Butter Debates

"Look, Toasty," I began, my voice a little too sweet, like I was trying to coax a grumpy toddler into eating broccoli. "We need to talk about this jam situation. It's not fair that you get all the artisanal fig preserve when I'm stuck with… well, whatever this is." I gestured vaguely at a jar of what looked suspiciously like marmalade that had seen better days.

The toaster, perched precariously on the edge of the counter, vibrated with what I could only assume was indignation. Its heating elements glowed a faint, angry orange, even though it wasn't plugged in. "Fairness," it rasped, the sound like a thousand tiny crumbs being scraped across a metal plate, "is a human construct, a fragile edifice built upon the shifting sands of perceived equality. What you perceive as 'jam distribution' is merely the universe unfolding according to its own, superior logic. And in this particular unfolding, the universe has decreed that my crisp, golden slices deserve the finest fruit-based embellishments."

"The universe decreed that?" I scoffed, leaning against the refrigerator door. "Or did you just zap yourself with that blue ball and decide you deserved the good stuff?"