The Unbearable Lightness of Being Barty

Bartholomew "Barty" Bumble wasn't just unlucky; he was a walking, breathing, existential crisis of misfortune. If pessimism were a superpower, Barty would be its tragic, cape-wearing avatar. His alarm clock, a venerable relic of the 90s, wouldn't just malfunction; it would short-circuit, emit a plume of acrid smoke, and somehow activate the fire sprinklers, ruining his toast. This was a Monday.

His attempts to court Lady Luck were legendary failures. He once found a four-leaf clover, which he promptly framed. The next day, he discovered he was allergic to clover pollen, resulting in an anaphylactic shock that landed him in the ER, where he contracted a rare tropical fungus from a potted plant.

Barty decided to embrace it. "Expect the worst," he'd declared with a brave, if slightly twitchy, smile. "Then anything less is a win!" This philosophical pivot proved disastrous. He stopped looking both ways before crossing the street, reasoning that if a piano was going to fall on him, it would fall regardless. A piano didn't fall. Instead, a flock of migratory geese, disoriented by a solar flare, chose that precise moment to collectively relieve themselves, turning Barty into a feathery, honking Jackson Pollock.

One blustery Tuesday, he spotted a kitten, mewling piteously, stranded on the highest branch of the tallest oak in the park. Barty, despite his ingrained fatalism, felt a flicker of heroism. "Perhaps," he mused, "this is my chance to defy destiny." He scaled the tree, branches scratching, bark splinting. He reached the kitten, triumph swelling in his chest.

Just as he was about to descend, a sudden gust of wind, a rogue kite string, and a startled flock of pigeons conspired to send him tumbling. He landed, with a thud, not on the soft grass, but precisely atop a freshly unearthed, unexploded WWII bomb, which had, moments before, been dislodged by a mole. The ensuing detonation was surprisingly small, mostly just a puff of dirt and a bewildered whimper from the kitten, who then calmly sauntered down the tree. Barty, however, was no more. His last thought, a fleeting wisp of consciousness, was probably, "Of course. The mole."