Barnaby, a man with a mustache like a disgruntled caterpillar, declared his garage the “Studio of Unintended Masterpieces.” His latest project? A mobile using bicycle gears, duct tape, and a half-eaten granola bar. He suspended the contraption from the ceiling, then backed away, hands on hips. The moment he flicked the light switch, the mobile whirred to life—spinning so fast it sucked in a bucket of paint, a lawnmower part, and a confused cat. Paint splattered the walls in concentric circles. The cat yowled, leapt into a stack of textbooks, and triggered a domino effect: books flew, a lamp swung like a pendulum, and Barnaby’s prized vinyl collection began playing *Yakety Sax* at full volume. His neighbor, Mabel, stormed in, clutching a clipboard. “This is a residential zone!” she shouted over the chaos. Barnaby, covered in blue paint, grinned. “It’s avant-garde!” He gestured to the spinning chaos. The mobile, now a swirling vortex of debris, sucked in Mabel’s clipboard, which fluttered into the air like a wounded bird. She stared. Barnaby nodded. “Art is mess. Mess is art.” The mobile sputtered, dropped the granola bar, and collapsed. Silence. Then, a single paint can rolled toward Mabel. She picked it up, examined it, and sighed. “…It’s… dynamic.” Barnaby bowed, paint dripping from his eyebrows. The mobile, now a tangled relic, hung in the corner—unfixed, unapologetic, and proudly absurd.
