Taking a Bath with a Toaster

It’s a peculiar thing about human beings that they’ll dabble in the most unnecessary experiments to prove a point that nobody asked to be proven. It is a quirk that sets us apart from the rest of nature.

You’ll never catch a fox lugging a hornet’s nest back to its den for decoration, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a mule trying to lick an icicle in January to see if it’ll stick. But humanity, bless its eternal curiosity, has a knack for such foolishness.

And so, we find ourselves at the bathtub, where some bright soul—no doubt armed with both hubris and a spare toaster—decides to test the compatibility of electricity and water. I reckon this idea sprouted from a restless mind that sees a roaring fire and wonders what might happen if they poke it with a stick of dynamite.

The toaster, in its natural state, is an innocent enough contraption. Its sole purpose in life is to crisp up bread.

But man, unsatisfied with a mere golden crust, has sought to challenge this simple appliance in ways never designed to endure. And what better arena for this challenge than the steamy porcelain coliseum of the bathtub?

There’s a particular madness in the method. You’re lounging there, surrounded by warmth and soap suds, feeling as close to nirvana as a mortal can get outside a hammock on a Sunday afternoon.

And then comes the toaster, clutched in wet hands, teetering on the edge of destiny. Why, the very notion sends the angels scattering in alarm and the devils lining up for a front-row seat.

Now, some might call it bravery; others, lunacy. Me? I’d call it a way to turn a relaxing soak into a pyrotechnic finale.

The instant that toaster kisses the water, the bath transforms into a spectacle that would put a Fourth of July firework display to shame. The bubbles fizz, the lights flicker, and your tub has enough sparks to light up Times Square.

It’s a tragic comedy—a partnership doomed from the start. Electricity and water are like feuding in-laws: they don’t mix, and together by force, someone’s bound to get fried.

The toaster, faithful to its craft, becomes an unwilling executioner. And the bather, instead of emerging refreshed and squeaky clean, achieves enlightenment that is less transcendental and more terminal.

So let this be a lesson–if you’re thinking of bringing your toaster into the bath, think twice. Stick to rubber duckies and a good book.

There’s enough excitement in this world without tempting the kind of fate that makes the obituary pages sparkle.

Some adventures are better left unexplored—particularly those involving being electrocuted in the pursuit of toasted bliss.