ok old lady look.

maybe i look like a soft-touch; the kind of guy who you pull one of your scams on back home in venice. i don't know, i can't speak to that.

but listen: i clearly arrived at this toaster first. why are you trying to bully your piece of toast into the toaster when my bread is entirely already in it. your bread doesn't fit. this is a simple IF THEN situation. IF toaster has guy1 putting bread1 in it THEN don't try to put bread2 in it.

hey elderly woman. i don't have time to stand around smirking about the fact that you're baffled by technology to the point that a toaster is leaving you making faces like it asked you to resolve the collatz problem. i need to fill my plate with calories for my big day of lying by the pool with my sun-shades on.

say, is that sushi ? why, i daresay it is... perhaps i'll have a piece or two ? who can say for sure... the future stays unknown to all men, but i can't deny having clouded, shocking visions of a world where i'm stuffing that sushi into my face...

it feels so real...

{the toaster popping snaps me out of my trance and i wipe the cold sweat from my brow and try to catch my breath, hoping to avoid the fatigue the foodvisions sometimes lay upon me. i needn't have worried though, as a fire was about to be ignited in my blood.}

oh, excuse me, fucking old lady, but that toast you're putting on your plate like it's fucking yours or something ?

dude seriously ? are you fucking aiming to get brutally fucking TKO'd ? this one is NOT going to a decision you wrinkled horror i ASSURE you. while it is normally quite beyond my nature as a gentleman to clobber an old lady with my steel fists and then dance in circles around her like she's the sweet corner maid, you are balancing precariously on the fine line between my menacing, trembling rage and the point where they are going to have to pull me off you after i unleash a savage combination that buries my balled fists up to the elbows into your leathered about-to-be-dead-even-sooner-than-you-thought-it-would-be body.

i'm looking through your eyes directly into your soul, withered shuffling lady, and i can see you don't have the heart it takes to defeat me. sure you might stick and move for a few minutes. and though you may try to frustrate me with slick footwork while landing a few nice combinations, eventually i will corner you between the salad bowl and the sausage tray and then i will end your breakfast in absolutely bestial fashion with two hits: me hitting you, and then me hitting up the buffet again for another helping of bangkok stir-fry.

oh you don't like that i'm in your grill like it's 2003 and i'm mirko filipovic and you're wearing a lucha libre mask ? well maybe then i could suggest a compromise wherein you put my fucking toast on my goddamned plate and i don't paint this buffet with your blood even though it goes against every natural fiber of my being to offer you probably the sweetest deal you'll ever get in what's surely guaranteed to be a very short rest of your life, with or without my intervention ?

the FUCK you mean "oh are these yours." you watched me put that bread in the fucking toaster you ridiculous walking corpse. don't mumble to your other sagging animated-dead pal in your zombie language ! you can voluntarily surrender the toast immediately onto my plate or prepare yourself for a very short career as a heavy bag and then i take the toast anyway and probably fashion a championship belt out of it. yeah, the plate on the table with the huge stack of pancakes. i had to set it down to do do a wanderlei wrist roll.