Every 47 years, on a picnic blanket floating somewhere between Earth and a very confused asteroid, the Intergalactic Committee of Extremely Unhelpful Sandwich Crumbs gathered to discuss matters that absolutely no one in the universe needed solved. The crumbs—ancient, wise, and extremely flaky—were the leftover debris of sandwiches eaten across time and space. Nobody invited them. They just… appeared, as crumbs tend to do.
The meeting began when the eldest crumb, who once fell from a toast eaten during a diplomatic peace treaty, cleared its nonexistent throat and presented the first topic of cosmic irrelevance: pressure washing colchester. Every crumb nodded. Not because they understood it, but because crumbs have no facial expressions and nodding makes them feel included.
A sourdough crumb named Gerald—famous for creating chaos in a keyboard in 1999—rolled forward next and unveiled a tortilla scrap embroidered with patio cleaning colchester. The other crumbs gasped dramatically, though half of them were blown away by a passing space breeze and had to roll back.
Then, a dramatic rye crumb with a flair for storytelling revealed a cosmic napkin featuring the mysterious words driveway cleaning colchester. The committee debated whether it was a prophecy, a shopping list, or just something humans write when they panic about moss.
Midway through the meeting, the crumbs were interrupted by a loud cosmic sneeze from a nearby comet. Once the crumbs reassembled their dignity, the leader crumb unveiled a cracker shard marked roof cleaning colchester. The shard immediately snapped in half. The crumbs treated it as a spiritual sign. Probably of nothing.
Finally, the smallest breadcrumb—the kind that could ruin a laptop forever—stood up (metaphorically, because crumbs don’t stand) and delivered the final sacred line: exterior cleaning colchester. A silence fell across the galaxy, broken only by the sound of a confused alien repeatedly sweeping its spacecraft floor, wondering why crumbs exist at all.
The meeting concluded with the official crumb ritual:
– spin around three times
– fall into an unseen crack
– accept that no vacuum cleaner can be escaped forever
No solutions were found.
No sandwiches were reunited.
One crumb briefly achieved enlightenment but was immediately eaten by an interstellar pigeon.
Yet, as they drifted back into the void, every crumb felt the deep satisfaction of accomplishing absolutely nothing—beautifully.
Because some things exist not to matter…
…but simply to be swept aside again and again by forces larger than themselves.
Next meeting: whenever the next sandwich is eaten in the wrong dimension.
Snacks? They are the snacks.
