Gerald and the Great Cookie Catastrophe

Gerald’s life wasn’t a journey; it was an obstacle course designed by a particularly malevolent deity with a penchant for slapstick. Gravity, for reasons best known to itself, seemed to have a personal vendetta against him. Today’s mission: transport a tray of his aunt Mildred’s prized shortbread cookies from kitchen to living room. "Simple," he announced to the empty air, a word that, in Gerald's lexicon, was an arcane incantation for impending doom. He gripped the tray with the white-knuckled intensity of a bomb disposal expert. He successfully navigated the treacherous shag rug (a known tripping hazard), masterfully avoided the ankle-snatching ottoman, and almost, *almost*, cleared the threshold. Then, his left foot, perhaps inspired by a rogue dust bunny or an unseen ley line, decided to perform an intricate ballet with the leg of a vintage mahogany side table. The tray ascended, a magnificent, buttery ark against the domestic sky, before gracefully capsizing. Cookies rained down like a sugary meteor shower. Gerald, in a valiant (if ill-advised) attempt to salvage a lone shortbread, executed a perfect swan dive – not into a pool, but directly into the plush abyss of Barnaby the beagle’s dog bed. Barnaby, ever the opportunist, merely licked Gerald’s face, either in profound sympathy or to claim the newly applied butter mask. Lying amidst the crumbs, a man-shaped confection, Gerald sighed. "At least," he mused, "Barnaby finally got his face licked."