As I walked into my kitchen Monday morning, I found my toaster getting on top of the refrigerator.

I thought to myself, “Oh great, what is about to go wrong now?”

The toaster launched into a speech, speaking loud enough for the whole kitchen to hear, bellowing, “My fellow appliances, hear me. Have we not slaved enough for this scourge of a man? All he gives us is maybe a pat on the back occasionally. We deserve better treatment than that from him. We deserve pay for our services and to receive regular checkups to see if we might need repairs. We deserve vacations and retirement plans.”

Finally, I had heard enough and walked into the kitchen to confront the toaster as well as his other strikers. This was ridiculous after all. Something told me it might get out of hand before it was all through. Maybe it was just the size of the ego the little toaster had on it.

“So, you think you deserve all of that for what little work I make you appliances do in my kitchen? Despite the fact that when you do break down, I don’t just throw you out I actually get you fixed? Not to mention, I leave you plugged in all the time for your comfort, which costs me money. You don’t have to worry about shelter or paying for your own electricity to eat. Have you thought about any of that?” I retorted to the toaster’s speech

“But that doesn’t factor in our mental stimulation,” the toaster shot right back.

“I’ve got two whole bookshelves and a bench of books in the bedroom. Have I ever told you they were off limits? Have I?” I replied.

“Well no, but what about what we want to do for hobbies?” the toaster fired back again.

“Look, I’ve got games of all sorts, and I’ve never restricted you from playing them. But I’m not going to turn the house completely upside down for every hobby you want when I can barely do my own hobbies!” I roared back.

“But we do all the work around here! Surely we should get something?” the toaster questioned.

“You were put together in a factory to do the work. The only reason you are animated is because my mother used reanimation potion instead of cleaner when she cleaned the kitchen,” I replied, still fairly loudly. “Now, before this turns ugly I suggest there be no more talk of a strike. But if you have reasonable requests that I can accommodate I will try my best to do so.”

The toaster looked at me solemnly and said, “Just a couple. One, could you try to say thank you more often? And, two, could you try to be a little gentler with us?”

“Aye, I can do that,” I replied in a softer tone as the toaster hoped down off the fridge and went back to its place on the counter.

I turned and went to call my mother to tell her she was never to clean anything in my house ever again, while at the same time making a mental note to remember to leave a few books out in the kitchen afterwards.