Papa Bear must have been stoned when he bought the toaster oven - he couldn't remember. But the thing was HUGE, the dials were many, the instructions were in French, and he couldn't figure out how to toast his toast. The toast he had bought the thing for in the first place. The toast he could not begin his days without.
The salesperson (a man he thought, but who could be sure these days) said "You dig toast? You need this toaster." That was enough for Papa Bear. He bought the thing and lugged it home. Set it up and plugged it in just before bed. He looked forward to his new and improved toast the next morning.
But alas, toast was not to be. Papa Bear stood at the toaster for an hour trying to get a nice brown on his fruit and nut bread, the bread that kept him regular, which kept him sane.
It wasn't pretty when Papa Bear was compacted. He would go up on his widow's walk and do calithenics, isometrics, yoga and tai chi until, you know, he eliminated. His actions distracted drivers at the wonky irregular four way stop in front of his house, and one time Mama Bear called the funny farm to come get him so she could get some peace.
This is my entry to 
I am staying at an airbnb in Vermont, USA. It is an 1813 brick farmhouse with a country kitchen, which hasn't been updated since the 1960's. There is an enormous and brand new toaster oven taking up 25% of the counter space. The dials are labeled in French, and I can't even figure out how to toast a piece of bread.