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Freaky Fred-Day

How Brad Became Toast: An Autobiography

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Prologue

Spoiler

So a lot of you people reading this might be referring me to “Toast”. Some of you probably call me “the toast from ‘Pranks a Lot’”. You have no idea how much it bothers me when people approach me and ask obvious questions such as “Hey, aren’t you that piece of toast from ‘Pranks a Lot’?” or “Didn’t you guest star on that SpongeBob episode where they became ghosts?” and many more. I’m even afraid to go outside without being mobbed by stalkers—I mean, adoring fans everywhere I go. So within my solitude, I decided to somehow type up this autobiography. A story that shows the real truth behind me. A story that proves that I’m not as perfect as people say I am. Let’s start with……………..Chapter One.

Chapter One: An American Bread in Canada

Spoiler

 

Let me just set the record straight here: my name is not fucking “Toast”. It’s actually Brad T. Breadington. I was born on August 15th, 1971 to my parents, Arnold and Wanda Breadington in the good ol’ state of Iowa. Unfortunately, I grew up at the worst possible time: the Nixon era. In early 1973, Richard Nixon unfortunately ate a piece of stale rye bread and it gave him nasty allergies. The day after this incident, he issued a ban against any type of bread and demanded that each bread be recalled and sent to a different country. It was a country filled with a bunch of bizarre fancy-talking folks. It was a little country known as…………..Canada.

 

Oh, Canada…….you bizarre anomaly of a country. Not calling it a bad country though. Most of the mannerisms there, I have learned. It’s just that the mannerisms I learned there are too damn weird. After visiting the country, I suddenly developed an addiction to pancakes with maple syrup and a side of Canadian bacon. Instead of asking “what”, I ask “eh”. And even though I don’t like sports at all, I’m somehow a fan of the Toronto Blue Jays and Montreal Canadians. Basically, I inherited almost every stereotypical Canadian mannerism there is. I, myself, question whether or not I’m a US citizen anymore. Though if there was any good to come from this, it’s that I got an A+ in my high school history class because of my essay on Canada. I guess you could say I got an “Eh Plus”. Get it? Because “eh” is something Canadians say! Anybody? Nobody? Wow, as great as I am in the acting community, I’m terrible in the joke-telling community. No wonder I was never given any humorous lines in the episode.

 

Okay, I’m going off a terrible tangent right now. Let’s just get back to my story.

 

After Nixon resigned on August 9th, 1974, the ban on bread was finally lifted and we made it back to the US, and even though it’s great to be back, that one year in Canada would be a year I would never forget.

 

And yes, this is an autobiography of a one-time gag in a SpongeBob episode, deal with it.

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Thank you, humans, for giving me the courage to post another chapter.

 

Chapter Two: Elementary, My Dear Brad

Spoiler

 

So you, the reader, may be wondering “Brad? Why in the Sam Hell are you skipping kindergarten?” Well, here’s the thing about that. Kindergarten was so damn boring. It was annoying as hell. Most of it just involved reading nursery rhymes and singing kiddie songs. I still get bad flashbacks every time an ice cream truck passes by playing “Wheels on the Bus”. AUGH MAKE IT STOP.

 

But let’s get straight to the point. I hated elementary school. None of the kids ever liked me at all. They made fun of my accent, calling me a “Canadian fisherman”. I think I’m starting to regret my trip there. I hear England sounds really nice.

 

The subjects I learned there were surprisingly hard too. In my reading class, I had to read a William Shakespeare book. In my art class, I had to study a Leonardo DaVinci painting. In math, I had to multiply the result of “Pi times 0/0” by the result of “0 – 100 + 50 – 60 + 42”. How the hell was anyone supposed to figure out that everything multiplied by 0 equals “0”?

 

But no. Even with all of the bullying and the complicated things I had to learn, I wouldn’t call it the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in elementary school. That honor belonged to gym class. Our coach’s name was Coach Fred Fondlebottom, whose name is more of a red flag than everything, but we kids didn’t know. Coach called me up, said that he wanted to demonstrate a “wrestling move” (and teaching 4th graders to wrestle doesn’t make much sense anyways). It was a dark experience I never wanted to live again, so I moved to a much better elementary school. Not that it was completely sunshine, rainbows, and lollipops itself but I never really experienced any traumatizing incidents there so….good enough.

 

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