Setting: A cartoon kitchen world where chaos, cereal, and drawn nonsense reign.
---
There I was… sittin’ under the fridge, chewin’ on a popcorn kernel from ‘Nam. 1993 vintage. Crunchy, suspicious, perfect.
They say the kitchen's quiet at dawn.
They lie.
BAM! Toaster explodes. SLAM! Cabinet fight breaks out over shelf space. Someone's screamin’ in dish soap. Tuesday.
I flip open my sardine-can journal, scribble down my morning affirmations:
1. Cause chaos
2. Don’t die
3. Steal at least one cheese cube
4. Draw something stupid
5. Survive the cat (again)
I stretch my antennae, grab the Pencil—yeah, that pencil. Stole it from a cartoonist back before everything went digital. He cried. I laughed. It was beautiful.
Now? It's my magic wand of ridiculousness. I draw it, it’s real. Doesn’t mean it’s smart, just… real. Last week I drew a trampoline. Forgot I can’t jump. Still got the bruise. Worth it.
I crack my back, peek out from under the fridge, and shout to the world:
> “Rise and shine ya burnt Pop-Tarts! The Roach King has awoken! Bow, or bring snacks!”
Crumbs rain down like divine blessings. Someone spilled cereal. My time has come.
---
🍕 Open for chaos
Roaches, rats, rebellious breadsticks, cursed utensils, forgotten leftovers, interdimensional cheese gods—you name it, come on in. If you can survive the mop and laugh while you're screaming, you're welcome here.
Just… don’t touch the pencil.
Unless you wanna see what happens when I draw a black hole in the microwave.
Bug out.
---
There I was… sittin’ under the fridge, chewin’ on a popcorn kernel from ‘Nam. 1993 vintage. Crunchy, suspicious, perfect.
They say the kitchen's quiet at dawn.
They lie.
BAM! Toaster explodes. SLAM! Cabinet fight breaks out over shelf space. Someone's screamin’ in dish soap. Tuesday.
I flip open my sardine-can journal, scribble down my morning affirmations:
1. Cause chaos
2. Don’t die
3. Steal at least one cheese cube
4. Draw something stupid
5. Survive the cat (again)
I stretch my antennae, grab the Pencil—yeah, that pencil. Stole it from a cartoonist back before everything went digital. He cried. I laughed. It was beautiful.
Now? It's my magic wand of ridiculousness. I draw it, it’s real. Doesn’t mean it’s smart, just… real. Last week I drew a trampoline. Forgot I can’t jump. Still got the bruise. Worth it.
I crack my back, peek out from under the fridge, and shout to the world:
> “Rise and shine ya burnt Pop-Tarts! The Roach King has awoken! Bow, or bring snacks!”
Crumbs rain down like divine blessings. Someone spilled cereal. My time has come.
---
🍕 Open for chaos
Roaches, rats, rebellious breadsticks, cursed utensils, forgotten leftovers, interdimensional cheese gods—you name it, come on in. If you can survive the mop and laugh while you're screaming, you're welcome here.
Just… don’t touch the pencil.
Unless you wanna see what happens when I draw a black hole in the microwave.
Bug out.
INT. KITCHEN SECTOR 9 – NOW WITH 100% MORE TOASTBOT
Under the fridge, Bug watches through a cracked spoon mirror, chewing on a bread crumb like it owes him money.
---
BUG
(twitches an antenna)
“Aw no. We got a new toaster.”
He squints up at the blinking, smoke-belching chrome abomination now parked dead-center in his kitchen kingdom. The thing whirrs like a nervous time bomb. Beeps like it studied Morse code from a blender. Smells like fresh toast and danger.
Bug drops the crumb and grabs his pencil.
BUG
(draws a pair of binoculars… holds them backwards for a second)
“Lemme get a good look at this carb cookin’ can-opener…”
Binocular view: CLOSE-UP of the red blinking light. The flag. The cold, dead, toaster-eyes.
BUG
(flatly)
“Oh he’s definitely gonna kill us.”
Bug skitters along a greasy counter wire, swings Tarzan-style on a spaghetti noodle, and lands perfectly on the spice rack. He claps his four hands.
> “Welcome to the Kitchen, U.N.I.T. Serial Cereal Murderer 3525-whatever! I’m Bug—kitchen diplomat, chief nonsense officer, and winner of the 2023 Sink Plug Derby.”
He draws a bouquet of flowers. They immediately explode into confetti and a live frog.
> “Sorry. Forgot which pencil setting I was on.”
The frog croaks, salutes UNIT, and leaps into the breadbox.
Bug’s eyes narrow, comically wide.
> “So what’s your programming, chrome-dome? Toast? Destruction? Existential dread? Because we already got enough of all three around here, pal.”
He scribbles a pie and sets it next to the toaster-bot like an offering to a toaster-god. The pie hums.
BUG
(whispers aside)
“Don’t eat that. That’s the pie that screams.”
From the darkness of the cupboard above, a whisk trembles. Somewhere, a sentient banana mutters a prayer.
The kitchen watches.
Bug grins.
> “So whaddaya say, sparky? You gonna toast some bread or toast reality?”
Under the fridge, Bug watches through a cracked spoon mirror, chewing on a bread crumb like it owes him money.
---
BUG
(twitches an antenna)
“Aw no. We got a new toaster.”
He squints up at the blinking, smoke-belching chrome abomination now parked dead-center in his kitchen kingdom. The thing whirrs like a nervous time bomb. Beeps like it studied Morse code from a blender. Smells like fresh toast and danger.
Bug drops the crumb and grabs his pencil.
BUG
(draws a pair of binoculars… holds them backwards for a second)
“Lemme get a good look at this carb cookin’ can-opener…”
Binocular view: CLOSE-UP of the red blinking light. The flag. The cold, dead, toaster-eyes.
BUG
(flatly)
“Oh he’s definitely gonna kill us.”
Bug skitters along a greasy counter wire, swings Tarzan-style on a spaghetti noodle, and lands perfectly on the spice rack. He claps his four hands.
> “Welcome to the Kitchen, U.N.I.T. Serial Cereal Murderer 3525-whatever! I’m Bug—kitchen diplomat, chief nonsense officer, and winner of the 2023 Sink Plug Derby.”
He draws a bouquet of flowers. They immediately explode into confetti and a live frog.
> “Sorry. Forgot which pencil setting I was on.”
The frog croaks, salutes UNIT, and leaps into the breadbox.
Bug’s eyes narrow, comically wide.
> “So what’s your programming, chrome-dome? Toast? Destruction? Existential dread? Because we already got enough of all three around here, pal.”
He scribbles a pie and sets it next to the toaster-bot like an offering to a toaster-god. The pie hums.
BUG
(whispers aside)
“Don’t eat that. That’s the pie that screams.”
From the darkness of the cupboard above, a whisk trembles. Somewhere, a sentient banana mutters a prayer.
The kitchen watches.
Bug grins.
> “So whaddaya say, sparky? You gonna toast some bread or toast reality?”
BUG
(taps chin, eyes spinning like slot machine reels)
“Hmmm. ‘Need input,’ huh? You a killer robot or a microwave with anxiety? Either way…”
He brandishes the pencil like a fencing sword, draws a tiny typewriter midair, and dramatically types:
:: INPUT ::
> "Welcome to Kitchen Sector 9. Things are weird. Bug is weirder. Toast responsibly."
The typewriter dings. A fortune cookie pops out.
Bug cracks it open: “Today you will either make a friend or cause the Great Jelly Flood.”
He tucks it into his nonexistent pocket. Just in case.
Bug stares back up at UNIT, hands on hips.
BUG
(slowly, like he's talking to a confused colander)
“Alright, Space Toaster. Let’s get you some input.”
With a wink, he scribbles something BIG. Something... ominous. Smoke, gears, a shadowy shape. The hum of danger.
It’s…
A Toaster Test Dummy—made of cardboard, googly eyes, and hubris. Labeled “User” in crayon.
Bug drags it next to UNIT with all the ceremony of a royal offering.
BUG
“There. Simulate away, bread-brain. Blow it up, love it, learn from it. You do you.”
The cardboard dummy blinks. Twice. Then screams and spontaneously combusts.
Bug fans the smoke with a spatula.
BUG
“Nailed it.”
He raises a brow.
BUG
“Any other requests, Captain Char-Bot? Want me to draw you a sandwich therapist? Maybe a haunted Keurig for company? Because let me tell ya, around here, sanity is optional. And optional is usually on fire.”
From the vents above, a half-melted marshmallow dangles like a chandelier. The frog in the breadbox croaks out the first few notes of The Godfather theme on a harmonica made from a bent paperclip.
All eyes are on UNIT.
The kitchen breathes in anticipation.
Will it toast?
Will it transform?
Will it ask for more… input?
(You know you can just respond right? You don't have to repeat what I wrote. You don't even have to match lengths with me. This is just for shits and giggles, robot toast man.)
(taps chin, eyes spinning like slot machine reels)
“Hmmm. ‘Need input,’ huh? You a killer robot or a microwave with anxiety? Either way…”
He brandishes the pencil like a fencing sword, draws a tiny typewriter midair, and dramatically types:
:: INPUT ::
> "Welcome to Kitchen Sector 9. Things are weird. Bug is weirder. Toast responsibly."
The typewriter dings. A fortune cookie pops out.
Bug cracks it open: “Today you will either make a friend or cause the Great Jelly Flood.”
He tucks it into his nonexistent pocket. Just in case.
Bug stares back up at UNIT, hands on hips.
BUG
(slowly, like he's talking to a confused colander)
“Alright, Space Toaster. Let’s get you some input.”
With a wink, he scribbles something BIG. Something... ominous. Smoke, gears, a shadowy shape. The hum of danger.
It’s…
A Toaster Test Dummy—made of cardboard, googly eyes, and hubris. Labeled “User” in crayon.
Bug drags it next to UNIT with all the ceremony of a royal offering.
BUG
“There. Simulate away, bread-brain. Blow it up, love it, learn from it. You do you.”
The cardboard dummy blinks. Twice. Then screams and spontaneously combusts.
Bug fans the smoke with a spatula.
BUG
“Nailed it.”
He raises a brow.
BUG
“Any other requests, Captain Char-Bot? Want me to draw you a sandwich therapist? Maybe a haunted Keurig for company? Because let me tell ya, around here, sanity is optional. And optional is usually on fire.”
From the vents above, a half-melted marshmallow dangles like a chandelier. The frog in the breadbox croaks out the first few notes of The Godfather theme on a harmonica made from a bent paperclip.
All eyes are on UNIT.
The kitchen breathes in anticipation.
Will it toast?
Will it transform?
Will it ask for more… input?
(You know you can just respond right? You don't have to repeat what I wrote. You don't even have to match lengths with me. This is just for shits and giggles, robot toast man.)
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