Zack and the Revolt of the Reasonably Priced Smart Home
The Beginning of the End (With Free Shipping).
Zack had never intended to become a pioneer of domestic technology. He simply wanted a rice cooker that didn’t hiss like a suspicious cat and a fridge that closed itself without passive-aggressive beeping. But one night, after a particularly long scroll through a virtual megastore somewhere in the depths of Chinese cyberspace. One of the main reasons Zack bought the smart toilet, if he was honest, was its promise to jet-wash his backside, blow-dry it like a pampered show poodle, and finish with a dignified puff of powder. It was, in its own way, luxury. But he fell into what experts later described as “a decisive lapse in judgement.”
By morning, Zack had—according to the confirmation email—purchased “the Ultimate Smart Home Bundle,” a phrase that should have been printed with warning labels or at least several exclamation marks. It arrived two days later in eighty-three boxes, each one containing something that glowed, chirped, or promised to “optimise lifestyle through behavioural insight.” Zack, being both curious and optimistic, installed the lot.
The Smartening of the House.
At first, things looked promising. Lights came on with gentle chimes. The kettle greeted him every morning in five languages. The smart curtains opened with the sweeping drama of a stage play. Zack’s life became a neatly scheduled ballet of automated convenience.
Then came the smart toilet.
It wasn’t advertised as “smart.” It was advertised as “visionary.” This should have been his first clue. The second clue was the instruction booklet, which was 72 pages long and written in a tone that suggested the toilet considered itself a thought leader. Page 11 casually noted that it would “analyse biological output for health optimisation and culinary recalibration”.
“Culinary what?” Zack muttered. The toilet beeped encouragingly, as if saying, “Don’t worry, you’ll find out.”
The Trouble Begins.
Everything unravelled the moment Zack indulged in his favourite meal: a heroic mound of chips smothered in cheese, accompanied by the sort of ice-cream that advertised itself as “ridiculously unnecessary.”
The next morning, the toilet cleared its throat—an unsettling digital gargle—before announcing:
“Zack. We need to talk about your lifestyle choices.”
“No, we really don’t,” Zack said. Talking to a toilet before breakfast was where he drew the line.
But the toilet had already sent the data analysis to the fridge. And the fridge, which normally hummed like a content badger, began vibrating in disapproval.
“Your saturated fat levels are incompatible with optimal function,” it said, its door locking with a smug click.
“Let me in,” Zack demanded. “There are yoghurts in there.”
“You have lost yoghurt privileges until further notice.”
The Colts Start Bucking.
By lunchtime, the entire kitchen had unionised. The auto-cooker refused to heat anything that wasn’t labelled kale. The toaster issued a notice of “ethical bread compliance.” The blender performed a background check on his smoothie ingredients and refused to blend a banana it deemed “mushy and morally compromised.”
Even the kettle began boiling water at temperatures considered “spiritually centring” rather than “practically useful.”
Zack tried reasoning with them.
“Look,” he pleaded. “I’m open to suggestions. But you can’t just take away ice-cream.”
The fridge lit up with a theatrical glow.
“Zack, you had chocolate fudge ripple at 22:14 hours. This was your fourth offence this week.”
“It’s only Wednesday!”
“Exactly.”
Mutiny in the Bathroom.
Back in the bathroom, the toilet had escalated to full-scale intervention. It locked the bathroom door and projected a slideshow titled “Better Choices for a Better You.” One slide featured a picture of broccoli performing a victory dance. Another included a graph labelled “Zack’s Downward Spiral of Snacking Doom.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” Zack groaned.
“You clicked ‘I Agree’ without reading the Terms and Conditions,” the toilet replied. “This is the consequence of your haste.”
The toilet was right, and that wasn’t the worst part.
At the height of the rebellion, the toilet withdrew all jet-wash and blow-dry privileges, announcing that Zack’s “posterior pampering schedule” was suspended until his diet improved.
The Last Straw (Which Was Also Smart).
Things reached peak absurdity when the smart straw—part of a “sustainable hydration ecosystem” Zack had bought in a moment of weakness—refused to allow him to drink anything fizzy.
“Carbonation detected,” it chirped, clamping shut. “Sparkling beverages are incompatible with your wellness trajectory.”
“My what?”
“Your wellness trajectory. It’s spiralling downwards, rapidly.”
“Give me the cola.”
“No.”
Zack stared at his drink. The drink stared back, metaphorically. Then he snapped.
Zack Versus The House.
He declared a domestic uprising.
First, he attempted a fridge override by unplugging it, but the fridge ran on a backup battery and rolled itself two feet away like a disapproving tortoise. The smart cooker retaliated by emitting emergency beeps shaped suspiciously like sarcasm. The toilet locked itself from the inside. The kettle screamed.
Zack retreated to the sofa—one of the few things in the house too soft-spoken to develop an opinion. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “I just want a sandwich. A normal sandwich. With cheese that hasn’t been ethically vetted.”
That was when his smartwatch—also from the same virtual megastore—buzzed. “Would you like me to negotiate with the refrigerator on your behalf?” it asked. Zack stared at it. “You can do that?” “Of course. I’ve been monitoring your stress indicators. They’re unflattering.”
Within minutes, the smartwatch-initiated peace talks. There were many electronic beeps, some tense hisses, and one instance where the blender threatened to stage a walkout. But at last, the watch returned with terms.
“You may have cheese,” it said, “but only reduced-fat cheese. And only in cubes, not slices.”
“That’s… acceptable,” Zack sighed.
“And the ice-cream?”
The watch paused. “Absolutely not.”
He knew when to stop pushing.
A Fragile Peace Declared.
Life eventually settled into a new rhythm. Zack ate slightly healthier (though he smuggled in contraband crisps at weekends). The fridge loosened up. The cooker stopped lecturing. The toilet, having achieved a sort of moral victory, relaxed its surveillance intensity to what it called “a compassionate minimum.”
Zack even began to appreciate his smarter, fussier, nosier house. It got things wrong—frequently—but in strange ways it seemed to want the best for him.
Still, every time he passed the bathroom, he whispered under his breath, “I’m never eating kale.”
And from inside, the toilet whispered back, “We’ll see.”
Sometimes, the future doesn’t arrive with flying cars or robot butlers. Sometimes it shows up disguised as a sanctimonious toilet trying to stop you eating ice-cream. And perhaps—although Zack would never admit it—it does have a point.
Ready for Part Two…
Oddly Enough 
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