with enough force that one leaps out of the bottom support (which is, I swear it, barbed), falls past it and jams in the crumbs at the bottom and the heating element at the side. Being a Pop-Tart, it's got less structural integrity than wet tissue paper, so every attempt to free it results in more and more hot, sugared filling being smeared into unreachable corners, nooks and crannies. That evil machine has got to go! (It's a brand that gets rave reviews, too. Yeah, well, maybe.)
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago