The Prudent Purist and the Planetary Prank

Bartholomew "Barty" Buttercup considered himself a pioneer in proactive preservation. His lifelong obsession was avoiding the ignoble death by choking. He puréed everything—from kale to birthday cake—and wore a custom-fit, mesh-lined gimp suit to prevent accidental inhalation of dust mites. Barty hadn't swallowed a solid particle larger than a grain of sand (purposely) since the Ford administration. His greatest fear wasn't death itself, but death by an errant pistachio shell. He dreamed of a serene, natural fade into oblivion, preferably in a sterile, hypoallergenic environment.

On his 87th birthday, after a celebratory puréed sardine smoothie, Barty retired to his hermetically sealed bedroom. He hummed a soft, particulate-free tune, anticipating the gentle embrace of a well-earned, uneventful natural demise.

Suddenly, the universe decided Barty needed a more *impactful* exit. A rogue meteor, approximately the size of a moderately obese grizzly bear, decided Barty's meticulously reinforced roof was the perfect target. It descended with the grace of a particularly angry deity, reducing Barty and his anti-choking fortress to a rather flat, smoking crater.

His freshly puréed obituary read: "Bartholomew Buttercup, a man who meticulously avoided all things small, passed away suddenly due to an *exceptionally* large external force. He did not choke. Not even a little bit."