Friday, 16 March 2012

My Toaster Impregnation Hell

Dear Daily Snoop, I have been through an ordeal worse than most of your page-three coke sluts. As such, I want this printed in your paper as it appears below, and I want some money in return. Like up to £1000. Seriously. Address is below, send it before printing. Thanks, Liza.

I woke up one morning pregnant with a toaster. I had been drunk the night before, guzzling down Bacardis like two-to-three an hour, three-to-four every half-hour – whatever – then took this slab of blonde manliness home to screw. What can I say? I have a good time. I’m a hedonist. There’s no crime in that, right? Mind your own business.

So we do it twice, once against the wall, because it’s a good workout on the pelvic muscles and gives you 3D orgasms, then collapse on the bed. In the morning he’s gone, with a note on the table that reads: HADDA DASH HONEY, CALL ME L8R. I vomit over the note, not ‘cause the grammar sucks, because my body wants revenge.

I spend the day in bed, puking into the wastebasket. I try all the remedies – aspirin in the coffee, salmon on the forehead, a bath in ginseng – nothing. The hangover gets worse and worse. Later on I hear these popping sounds in my belly, so I run to the A&E ward. Well, I don’t run – I get a cab, which takes 45 MINUTES to show up, by the way – then I’m made to wait with the other losers while I almost die on the floor.

The doctor performs an x-ray on me and there it is, clear as day on the screen: a fucking great toaster, with actual toast popping out the top! Can you believe this guy? I mean, a one-night-stand foetus I might have forgiven. But impregnating me with a kitchen appliance is so not the right etiquette for hunky blondies built for screwing.

They had to operate on me. I was out cold for three days, and I wake up with this giant stomach scar. The first thing I asked the nurse – a haggard old Korean thing – was: “Where’s the toaster?”

“It not here. Man come and take it away, said it his.”

I almost passed out. Not only had he not come to visit me since this outrageous appliance impregnation bullshit, he’d taken off with my baby! Surely there were laws against this sort of thing? I grilled the Korean lady, but she hadn’t been hired for her knowledge of custody law when it came to non-human offspring. I would have to track down this toaster-thieving putz and take what was rightfully mine.

So I got better (this took two weeks, with nothing but Ironside re-runs and crossword puzzles) and tracked blondie down. When I arrive at his apartment, this little whore is standing over the counter in her panties making toast on . . . hmm, a silver NuWare toaster suspiciously like the one I had in my womb for three days! The whore shrieks and runs into the bedroom as I burst inside and draw blondie’s attention to the toaster.

“What are you doing with this? This belongs to me.”

“I implanted the toaster seed,” he says. He looks hideous in the harsh light of day. I must have been like blind plastered.

“Bullshit. I gave birth to the thing.”

“So I’m the father, you’re the mother. How about we share a slot each?”

“Please. I’m supposed to come around here if I want to toast some bread? I’m taking it home.”

He stands in front of the door. Actually blocks my way as I’m trying to leave. What a psycho!

“I’m not a violent man,” he says. “But if you don’t put down my son, I’m going to hurt you.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I say. I lift up the toaster to warn him, but he kicks the legs out from under me and nabs the NuWare as I fall to the floor. Next thing, he’s dragging me to a box room and pinning me to the bed. I put up a fight, but the guy is like super-human strong and he sticks a needle in my arm. I pass out within a few minutes then wake up strapped to the bed.

The guy is on top of me, butt-naked, his cock hard, and seems to have the notion to start screwing me. Now, I don’t want to paint myself as some psycho slut or something. Don’t get me wrong – I thought the guy was a nutjob – but there was something about being tied up like that, in his power, that made me sort of horny. Usually S&M stuff turns me off, ‘cause the men into it are freaks or losers, but this guy had a proper man-sized wang and screwed like a hydroelectric wind turbine in a hurricane.

When he’s done, I spit in his face, tell him to let me go, warn him to let me go, scream at him to let me go. The guy is clearly unhinged, because he totally ignores me, stuffs a gag in my mouth, and moseys out the door. I can scream pretty damn loud, you know. I woke up half the neighbourhood one time when this little punk pulled his thing out and tried cocking me to the wall. No one ignores my goddamn screams.

About ten minutes later, the slut in panties comes in, wearing a suit which she totally doesn’t pull off – the best clothes for this little whore are no clothes whatsoever – and sits beside me.

“Are you OK?” she asks. My eyes laser her stupidity. “Look, it’s really cool being part of Adonis Inc. Our net profit last month was three times higher than it’s been in years. There are women here who want to experience childbirth without having to take care of an actual child. That’s why being an in utero supplier is a good career move.”

I mmm. My mmm translates as “remove the motherfucking goddamn shitting scotch tape, bitch” or thereabouts. She warns me not to scream then removes the tape.

“Fuck’re you talking about?” I ask.


“What supplier? Do you mean he’s knocking up other women with toasters?”

“Oh yes. There are over fifty women in this area alone gestating goods. It means we don’t have to buy them in from a wholesaler, we merely plant the seed then retrieve the item when it’s ready. The women have a pregnancy simulation – of sorts – and that’s their reward.”

“How is letting a fucking toaster grow in your womb the same as a baby?”

“As I said, it’s a simulation.”

“Look, you are clearly insane, so could you please let me go?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She puts the tape back over my mouth. Obviously, this is not what you might call an ethical setup. The blonde whacko is abducting women, impregnating them with his tacky kitchen appliances, and keeping them hostage in his flat or warehouse or wherever. With a team of slut women keeping the hostages in check and crackpot doctors doing the Caesareans.

Couple of days later, it’s obvious that I have another appliance in my womb. This one is massive, though – real monster massive, like a fridge or a cooker or something. I scream a billion insults as the doctor gasses me and puts me out of my misery. Surprisingly, I do actually wake up – I’m not dead – which proves the biggest relief. In the room beside me as I come to is a dishwasher. Blondie stands at the head of the bed, smiling.

“Isn’t it beautiful? Look, it doesn’t have to be this way. Join us. Work for us as a supplier and we’ll pay you a handsome packet.”

“Thought you gave women ‘simulations’. Thought you didn’t pay them,” I say.

“Those are the ones who refuse to participate in our scheme. It’s a handsome scheme, baby. You get all the kitchen shit you need, plus job security and enough screwing to last a lifetime.”

“Screwing. With you?”

“Hell yeah, baby. With me.”

Too drugged to even vomit at the thought, I accept his offer. I have no intention of following through on it, but I say it so he’ll let me off the bed and I can make a run for it. When we go into the kitchen, I have a bite to eat and speak to some of his workers. They tell me they earn up to £300,000 a year, and they get invited to all the coolest parties. I think to myself, that’s pretty cool, maybe I could work for them after all.

Maybe, I also think, the door’s locked.


  1. In honour of this story, I will call my first-born "Breville". But only if it's a male appliance.

    Is this story from a cut-up exercise, Mark, or did you really think of it in this order? Impressive!

    1. Hey Matt. I've never tried Burroughsian cut-up before, doesn't seem too useful an original principle for a narrative. Just came out linear.

  2. I couldn't stop laughing. Well done. Any spare fridges going round?

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