The Great Pancake Cataclysm

Bartholomew "Barty" Bumble was a man of simple pleasures and even simpler motor skills. Sundays, however, were for attempting grand culinary gestures. This Sunday's ambition: the perfect, gravity-defying pancake flip. With a flourish that would have made a professional chef wince, Barty launched his golden disc of batter.

It wasn't gravity-defying so much as ceiling-seeking. The pancake, a buttery projectile, soared past the pan, performed a dizzying pirouette, and landed with a wet *thwack* squarely on the perpetually dusty blades of the kitchen ceiling fan.

The fan, oblivious to its new culinary adornment, continued its gentle rotation. For a glorious, horrifying second, the kitchen was silent. Then, the blades began their work. Pancake shrapnel — chunks of warm batter, streaks of maple syrup, and what might have been a rogue blueberry — began to rain down like a sugary apocalypse. Barty, mid-gasp, took an involuntary step back. His foot found the rogue pat of butter he'd dropped earlier and forgotten.

Physics, a cruel mistress, took over. Barty slid, arms flailing like a marionette cut loose. He collided with the laundry basket, sending a week's worth of *eau de sock* skyward. A particularly potent pair of gym socks, launched with surprising velocity, struck Mittens, the family cat, who had been observing the proceedings with a detached air of feline superiority.

Mittens, indignantly startled, let out a yowl that could curdle milk and launched herself onto the kitchen counter. A cascade of ripe avocados, a bowl of forgotten grapes, and the antique porcelain vase holding last week's wilting daffodils went flying. The vase hit the toaster. Water, freed from its floral prison, gushed over the electrical appliance. A *POP! ZZZAP!* followed by a plume of acrid smoke, and then the piercing shriek of the smoke alarm.

Within minutes, a bewildered firefighter stood amidst the chaos, trying to piece together the scene. Barty, now covered in batter, daffodil petals, and a faint aroma of burnt toast, simply pointed a shaky finger at the pancake smear on the ceiling fan. "I just wanted," he stammered, "a really good pancake." The firefighter just sighed, pulled out his notepad, and radioed in, "Yeah, just another routine Sunday breakfast, over."