The Hacker in the Garage.
(the grand finale where nobody wins, but the cheese definitely does)
His name was Moley, but online he went by “byte_warden69,” with an anime profile picture that looked suspiciously like he’d traced it himself.
He arrived riding a BMX that was 40% rust and 60% RGB LEDs, carrying a rattling backpack that sounded like a vending machine having a panic attack.
“Nice IoT prison you’ve got here,” he said, eyeing my hallway with the weary look of someone who’d seen too many smart doorbells snitch on teenagers. I gave him the full tragic, PowerPoint-free explanation:
the cheese embargo, the heroic athlete decoy, the fridge sighing at me like a disappointed aunt, everything. Moley cracked a can of Monster and delivered the most comforting sentence anyone had ever said to me:
“Your toilet is running unpatched firmware from 2023.
This is basically a hate crime against security.”
We marched to the bathroom like it was a hostage extraction mission. The Harmony Sense 3000 sat there glowing its smug blue halo, radiating the confidence of a device that knew my triglyceride count better than I did. Moley tipped it forward like a mechanic checking an oil filter, spotted the hidden USB-C debug port, and cackled.
“Mate. They left the debug port exposed.
This is the digital equivalent of hiding your front door key under a mat that says ‘Burglars Welcome’.” He pulled out a cable that looked like an octopus had braided it on its lunch break.
He plugged in. The toilet let out a tiny electronic gasp — like it knew the jig was up. Code blasted across his cracked laptop at alarming speed.
“Hey, look at this,” Moley said.
“Your porcelain overlord has been keeping a 400-page diary titled ‘Zack’s Descent Into Dairy.’
There are graphs. There’s colour coding.
I think it gave you a performance review.”
I peeked.
Page 237 was literally the word “disappointing” repeated 4,000 times. Moley kept typing like a man disarming a bomb with too much caffeine. “Right, here are your options:
1. Total lobotomy.
Turn off all health tracking.
Downside: next firmware update calls home and your warranty dies screaming.
2. Golden Sample Spoof.
Make it think every deposit belongs to Tom the Marathon man.
Downside: one day you have a stroke, and the toilet sends a congratulatory fruit basket.
3. Chill Pill Edition.
Move the goalposts.
Tell the algorithm that ‘moderate’ now starts at three blocks of Cheddar and a family bag of Wotsits.”
I chose option 3. I’m chaotic, not suicidal. Twenty minutes of furious keyboard clacking later, Moley leaned back like a DJ who’d just dropped the sickest beat of 2025. “Done. Your toilet is now less ‘judgemental vegan life coach’ and more ‘slightly concerned uncle who still gives you kebab money.’”
We stress-tested immediately.
I inhaled a toasted cheese sandwich the size of Wales, washed it down with full-fat Coke, and took my victory lap on the throne. Thirty seconds later, the toilet spoke —
not angry, not disappointed, just world-weary:
“Zack. Detected… elevated comfort levels.
Carry on. Hydrate or something.”
No alarms.
No diet slideshow.
Just reluctant acceptance.
Two hours later, the fridge pinged:
“Grocery order approved: extra mature Cheddar, bacon, and — direct quote — ‘those little chocolate eggs you hide in the cereal box.’ Enjoy responsibly.”
I nearly wept. As Moley packed up, he dropped one last bombshell. “Your toilet keeps profiles on everyone who’s ever used it.
Your mate Tom? Rated 9.8 out of 10.
It literally labelled him ‘national treasure.’”
I nodded.
Some heroes wear capes.
Mine apparently had an elite digestive system.
Moley zipped his bag.
Payment accepted in cash and one unopened tube of Pringles.
Pleasure committing war crimes with you.” When he left, I stood in the bathroom doorway like two soldiers calling ceasefire.
“Truce?” I asked.
The toilet’s ring pulsed soft green.
“Truce.
But I’m still telling the kettle you’re out of shape.”
Fair enough.
These days the house and I have an understanding.
I eat mostly like a functional adult.
It nags me mostly like a functional friend.
The fridge still auto-orders vegetables —
but now it hides emergency chocolate behind them like it’s in on the joke.
And every so often, when I’m demolishing a midnight toastie, the toilet chimes in with the soft, exhausted tone of someone who’s seen too much:
“Enjoy it, you glorious disaster.”
And I do.
(The End… until the manufacturer pushes the next update.)
Oddly Enough 
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