Bernard's Bric-a-Brac Bedlam

Bernard, a man whose ambition often outstripped his practical acumen, stood proudly before a blank wall, a tiny hammer clutched like Excalibur and a framed painting of a mildly serene meadow tucked under his arm. “Just needs a nail,” he declared to his pet goldfish, Reginald, who seemed to eye him with a premonition of doom. Bernard, ignoring this silent judgment, climbed a wobbly stool.

The first swing missed the nail entirely, connecting instead with his thumb, eliciting a yelp that startled Reginald into a frenzied lap of his bowl. The second attempt, fueled by indignation, was overzealous. The nail didn't just penetrate the plaster; it vanished with a faint 'pop,' leaving a perfectly round, suspiciously deep hole. “Hmm,” Bernard mused, “perhaps a stud finder might have been… overkill.”

Undeterred, he fetched his trusty drill. “A little wall anchor will sort this out.” He pressed the trigger. Instead of the satisfying grind of plaster, there was a high-pitched shriek, followed by a sudden, violent fizz. A fine mist, then a jet, then a full-blown geyser erupted from the innocent-looking hole, drenching Bernard and the meadow painting in a plume of cold water.

Panic! Bernard scrambled off the stool, slipping on the rapidly expanding puddle. His flailing arm swept across a precariously stacked tower of antique porcelain cats, sending them shattering across the floor with a sound like a small, highly aggressive orchestra. The real cat, Chairman Meow, hitherto napping on the bookshelf, woke with a start, launched himself airborne, clipping a weighty dictionary and a framed diploma, both of which descended like meteors. The dictionary took out a floor lamp in a shower of sparks and a mournful *zzzt*.

Now ankle-deep in water, Bernard tried to pursue Chairman Meow, who was gleefully batting at a rogue spark near the now-shattered lamp. He tripped over the stool again, his descent pulling down the adjacent velvet curtain rod with a theatrical flourish. He landed with a splash, tangled in luxurious fabric, water still spraying, porcelain shards everywhere, and Chairman Meow doing victory laps around the sparking lamp. The meadow painting, miraculously undamaged, floated serenely in the growing lake, upside down.

Bernard, drenched and defeated, untangled himself. He surveyed the domestic battlefield, then sighed. “Well,” he mumbled to Reginald, who was now performing an interpretative dance of terror, “at least the picture isn't crooked.”