The Flapjack Fiasco of Bartholomew Butterfield

Bartholomew, a man whose relationship with gravity was tenuous at best, decided a simple Sunday pancake was in order. What could go wrong? He poured the batter, watched it bubble, and then, with a confident flick of the wrist, attempted the perfect mid-air flip. The pancake, however, had other ideas. It soared, a golden disc of defiance, arcing majestically towards the ceiling fan before ricocheting off a barely-attached wall sconce and landing with a wet splat on the precarious tower of Tupperware Bartholomew had been “meaning to organize.”

The Tupperware cascade began, a plastic avalanche that startled Rex, Bartholomew’s perpetually napping basset hound. With a startled “woof” and an uncharacteristic burst of energy, Rex sprang from his dog bed, directly into the wobbly leg of the kitchen island. The island, housing a perfectly balanced stack of Bartholomew’s “vintage” (read: dusty) cookbooks, swayed. Then, like a domino made of culinary knowledge, the books toppled, one catching the handle of a strategically (or suicidally) placed mop.

The mop, freed from its corner, swung like a demented pendulum, catching the edge of the flour bin. A cloud of white exploded, coating the entire kitchen in a fine, ghostly powder. Bartholomew, mid-duck from a rogue cookbook, slid gracefully (or grotesquely) on the newly floured floor. His arms windmilled, his left foot connecting with a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice. The jug, now airborne, performed a sugary arc before dousing the entire, now flour-dusted, countertop. The final splash hit a nearby, uncovered electrical outlet, resulting in a dramatic *POP*, a shower of sparks, and the sudden, blissful silence of a tripped breaker.

Bartholomew lay amidst the flour, the juice, the pancake, and the indignant Rex, who had managed to escape the worst of it. “Well,” he muttered to the darkness, “at least it wasn't boring.”