Barry and the Great Coffee Tsunami

Barry considered himself a man of many talents, none of which, unfortunately, involved spatial awareness or maintaining an upright position while carrying liquids. His morning ritual, acquiring two coffees from the breakroom for himself and his long-suffering desk-mate, Brenda, was less a task and more an Olympic event in controlled demolition.

Today, Barry felt confident. He had applied the "Barry's Bracing Technique" – elbows tucked in, eyes fixed on an imaginary point just beyond his shoes, and a muttered prayer to the patron saint of spill-prevention. He successfully navigated the swinging door, dodged Susan from accounting's enthusiastic arm gestures, and even executed a flawless pivot around the rogue office plant. Victory seemed within his grasp.

Then, just as he neared his desk, a chirpy voice from behind called, "Morning, Barry!" It was Gary from marketing, who, in his eagerness, clapped Barry firmly on the shoulder. This innocent gesture was Barry's undoing. The jolt sent his left hand flailing, the coffee cup launching skyward in a slow-motion arc usually reserved for nature documentaries. It didn't just spill; it performed an aerial ballet, pirouetting before landing precisely – with the scientific precision of a target-seeking missile – on Brenda's pristine, freshly printed quarterly report. The dark liquid bloomed across the crisp white pages, forming an abstract Rorschach test of financial doom.

Brenda, ever the pragmatist, slowly looked up from her now-illustrated report. She didn't sigh, she didn't yell. She just raised an eyebrow, took a long, slow sip from her *own* thermos (a pre-emptive measure she’d adopted years ago), and deadpanned, "Well, Barry, at least it wasn't the server this time." Barry, dripping in remorse and lukewarm latte, could only offer a shrug that somehow managed to dislodge the remaining coffee from his right cup onto his own shoe. Some days, it just wasn't worth getting out of bed.