The Grand Accident of Absolutely Nothing

Nobody knew exactly when the problem began, mostly because nobody was paying attention. This was normal for the town of Blunderfield, where attention was considered a dangerous hobby and thinking too hard could result in mild confusion or, worse, responsibility.

The main hero—if that word can be used irresponsibly—was a man named Ramesh Ignatius Blopp, who woke up one Tuesday convinced it was a sandwich. Not emotionally. Chronologically. He believed the day itself was a sandwich, and he was already late for the mayonnaise part.

Ramesh rolled out of bed, missed the floor entirely, and landed on his laundry pile, which he proudly called “The Chair of Tomorrow.” He stared at the ceiling fan, which was not moving, but Ramesh nodded at it politely anyway. Manners were important, especially when nothing else was.

“Good morning, ceiling wind,” he said.

The ceiling fan did not respond, which Ramesh took as agreement.

He brushed his teeth using hair cream, because the tube looked confident, and then put on his office clothes: a shirt from yesterday, pants from the day before yesterday, and a tie he found emotionally disturbing but wore anyway because it whispered “promotion” when squeezed.

Outside, the town was already behaving badly.

A bus was parked sideways in the middle of the road, not because of an accident, but because the driver thought it “felt right.” A traffic light blinked purple for no reason. Someone was selling umbrellas even though it hadn’t rained since the Great Damp Incident of 1998, which everyone agreed never to talk about again.

Ramesh walked toward his office job at the Department of Unnecessary Paperwork, tripping over a dog that was lying down vertically. The dog apologized.

“Sorry,” said the dog.

“No problem,” said Ramesh, helping the dog stand horizontally again.

At the office, chaos wore a badge.

The building elevator only traveled emotionally, not physically. Ramesh pressed the button for the third floor and felt disappointed, which meant he had arrived. He stepped out into the office, where his boss, Mr. Kettleman, was arguing with a stapler.

“You listen to me,” Mr. Kettleman said sternly. “I am in charge here.”

The stapler clicked aggressively.

Ramesh nodded, pretending to take notes on a piece of paper that was actually a receipt for bananas. Nobody questioned this. This was a professional environment.

The big task for the day was extremely important: do nothing about an imaginary problem. The department had received several complaints about a hole that did not exist but was very upsetting to people who enjoyed complaining recreationally.

Ramesh was assigned to investigate.

He walked to the reported location, which was a park bench shaped like regret. He stared at the empty air.

“Yes,” he said, confidently. “Nothing is definitely happening here.”

A crowd gathered, impressed.

Someone clapped. Someone else cried. A pigeon in a hat took notes.

Suddenly, without warning or narrative sense, a loud POP echoed through the park, and a man appeared out of nowhere holding a rubber chicken and screaming, “TOO LATE!”

Nobody asked what was too late.

From that moment on, everything became slightly worse.

Gravity felt optional. People began walking one inch above the ground, not enough to be impressive, but enough to be annoying. Clocks refused to agree with each other. One insisted it was 7:42 forever.

Ramesh felt responsible, which was new and unpleasant.

He ran—emotionally, not physically—to the mayor’s office. The mayor was hiding under his desk, wearing a crown and eating dry cereal from his pockets.

“We have a situation,” Ramesh said.

“I know,” said the mayor. “The spoon is missing.”

“No, sir. Reality is unraveling.”

The mayor paused. “Is it before or after lunch?”

“During,” said Ramesh.

“Then it can wait.”

And so it did.

By evening, the town was fully committed to nonsense. Buildings leaned to gossip with each other. Roads forgot where they were going. The sky briefly turned beige out of embarrassment.

Ramesh stood in the center of Blunderfield holding the rubber chicken, which he did not remember accepting. The chicken squeaked ominously.

“I think I caused this,” Ramesh announced.

Nobody disagreed, mostly because they were busy arguing with mailboxes.

Feeling brave in a careless way, Ramesh climbed onto the cow’s park bench. The cow applauded politely.

“I will fix this,” Ramesh said, with the confidence of someone who absolutely would not.

He squeezed the rubber chicken.

Nothing happened.

He squeezed it again.

Still nothing.

On the third squeeze, reality sighed deeply and snapped back into place, like an old bedsheet that never quite fits.

Gravity returned aggressively. The bus straightened itself. The traffic light went back to normal disappointment red. The pigeon removed its hat in respect.

Everyone looked around.

“Well,” said the mayor, brushing cereal off his robe, “that was unnecessary.”

Ramesh went home, satisfied and confused. He removed his tie, which immediately stopped whispering, and lay down on the Chair of Tomorrow.

As he drifted off to sleep, he smiled.

Tomorrow would probably be worse.

And that was comforting.

The End (Unfortunately)