Barnaby Conquered
Barnaby Bumble was a man of significant architectural presence. He didn’t just sit in a chair; he conquered it. Unfortunately, Barnaby was currently losing a war against a plate of spaghetti.
Being a man of smooth, aerodynamic scalp—essentially a bowling ball with a dream—Barnaby lacked the friction to keep anything in place. But his real nemesis was his own belly. His corpulent stomach was so majestic, so vast, that it acted like a topographical barrier. Between the plate and his mouth lay the " Subcutaneous Fat Plateau," the vast expanse of white cotton he was wearing was rapidly becoming a Jackson Pollock abstract drip painting in marinara.
He stabbed a cluster of noodles and twirled it with the intensity of a drill sergeant. Then he began the long ascent.
"Steady," he whispered, his triple chin quivering.
Halfway up the mountain, a rogue meatball lost its fork footing. It didn’t just fall; it took a scenic tour. It tumbled down his collarbone, did a somersault over his second button, and landed with a wet thwack right in the center of his gut. When he sat, his stomach looked like a small table.
Barnaby sighed, a sound like a punctured tractor tire. He tried again. This time, he employed a crane-like maneuver, leaning back at a forty-five-degree angle to shorten the distance. But gravity is a cruel mistress to the bald and the hungry. As the fork crested the horizon of his belly, a single, sauce-heavy noodle whipped around like a wet lasso.
Slap.
It didn’t hit his mouth. It hit and stuck to his forehead.
Now, Barnaby didn't just have a stained shirt; he had a red racing stripe running from his eyebrow to the shiny crown of his head. He looked like a very frustrated, very large cherry sundae.
He glared at the pasta. The pasta glared back, limp and mocking.
"Fine," Barnaby grunted, abandoning the fork. He picked up the entire plate, tucked his chin as far into his neck as physics allowed, and simply tried to inhale.
He fell backward onto the floor.
Ten minutes later, the waiter returned. He found a man who was 40% human and 60% tomato product on the floor. Barnaby looked up, a lone sprig of parsley stuck to his ear, and held up a trembling finger.
"I’m going to need a bib," Barnaby said. "And possibly a pressure washer."
Comments