The Ballad of Bartholomew's Breakfast Fiasco

Greg considered himself a master of the mundane, largely because everything *else* was a minefield. Today's challenge: bringing in a single bag of groceries. "Easy-peasy," he muttered, adjusting the precarious grip on the plastic sack. Inside, a carton of eggs nestled dangerously close to a gallon of milk, flanked by a rogue avocado and a bag of grapes that seemed intent on escape.

His first hurdle was the threshold. Greg, known for his ability to trip over flat surfaces, approached it like a bomb squad operative. Left foot over, right foot... *thud*. He didn't trip, but the sudden jolt sent the avocado rocketing upwards, performing a graceful arc before landing with a squishy splat directly onto his pristine white sneaker. "Exhibit A," Greg sighed, wiping it with a stray receipt.

Next, the kitchen counter. A simple placing down, one would think. But as he swung the bag, a grape, a truly audacious grape, decided to make a break for it. It bounced off the counter, executed a perfect triple-axel spin, and landed strategically under his left heel.

What followed was less a fall and more a slow-motion, highly dramatic interpretive dance. Greg’s arms windmilled, the grocery bag tore with a sound like a small, distressed animal, and then: *splat*. The milk carton burst, creating a milky slip-n-slide. *Crack!* The eggs, sensing freedom, committed collective suicide. Greg, mid-flail, found himself in an unintentional, rather painful, split, right in the middle of a puddle of milk and egg yolk.

His golden retriever, Bartholomew, who had been observing the entire debacle from his dog bed with the sagacity of a seasoned philosopher, slowly raised his head. He blinked, let out a deep, judgmental sigh, and then, with deliberate slowness, began to lick the errant grape from the floor, as if to say, "Honestly, Greg. This is becoming a habit."