Toaster Heaven

So let us say that after a long, distinguished life of toasting faithfully and well for many years, my toaster has finally shuffled off the electric coil that gave it purpose and is now bound on that last of all the quests to the undiscovered country. I refused to cry, for we cry not for the dead but for the living, self-pity spent for all lost chances—but they shan’t ever come back to us. Not knowing the nature of the ritual it might have chosen for itself, I forsake a Christian burial and chose instead to think of what comes next.

Where do toasters go when they die?

Let us consider this was a good toaster—a faithful toaster. Having lived such a life, would the toaster go to a heaven where it would simply toast for eternity? Is the continuation of its purpose a just reward for having served that purpose well? Or does it go to a place where it can suck to its sweet heart's content—if that is what it wishes? Does the final chance to apply a new purpose to an old life make it a reward? Or, can it possibly be? Can it be the final prize for so much effort is nothing but oblivion? How is that fair? Who says life is fair? And if life isn’t, what kind of fool expects death will be?

Or maybe I am wrong in searching for a parallel between this plane and that one. Perhaps the nature of existence in toaster heaven is so vastly different from the one I know that I cannot even imagine what it might be. I should not worry so.

Reward or no reward, it’s still coming for all of them, all the toasters, and no amount of worry on my part makes it faster—or slower. It is just what it is. Asking if toasters go to heaven is perhaps like asking if androids dream of electric sheep—a mere article of faith, never, ever “mere”.

Godspeed, my dear toaster!