Toast Post: An Open Letter to the Creators of Kibble

I am Toast. This is my post.

Yesterday, as dinner-time approached, this wonderful scent filled the house from the kitchen. While the smoke was of slight concern, I quickly deduced that Mommy was cooking – smoke, sometimes fire, and many dirty dishes typically accompany Mommy when she attempts this task. I am a big fan of dirty dishes and being a little Toast, I need to arrive early if I want to beat Dakota the Fluffer Wolf. I will brave smoke and fire for a Mommy-just-cooked-something-yummy dirty dish.

Arriving in the kitchen, I discovered the Fluffer Wolf was in the big outside hunting lizards with Dixie Chicken – he was unaware of Mommy’s efforts! I was so excited, I may have tee-teed a little next to the dishwasher. Actually I did not. It was the feline. I would not. Only on the patio where it belongs. Unless there is peanut butter – I can’t make any guarantees if there is peanut butter. This is not important.

I watched Mommy closely from my safe spot under the table and waited patiently. I did not want to get in the way, so I only reminded her that I was waiting every thirty seconds or so. I am not a pest. I do not pester.

When the smoke detector went off, indicating dinner was ready, I came out from my safe place and went to my food bowl in anticipation of the feast about to be served. I do not recall the specifics, but I may have reminded her that I was there by demonstrating my ability to jump straight up nearly three feet while barking and wagging my tail for two minutes straight. I am an excellent multitasker.

Mommy, being a good mommy, filled my water dish and added eight ice cubes to bring it to the proper temperature. There should always be an even number of ice cubes. If the number is odd, then one should be removed and taken to the big outside and buried on the north side of the strawberry tree with the others. There is no room in my life for an odd number of ice cubes or the horror that such an ill-fated mistake can bring.

Mommy then returned to the large black box on which she creates smoke and filled a plate of the most delicious smelling yumminess, then carried it to the table where Daddy was sitting. This is okay, Daddy is the alpha and keeper of the treats, I permit him to be served first. She then prepared another plate and carried it over to her favorite spot at the table. In anticipation of this feast, I ran several laps around the kitchen island – I prefer to remain fit so I tend to exercise before and after each meal with a brisk run.

Then it happened. Mommy picked up my dish, filled it, and set it back down beside my water. I stared at the contents in horror – kibble.


This is not the first time.

The last time this happened, just a day earlier, I thought I made it perfectly clear – I prefer the human food over kibble. I prefer ANY human food over kibble. So why the kibble?

Mommy has failed me.

It’s a sad day to be a Toast.

I do not like kibble.

What is chicken by-product? Daddy eats chicken, I do not think he eats by-product. I do not want by-product. Is it even free-range by-product? I do not know.

I considered pointing out Mommy’s error to her but I’ve watched Restaurant Impossible, I know what happens when you send your food back to the kitchen.


Frustrated, I located Mommy’s laptop and composed an email:

Subject: Your Kibble is Poopycocky Yuck Yuck

As a connoisseur of fine cuisine, I find it appalling that you allow your product to leave your facility in its current state. You are not fooling anyone with the pictures of happy puppies on the bag. I am a Toast. Toasts like meat (ideally grilled to medium rare with a side of asparagus and a sweet potato). Toast’s ancestors were big and strong hunters who also preferred meat. In a recent meeting of my fan club,The Toasters, I tasked Dixie with researching the ingredients of your product, but as usual, she chose to play with the Fluffer Wolf and neglected her duties so I was forced to do this myself. After reading the ingredients, I wish I had played with them instead; it is appalling.

Your number one ingredient (in the product labeled “Lamb and Chicken”) is corn.


I will not pretend to be a zoologist but I am pretty sure lambs and chickens do not grow in fields on stalks. I’m also fairly confident corn is not meat. Ancient Toasts did not eat corn. Why is modern, Toast-of-the-World eating corn?

Your product is also known to contain much rat waste and something called “modified plastics”. When was the last time you had a big helping of rat do-do in Tupperware, then ate the bowl? Even if you heat it up and sprinkle on some corn, I do not think it would be enjoyable. Not even with peanut butter and everything is good with peanut butter. Maybe if I wrap it in a bag with a happy puppy picture on it?

Your days are number, kind sir. The Toasters are coming for you. We are everywhere.

I strongly suggest you make some significant changes to your product post-haste.

P.S. I sent you a $10 rebate more than six months ago and you still haven’t sent me my check. I want my money.

Mommy, I am watching you too. If you put those dishes in the dishwasher before I get a chance to clean them, we are going to have a serious problem.

That is all.


Are you following J.D. Barker? This is how all the cool kids get the best deals!


Toast Post: Rockets Red Glare

I am Toast. This is my post.

I am reporting live from deep within the bowels of Fort Hotdog under the coffee table in the living room of the compound. The bombs began falling nearly two hours ago and there has been no break in the onslaught of shear firepower and destruction falling from the sky. I can only assume the enemy has broken the country’s defenses and grows near.

“Private Fluffernutter! I order you to go outside and conduct recon, surveillance, and fact-gathering! I need to know the enemy’s position and their numbers!”


“Colonel Chicken, you must gather supplies! Kibble, pizza, donuts…anything you can carry. There is no telling how long we will be pinned down here. Our stores are low. We currently only have enough food for me.”


I must write a letter home in case I do not survive the battle. This is my letter home:

Life on the battlefield is hard. I often find my mind drifting to my family back home. I picture Mommy sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and little Oat, so young, unaware of the horrors of war taking place in this Godforsaken place. It is those thoughts that give me the strength to carry on, to pull myself up out of my blankie every day and face the evils of man. I await mail-call with earnest, your words bring joy to my heart. Cookies would be well received. If you can find the time to include cookies in your next correspondence, those in my Troup long for such familiarities. I have learned to sleep with one eye open, knowing the enemy is close. They crouch just beyond the next ridge, watching us as we watch them. I wonder if they have cookies. Did I mention you should send cookies? Please send cookies. I fear I may not survive and I would like one last cookie.

Another bomb exploded in the sky, waking me from my reverie. With haste, I stuff my letter in an envelope and give it to Colonel Chicken. “Deliver this before you go on your supply run,” I tell her. I do not have to explain its importance, her eyes tell me she already knows. We all want cookies.


There is a television playing in the far corner of Fort Hotdog, Pharrell Williams dances across the screen, that “Happy” song oozing from the speakers. I know the end is near, why else would one play such atrocity? It is a death-march. A silence creeps across those around me as they realize the same.

My Thunder Shirt has been cleaned and pressed. I dress in silence. When I am found, I will look my best.

The sky lights in blazing colors of red white and blue as another bomb detonates, this one much closer than the last. Private Fluffernutter runs back in and scurries for cover under the table beside me. His whimper tells me all I need to know. I slide my blankie aside and show him the box of sparklers I have hidden beneath my bedding. “I saved three,” I tell him. “If the enemy breaks the line and there is no other way out, we will use these on ourselves. Our ranks cannot be captured. We cannot fall into the hands of the enemy, we know too much.” There is no need for further words, he understands. We all understand.

July fifth is only a few hours away yet it might as well be a lifetime. A dawn we will never reach.

That is all.




Toast Post: Why 3:18 AM is the Best Time to Go Tee-Tee

I am Toast. This is my post.

I am an easy going Toast but occasionally my Mommy makes suggestions that are completely baseless, simply not well thought-out, and harmful to others. This morning, she made just such a suggestion. I consider it a suggestion because I know she knows better than to tell me what to do. That would insinuate that I am somehow wrong which is clearly not possible.

As I readied myself for my evening tee-tee at precisely 3:18 AM, Mommy scoffed at me in a tone I did not appreciate, told me the time, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

The nerve!

I was well aware of the time – if it were not 3:18 AM, I would not be preparing for my evening 3:18 AM tee-tee. I had to wake her multiple times before she finally got up – she almost made us late. Then she proceeded to complain the entire time, as if it were some kind of inconvenience. Do I complain when she leaves all day to that place called “office”? Or when she locks the cheese up in that giant cold box in the kitchen knowing full well that I can’t reach the handle? Ok, I might, just a little. Bad examples.

Mommy has suggested going tee-tee prior to bed and even waiting until morning; that is ludicrous. Almost as silly as when she asks me to sit on command, as if I am here simply to amuse her. Now I am to tee-tee on command? That is degrading, I am not a dancing monkey clown.

Perhaps if I illustrate why 3:18 AM is the proper time to tee-tee with a simple pie graph.

Mmmm, pie. Toast likes pie. Especially pumpkin pie with Cool Whip and… wait, I digress.

Maybe a list. I know how to list. Here is my list:

1. At 3:18 AM Mommy is conveniently located next to my bed. I do not have to go in search of her throughout my large, scary house where felines roam free and lighted trees grow in the living room.

2. I already circled the bed twelve times and do not want to start over.

3. The big outside is dark and not so big in the dark.

4. The patio is wet from the sprinklers that turn off at precisely 3:15 AM. I prefer a wet patio when I tee-tee. Did I mention I like to tee-tee on the patio? There are many reasons which may require another list. This is not the proper time or place. Just take my word for it – if you are going to tee-tee at night, in the big outside, do it on a patio. If you can find a wet patio, all the better.

5. Dakota the Fluffer Wolf is sleeping.

6. Dakota the Fluffer Wolf IS SLEEPING.

7. Dakota the Fluffer Wolf is sleeping  and can’t bounce around me like an epileptic mixing a margarita on a trampoline while I attempt to tee-tee. The Fluffer Wolf would make a great rug. The Fluffer Wolf hoards all the toys, the Fluffer… another list may be in order. I am not fond of the Fluffer Wolf.

8. The best infomercials air at 3:19 AM. Nobody wants to miss that. Nobody likes a bushy sideburn.

9. The water in my dish reaches the perfect temperature at 3:18 AM. Finer water can only be found in the toilet at 4:23 AM. Sometimes, there is a line.

10. If I don’t go tee-tee at 3:18 AM, I’ll be late for 3:21 AM kibble, then the whole day is shot.

To ensure Mommy does not make us late again, I’m going to begin waking her at 1:30 AM each night, then talk to her until 3:18 AM comes around. I am excellent company and I’m sure she will appreciate the attention. She must be bored, or she wouldn’t be sleeping.

That is all.



Toast Post: The Art of Selfies

I am Toast. This is my post.

As you are aware, I tend to peruse the internets as my schedule permits. Humans tend to post much personal information and it has proven to be an invaluable source of intel in my war/territorial dispute with Dakota the Fluffer Wolf. While Mommy and Daddy do not permit us to have FaceBook pages, there are a number of sites dedicated to wolves and they have proven to be a constant source of intelligence. For instance, I have learned the Fuffer Wolf’s natural habitat is snow. I plan to bring this to his attention as soon as I learn how to use the points on Daddy’s Amex to purchase a plane ticket to Siberia.

While searching for information, I use a number of keywords (Toast is very smart, I honed my skills playing Scrabble with Oat) such as: fluffer, fur monster, digger, toy hoarder, beastie…

It was that last term that brought up this photo and it was then that I discovered “selfies”:


Imagine my horror as this image jumped out at me. I nearly knocked Mommy’s Mac off the kitchen table and ran to my room but I am a strong Toast and I endured. Apparently humans post such pictures on a regular basis. I find this quite disturbing. When aliens discover this planet (which is only a matter of time) they will no doubt be encouraged – overtaking such a race would not appear to be difficult. I do not want to be enslaved by an alien race, I will not make a good worker dog. I wrote an extensive email to this individual instructing her to take the image down immediately but my email bounced back. Apparently is not a valid email address.

I then discovered numerous other selfies, equally horrible, and determined this is an epidemic that must be stopped.

While Mommy and Daddy were sleeping, I commandeered Mommy’s camera and called a truce with the other animals in the house long enough to put together this short tutorial on proper selfies.

I started with Ms. Dixie Chicken. She said she was very familiar with selfies and had taken a number in the past. Upon review of her submissions I was appalled:


Dixie at Spring Break 2012


Dixie Driving

These selfies embodied exactly what I was trying to avoid. I explained to her, posting pictures with alcoholic beverages could impact her ability to find a job in the future but she did not seem to care. I also informed her of the dangers of taking selfies while driving. Again, I feel my insightful advice fell on deaf ears. She has lived on the streets, survived hurricanes, and is best buddies with Dakota the Fluffer Wolf – clearly, her judgement is compromised.

Oat proved to be a better subject:


The Fluffer Wolf, not so much –

photo 3

I was happy to escape with my life; he nearly ate the camera.

A good selfie should embody contemplation, wisdom, and dramatic lighting. Such as this one:


I ponder much. This is me pondering.

While I do not travel (the big outside is a scary place), I felt it necessary to include a proper travel selfie:


Notice the packed suitcase and my choice of attire. I’m wearing a 2011 Thundershirt in stylish gray as well as my wolf-proof collar. It is clear I am prepared for travel.

As a famous Toast, I have contemplated my future media appearances. There is no shame in using Photoshop to enhance your selfies:




Please world, no more of these:



We don’t care about your dollhouse.

That is all.







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