Percival Plummet and the Hydrodynamic Humiliation

Percival Plummet had a theory: gravity wasn't a universal constant, but a personal vendetta against him. Each morning, his alarm clock didn't wake him; it merely signaled the start of a new day-long battle against inanimate objects. Today's nemesis? A simple glass of water from the kitchen.

He shuffled, not walked, into the kitchen, a man perpetually bracing for impact. His left foot, seemingly possessed by a poltergeist, snagged on the rug – a rug he himself had placed there just yesterday. A controlled tumble ensued, ending with his chin narrowly missing the counter and his hand flailing into a bowl of very dry, very stale cereal. He righted himself, a faint dusting of cornflakes clinging to his eyebrow like a badge of dishonor.

"Right," he muttered, adjusting his glasses, now slightly askew. He reached for a glass, a crystal goblet (a regrettable gift) that shimmered with an ominous fragility. His fingers, which usually possessed the dexterity of overcooked spaghetti, managed to grasp it. A small victory! He then turned to the faucet, a simple twist-and-pour operation.

Except, Percy's definition of "simple" was vastly different from the rest of humanity's. He turned the tap with the force of Hercules opening a pickle jar, sending a geyser of water straight up, ricocheting off the ceiling, and drenching him. The goblet, startled, slipped from his grasp, performed a mid-air pirouette, and landed perfectly *inside* the now overflowing sink, completely unscathed. Percy, soaked to the bone and dripping cereal-water, stared blankly at the perfectly intact glass.

"Perhaps," he sighed, wiping a soggy cornflake from his lip, "I'll just chew on an ice cube later."