Battlestar Galactica Toaster

Hi you two.

Thank you so much for the deluxe BSG toaster. I was tempted to blast it out of the box when I first saw it, so great was my fear and hatred for the cursed thing, but upon checking the label on the box I realized just in time that it was from two very wonderful people who could not possibly be Cylons, and so I let it live.

But then I started to think. It came delivered in a box. A boxed toaster, could this be some sort of subtle message sent to me by David and Colleen? What would motivate them to send me a virtual envoy of my sworn enemy, that while rendered harmless, is still my foe? At first blush, it was clearly a gift, given generously and freely to bring some joy into my life, joy that another member of the vile, mechanized Cylon race has fallen, converted to a utilitarian device to be used in the preparation of perfectly browned multi-grain foodstuff, but as the day passed it sat there, a mute, inert, yet malevolent presence on my kitchen table. It was boxed but might it possibly be able to somehow un-box itself?

I realized with a reeling surge of panic that I would need to devise a procedure to determine that it was actually safe to allow it aboard. I spent several days concocting a solution of toothpaste and Drano (common household items) that would irrefutably show that the Cylon DNA contained therein had indeed decomposed into a state that was purely and conclusively harmless. But in doing so I stumbled upon some very disturbing facts. The first was that, though apparently mechanical, the toaster in question had subtly biological characteristics wherein the plastic casing and metal undercarriage were seen to manifest a distinct cell structure, indistinguishable from those of human bones and organs. And then there was the observation that the cells appeared to be evolving in some unspecified vector, a very slow evolution, but an undeniable change nonetheless.

I must confess I was a bit overwhelmed with the facts as they came to light. In a weary and dizzied state I contemplated my options. Should I continue this disturbing and randomly reasoned experiment to it's logical conclusion? Should I bolt, jaw clenched, fit and determined, down to the flight deck and strap in as the ace pilot with the incredible record of survival against demonically incomprehensible odds? Should I abruptly and nepotistically take command of the other, failing, battlestar only to use it as a disposable shield in some vast and abrupt military operation? Should I just hit the bistro on the lower deck and, later that night, sleep with Gods-know-what smokin'-hot, sweat and grease stained woman I might catch the interest of, just for an episode or two? Or should I pursue my formerly repressed, yet now obvious lifelong dream of blossoming into the most brilliant, yet perilously unseasoned attorney to pass through this star system in a millenia? It was all so confusing. If only I could coax season 4, episode 4 to stream onto my computer in its entirety before the malignant viruses on the illegal host Web site brought my smoking CPU to a scorched and crackling halt. If only those fracking frackers hadn't annihilated my home planet in a hateful and effective attack.

Now I am on the run for all eternity (or at least until this season ends), across the skies, beyond the galaxies, fleeing, surviving, questing, searching - for the perfect slice of toast. With jam please.

To be continued.