Len's Lamentable Luck

Len awoke with the familiar, cold dread. It was Tuesday, his cosmic nemesis, the day the universe seemingly conspired against his very existence. Last Tuesday, his prize-winning goldfish had developed a taste for rare Faberge eggs. The Tuesday before, he’d lost his left sock, only to find it later serving as a toupee for a particularly cynical squirrel.

Today, he was prepared. He’d meticulously wrapped himself in industrial-grade bubble wrap, donned a bicycle helmet, and, most crucially, vowed never to leave the sanctity of his bed. "Ha!" he declared to his empty room, "What fresh hell can possibly find me *here*?"

The universe, it seemed, was never short on ideas. With a seismic groan, a perfect, circular sinkhole opened directly beneath his mattress. Len, still cocooned, plunged several stories, landing with a soft, *pffft* amidst a cloud of ancient dust. "Well, this is new," he muttered, adjusting his helmet. Before he could fully process his subterranean predicament, a geyser of crude oil erupted directly below him, drenching him head to toe.

"At least I'm not on fire," he thought, just as a rogue, glowing ember from a carelessly discarded street-level cigarette butt spiraled down. It landed with uncanny precision on his oil-slicked shoulder. A faint *fizzle*.

"Oh, for the love of all that is unholy—" he began, but the inferno was quick, consuming the oil and, rather efficiently, the bubble wrap. By the time the fire department, alerted by the sudden oil gusher, arrived, all they found was a steaming, charred divot, a faint smell of roasted despair, and a single, perfectly preserved, albeit singed, sign near the edge of the pit that read: "Happy Tuesday!"