J.D. BARKER

Toast Post: The Incident

I am Toast. This is my post.

Good morning everyone. Thank you for attending on such short notice.

My name is Toast and I am a kitchen floor pooper.

Hello Toast!

I have prepared a written statement. Here is my written statement.

First and foremost, I would like to apologize to my Mommy and Daddy. I have let them down. I deeply regret my actions. My indiscretion reflects poorly on myself, my family, and those who respect and look up to me. I know better and there is no excuse for what I did.

As Toast Master General and the head of the Toasters Union, I am in a position of power and need to lead by example. Kitchen defecation is not the example I wish to set.

It is my understanding that my Daddy launched an investigation to determine the source of the kitchen poop. My silence wasted time and extensive resources that could have been applied toward other projects. Again, I apologize.

While I understand this situation could have been avoided, I think it’s important we also review the events leading up to the incident. I am willing to accept fault, but blame is not a burden which should fall on my shoulders alone. In fact, it was caused by the actions, or dare I say inactions of others.

Prior to the incident, we were all in the home theater. Mommy, Daddy, and Dixie Chicken were all present. I felt a grumble down below and immediately left the couch and went directly to the back door. Mommy or Daddy had ample opportunity to follow me, yet they did not. Arriving at the back door, I spotted Dakota the Fluffer Wolf on the patio (my preferred poop spot). I asked him kindly to leave the yard so I may come out and take care of my business, he chose to disregard my request. I stood at the back door for no less than fifteen seconds waiting for someone to open it and let me outside; nobody did so. I would have barked but I should not have to take such drastic measures. I am a little Toast and unable to open the back door. Mommy is a mind reader and should have known I needed her help. Clearly, this was completely out of my control.

After waiting for over twenty seconds, an unimaginable time, I had no choice but to relieve myself on the kitchen floor as Dakota the Fluffer Wolf watched me from the other side of the door, it was rather degrading. While in the kitchen, I may have also helped myself to some of Dakota’s kibble. Considering the injustice acted upon me, the embarrassment of what I had done, I hoped a little kibble would help me feel better. It did not. Stress eating is not the answer.

Now that I have admitted to the kitchen poop, I would like to see my Daddy concentrate his efforts on reviewing the circumstances that forced me to take such drastic action and correct those issues to ensure they do not occur again. I would hate to see it happen again but it will, if those around me don’t correct their ways.

It is a sad day.

For those of you who have called for my resignation as head of the Toasters Union I am here to tell you I will not be stepping down, nor will I take a leave of absence. If you insist on the continuation of this witch-hunt, I suggest you focus your attention on those whose actions actually facilitated the incident. After all, if a car crash occurs due to faulty brakes, do you prosecute the driver or the auto manufacturer who knowingly allowed their product to continue in the marketplace without the issuance of a recall?

I will not entertain questions at this time. Please direct you inquiries to my office.

That is all.

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Toast Post: the Death of 9:30PM Snack Time

I am Toast. This is my Post.

There is nothing more satisfying than a late night snack and as everyone knows, all late night snacks should be enjoyed after 9:30PM but before 9:40PM. Snacks later than 9:40PM can interfere with sleepy time which should begin promptly at 10PM. I have enough trouble getting Mommy and Daddy in bed by 10PM so heaven forbid snack time run late.

Last night, at precisely 9:30PM, I rose from my assigned seat in the home theater and began my journey to the kitchen.

(Without assigned seats, Dakota the Fluffer Wolf sits in different spots each night which is unacceptable.)

I knew my food bowl would be empty because Toast always leaves a clean bowl, so I went directly to Dixie Chicken’s on the other side of the kitchen. Her bowl was empty too. I found this odd, Dixie Chicken is wasteful – I can always count on her to leave food behind.

Under normal circumstances I would pause to ponder this issue but snack time has a tight timetable; pondering would have to wait until later.

Dakota the Fluffer Wolf has a large food bowl because he is a spastic, raucous, unruly ball of puppy energy that requires much nourishment to sustain. I have suggested Mommy and Daddy bring him to a taxidermist, then they could keep him while also saving money on Fluffer food.

To date they have not acted upon my suggestion but I remain hopeful.

Dakota the Fluffer Wolf’s bowl was empty too!

He eats dirt and trees and bunnies and many other things in the Big Outside so he never cleans his bowl. Something is afoot in the compound.

A moment later, Mommy entered the kitchen and knelt down beside me. “I picked up all the food, Toast. When you eat this late you wake me up in the middle of the night to get water and it really needs to stop,” she said.

Oh, hell no. This is not acceptable.

She already cut out 3:21AM kibble and 4:23AM toilet water.

And now she wants to cut out 9:30PM snack time? Why do I let this woman live in my house?

I began to voice my concerns but she just turned and walked away. “Let’s go back in the theater, we have thirty minutes until bedtime.”

I watched as she left the room. Clearly this was some kind of prank.

Well played, Mommy. Well played.

I waited for her to return laughing.

Yes Mommy, you got me good. This Toast was successfully fooled. You are an excellent prankster. Excellent.

She did not return though.

I waited four more minutes, glanced at the clock, and noted that only three minutes remained in designated snack time.

I returned to the home theater to find her back on the couch cuddling with Daddy as if none of this horror transpired.

Again I voiced my concerns. I may have jumped up and down in frustration. I tend to black out during times of extreme stress. I do not remember the exact events.

I will not let 9:30PM snack time go so easily, Mommy. Are you sure you want to start this war?

Remember when I used to eat your shoes? They were delicious. Perhaps I will snack on your shoes each night at 9:30PM snack time.

How about when I used to poop on the patio? That was fun, wasn’t it? I could do that again. Especially after munching on one of your shoes. A nice leather will make it real easy.

There’s a storm coming, Mommy. There’s a storm coming and it’s coming for you.

That is all.

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Toast Post: Puppy of Steel

I am Thunder Toast. This is my post.

As darkness crawls across the sky, drawing the blanket of night, I slip from bed and don my Thunder Shirt. As Superman, Batman, and Silent Bob before me, my Thunder Shirt is my disguise, my shield, as I shed my mild mannered Toast persona and become my true self – Thunder Toast, master crime-fighter.

The compound is silent, Mommy and Daddy are sound asleep; oblivious to the evil that lurks behind the shadows. There are felines afoot, and they must be stopped.

I clear the top floor, crawling from corner to corner. Although my Thunder Shirt renders me invisible, it only works on even numbered days – today is the 11th, that is not an even number, I checked.

The felines are very clever. They have a hidden lair within the compound accessed by a secret tunnel in the stairs. I believe Daddy may have built it for them, they do not seem capable of using power tools.

Dixie Chicken has spent hours staring into their tunnel and barking, attempting to get them to emerge. They simply watch her and laugh – they do not need to come out. They have food, water and a bathroom box. They have even trained Mommy and Daddy to empty it for them on a daily basis. Very clever indeed.

At night though, at night they come out, particularly the fat one. The fat feline goes by the name Conner and weighs more than thirty pounds. He can’t sustain this weight on cat food alone so he sneaks out nightly and eats Dakota the Fluffer Wolf’s dog food. Sometimes he even eats Dixie Chicken’s food. Not mine though, Toast always leaves an empty bowl. Even if I am not hungry, I will eat it all rather than feed the felines.

Thunder Toast is an excellent hider and I hide now, hide and wait.

At precisely 2AM, I spot Conner’s beady little feline eyes as he pokes his head up from their lair. A moment later, the giant puddle of cat pours out of their tunnel and works his way down the stairs, stopping every few steps to catch his breath. I do not see the female but she usually follows close behind.

Weezing and grunting like a rabid pig he crosses the living room and ventures into the kitchen. I follow closely behind, stealth and silent as only Thunder Toast can. I quickly run from the stairs to the couch, then the kitchen island.

He pauses for a moment and sniffs the air. Has he caught my scent? Impossible. Thunder Toast has no scent. Perhaps he has found more food or can smell the Outback Steakhouse two miles away. Perhaps this is how he signals the female. I do not understand the feline mind and do not want to.

The feline approaches the food bowls and begins to eat with the ferocity of an Ethiopian at a Golden Coral all-you-can-eat buffet for the first time. It is both disturbing and fascinating. How could one creature consume so much? Perhaps he stores it like an Alaskan river badger? Does he take it back to their lair, regurgitate, and feed the female?

Stepping from concealment, I bark: “Back away from the bowl and put your paws up! I am Thunder Toast! I command you!”

The feline continues to eat. Oblivious.

“I do not wish to unleash the full wrath of my thunder powers but I will!”

With a loud burp, the feline turns and stares at me. A moment later his body convulses in a wave of fur and fat and his mouth begins to open.

Hair ball bomb incoming!

I jump behind the kitchen island as it flies past me and crashes against the refrigerator with a splat.

The feline then runs toward the stairs, unbelievably fast for his size.

I give chase but he is too quick. I watch him disappear down the hole to his lair; stray fur fluttering through the air.

My thunder powers do not include flight. Tomorrow I will write a complaint letter to the manufacturer. I could have caught the feline with flight.

Upstairs, Mommy stirs. I quickly return to my bed and remove my Thunder Shirt, transforming back to mild mannered Toast.

“Back to sleep, Toast.”, Mommy mutters before drifting back off.

The felines may have escaped this time but I foiled their plan and drove them back to the bowels of the compound where they belong.

The world may rest, but Thunder Toast will not. My responsibilities, my conscious will not allow it, not as long as felines roam free to wreak havoc, not as long as danger hovers over this place I call home.

That is all.

Toast Post: Puppy Fight Club

I am Toast. This is my post.

Welcome to Puppy Fight Club!

The first rule of Puppy Fight Club is: you do not talk about Puppy Fight Club.

The second rule of Puppy Fight Club is: you DO NOT talk about Puppy Fight Club.

The third rule of Puppy Fight Club is: someone barks “stop!”, goes limp, taps out or tee-tees on the rug, the fight is over.

The forth rule of Puppy Fight Club is: only two puppies to a fight.

The fifth rule of Puppy Fight Club is: One fight at a time – I’m talking to you, Fluffer Wolf!

The sixth rule of Puppy Fight Club is: no shirts, no collars, no felines!

The seventh rule of Puppy Fight Club is: fights will go as long as they have to.

And the eight and final rule: if this is your first time at Puppy Fight Club, you have to fight… Oh, and pay the house – that is me, ToastMaster General – a three greenie admittance fee.

Okay, practice fight! Go!