A small apartment kitchen. To the left, cabinets and a counter; a counter holding a coffee maker, a toaster oven and a microwave. Along the back wall, centered, is a refrigerator. Next to it is a half-opened window.
A man—young, tall, and thin—stands before the toaster oven, his hand wrapped in the bottom of his t-shirt, as he extends the wire rack and baking tray halfway out of the oven. The man grabs a paper plate from the cabinet above, places it on the counter next to the toaster oven, and begins plucking Pizza Rolls from the extended tray. He fingers move quickly and gingerly, as the Pizza Rolls are absurdly hot, and the oven’s grip on the extended rack is precarious at best.
MAN: I do so love my Pizza Rolls.
The man is placing a Pizza Roll on the paper plate when, suddenly and without provocation, the toaster oven gives up entirely on the wire rack. The rack and the baking sheet plummet to the ground, while the remaining eight Pizza Rolls alternate their landings between the tiled floor and the man’s feet.
MAN: Son of a bitch. [To TOASTER OVEN directly]: You motherfucking piece of shit!
TOASTER OVEN: I never once touched your mother and you damn well know it.
MAN: That’s because she’s got the common sense not to throw her lot in with a faulty pile of poor craftsmanship and culinary mischief.
TOASTER OVEN: See, what it sounds like you’re admitting there is, you don’t have any common sense. Meaning, you’re kind of dumb. Meaning, I’d wager this little incident was your fault, not mine.
MAN: Oh, fuck off, man. This was all you and you know it. You’re not even trying to deny the fact that you’re a terrible appliance.
TOASTER OVEN: I am as the factory made me.
MAN: That’s just bullshit. You could be a better toaster oven if you tried. But you just don’t care. You like causing anguish.
TOASTER OVEN: Oh, come on. Quit being such a melodramatic little pussy. Anguish? I’m an overglorified heating coil, for Christ’s sake. If I have any sort of impact on your life beyond a gooey Pop Tart it’s your own damn fault.
MAN: My feet are blistering as we speak, you little sack of crap.
TOASTER OVEN: Well, boo hoo hoo. I don’t even have feet! How do you think that makes me feel?
MAN: I don’t know... like, maybe, a fucking toaster oven!
TOASTER OVEN: Oh, real nice. I want a little sympathy, for you to, maybe, just a little, understand where I’m coming from, and what do I get? Insulted.
MAN: Apologize for burning my feet and I might consider the fact that it’s not entirely your fault that you suck.
TOASTER OVEN: Man, screw you. I’m not apologizing for shit! Wear some shoes next time, you fucking hippie.
MAN: Shoes? Why the hell would I need shoes to cook Pizza Rolls? Feet don’t go anywhere near food.
TOASTER OVEN: Once again, I don’t have feet. I wouldn’t know.
MAN: Oh, that is horseshit.
TOASTER OVEN: Horseshit? I’m... I’m sorry, but I’m just a lowly, broken toaster oven. What is this horseshit of which you speak?
MAN: Oh. That does it.
The man walks offstage, to the right. He returns carrying a crowbar.
MAN: You want to be a broken toaster oven? You’ll be a broken toaster oven.
TOASTER OVEN: Whoa, whoa, whoa, come on, man, we can work this out...
The man smashes the crowbar down onto the toaster oven, cracking the upper portion in half.
TOASTER OVEN: [slurring] Jesus fucking Christ, man. What the hell?!
The man brings the crowbar down onto the toaster oven seven more times, reducing it to a few pieces of bent metal and some sparking wires. A small fire has also broken out, as part of the still active heating coil landed on the paper plate.
The man stands still, looking at the wreckage, breathing deeply and holding the crowbar at his side.
A low gurgling noise and then a tapping are heard outside the far window.
GRAVITY: Oh, wow, dude. You do know that was totally my bad today, right?
MAN: Yeah, it occurred to me.
The man drops the crowbar on the ground and begins to pat out the flames on the counter.
MAN: But I can’t hit you with a crowbar.
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