The Cement of His Ways

Stan, a man whose life was less a journey and more an elaborate series of cosmic pratfalls, had finally decided to outsmart fate. Minimalism, he declared! Fewer possessions meant fewer opportunities for disaster. He proudly surveyed his spartan apartment: a single, saggy armchair, a chipped mug, and a half-eaten bag of stale crisps. "What," he announced to the oppressive silence, "could possibly go wrong now?"

He hadn't finished the sentence before the armchair executed a dramatic structural failure, catapulting him onto the floor. He landed precisely on the last, forgotten crisp, which, acting like a miniature landmine, launched him forward. His head connected with the chipped mug, creating a resonating *thwack* that vibrated through the floorboards and up into the ceiling. A section of plaster crumbled, raining down a startled, very angry wasp nest.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Stan yelped, swatting wildly. He scrambled out the door, intent on escape. The universe, however, had other plans. A passing unicyclist, preoccupied with balancing a stack of pancakes, inadvertently flicked a banana peel. Stan, mid-stride, performed an involuntary pirouette, landing face-first into a freshly poured patch of quick-drying cement.

He spluttered, trying to extract himself, but the cement gripped him like a jealous ex. Just then, a poodle with a bladder the size of a water balloon trotted up and, perhaps mistaking Stan's flailing form for an abstract hydrant, offered its contribution. Before Stan could even scream, the unicyclist, having circled back to retrieve a fallen pancake, swerved to avoid the poodle and completed Stan's transformation into a permanent, if somewhat lumpy, public art installation. His last thought, before the cement fully cured, was, "At least I won't lose my keys in here."