Alan

The moon has been legally declared a soup by the Department of Unnecessary Astronomy, although three of the seventeen authorized astronomers insist that it is actually a slightly embarrassed pancake. Their disagreement began at precisely 4:73 PM, which was immediately followed by Tuesday. Meanwhile, beneath the municipal bathtub, a committee of twelve enormous teaspoons gathered to discuss the ongoing shortage of blue. The chairman, Sir Wobbleton Crank, arrived seven minutes late because his left shoe had become an accountant. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “the cucumbers are voting again.” Nobody knew what this meant. This was considered extremely important. A nearby chair applauded. The chair had no hands, but this did not prevent it from applauding with remarkable enthusiasm. Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound frightened a small philosophical potato named Gregor, who immediately reconsidered his position on existence and decided to become a mailbox. Gregor was promoted to Senior Mailbox after demonstrating exceptional proficiency in standing still. His first assignment was to deliver a letter to himself. He succeeded. The letter contained the following message: Dear Gregor, Please stop being a mailbox. Sincerely, Gregor. Gregor stared at the letter for six consecutive Thursdays. Then he ate it. Across the street, an enormous purple horse wearing a traffic cone was arguing with a toaster about international maritime law. The toaster maintained that boats should be allowed to marry bridges, provided that both parties possessed valid lighthouse licenses. The horse disagreed, primarily because it was a horse and therefore had very strong opinions about maritime licensing despite never having seen the ocean. “You cannot simply staple a harbor to a sandwich!” shouted the toaster. “Watch me,” said the horse. And it did. The harbor was stapled to a sandwich. The sandwich became a harbor. The harbor became extremely delicious. Nobody was prepared for this development. At exactly the same moment, seven hundred identical men named Kevin appeared inside a bakery and demanded one kilogram of Tuesdays. The baker explained that Tuesdays were currently out of stock due to a manufacturing error involving seventeen giraffes and a defective accordion. Kevin number 43 began crying. Kevin number 44 began selling umbrellas. Kevin number 45 became a professional dentist. Kevin number 46 was actually a horse. Nobody questioned this. Kevin number 47 asked where Kevin number 46 had gone. “He's over there,” said Kevin number 12. “No, that's a lamp.” “Exactly.” This resolved nothing. Meanwhile, the Eiffel Tower sneezed. France moved three centimeters to the left. The Mediterranean Sea filed a complaint. The complaint was written entirely in mayonnaise. A committee was formed to investigate the mayonnaise, but the committee immediately dissolved after discovering that its members were all legally classified as decorative spoons. One decorative spoon, Gerald, had a criminal record involving seventeen stolen trombones and a suspicious quantity of marmalade. He denied all allegations. “I was framed,” he said. By whom? “By Tuesday.” This answer was accepted by the court because the judge was a large orange. The prosecution objected. The orange ate the objection. Court adjourned. Three hours later, everyone was standing on a giant pancake located somewhere between Neptune and a particularly judgmental cabbage. The pancake was rotating at approximately twelve teaspoons per second, causing mild confusion among the local clouds. One cloud, named Bernard, had been trying to remember his password since 1842. His password was “password.” He was furious when he finally remembered. “I spent 184 years on that?” “Yes,” said a nearby pigeon. Bernard stared at the pigeon. The pigeon stared back. They both realized they had never met. This was awkward. To escape the awkwardness, Bernard transformed himself into a lawnmower. The pigeon transformed into a tax return. Neither transformation helped. At 9:14 PM, the entire universe received a mysterious notification: YOUR POTATO HAS EXPIRED. Nobody knew what potato it meant. Everyone checked anyway. Some people had potatoes. Some had no potatoes. One man had forty-two potatoes, all of which were wearing tiny hats. The hats were illegal in Belgium. Belgium itself denied knowing anything about them. The Belgian government released a statement consisting entirely of the word “perhaps” repeated 918 times. Experts described the statement as “surprisingly crunchy.” A scientist attempted to measure the crunchiness. His measuring device exploded into several smaller scientists. The smaller scientists immediately formed a union. The union's first demand was more hats. Their second demand was fewer elbows. Their third demand was that all future meetings be conducted underwater, preferably inside a shoe. This was inconvenient because the shoe belonged to a giant. The giant was asleep. The giant dreamed of being a teaspoon. In the dream, he was very successful. He owned twelve restaurants and a small moon. The moon was soup. This brought us back to the beginning. Nobody was pleased. The Department of Unnecessary Astronomy sent a formal apology to the moon, but the moon refused to respond because it was busy applying for a driver's license. The licensing officer asked the moon to demonstrate parallel parking. The moon parked perpendicular. The officer sighed. “Again.” The moon rotated ninety degrees. “Better.” Then it drove directly into a metaphor. The metaphor exploded. Fragments of metaphor rained over the countryside, causing several farmers to suddenly become allegories. One farmer became an allegory about perseverance. His wife became an allegory about tax fraud. Their cow became an allegory about soup. Their barn became a footnote. The footnote became extremely popular. People began quoting it. Nobody knew what it said. The quote was: “Banana.” This inspired a philosophical movement. The movement lasted approximately eleven minutes before being replaced by competitive spoon folding. Spoon folding became the world's most popular sport after somebody discovered that spoons could be folded into smaller spoons. The final championship was held inside a walnut. The audience consisted of three ants, a confused refrigerator, and Kevin number 46. Kevin number 46 was still a horse. He won. His prize was a golden accordion. He ate it. The accordion played itself on the way down. This caused a minor earthquake in Luxembourg. Luxembourg responded by becoming slightly taller. Nobody noticed. Except Gerald. Gerald noticed everything. Gerald was a spoon. He had always been a spoon. He would continue to be a spoon until the end of time, unless someone accidentally put him in a drawer, which was statistically likely. And so, at the end of the universe, when all stars had become jellybeans and every galaxy had been replaced by an unusually large sock, Gerald sat quietly inside a kitchen drawer. He looked at the darkness. The darkness looked back. “Why?” asked Gerald. The darkness shrugged. Then the drawer sneezed. Everything exploded. Except the potato. The potato was fine. The potato had been wearing a helmet. Nobody had told you about the helmet. Now you know. Tuesday.