Meet Steveland Morris: a walking disaster whose every step is a punchline in the world's longest slapstick routine.
Steveland Morris: the kind of guy who could trip over a wireless network. In Sector 14, where he worked—or at least showed up occasionally—the only consistent thing about Steve was his creative attendance.
If there was a company handbook on what not to do, Steve was its enthusiastic author. Somehow, Steve managed to be charmingly uncool, flaunting his self-proclaimed “swagger” while the rest of the world looked on in amused horror.
Steve had a knack for meeting people who, after five minutes, prayed he would be someone else’s problem. His supervisors gave up hope long ago; one finally sent him on an extended “sabbatical”—three years, in fact, which was plenty of time for Steve to burn through his savings, exhaust all goodwill, and master the art of freeloading off girlfriends.
Now, here’s the kicker. One day, strutting across the street with all the swagger of a penguin in a hurricane, Steve decided to cross on a green light. But life had other plans, as a motorist blindsided him, launching him like a budget space program five feet into the air.
Bystanders gasped, certain they’d witnessed his grand finale, only to watch paramedics whisk him off to Langley Memorial. But Steve? The guy bounced back like he was made of rubber—and not even a memory to show for it.
When he came to, his face looked like it had gone twelve rounds with a cheese grater, and his memory was as empty as his bank account. But that wasn’t even the kicker—oh no.
In his moment of need, Steve’s long-suffering girlfriend got the call to rescue him. She paused, thought about the credit cards he'd maxed out in her name, the pantry he’d cleared, and all those “loans” he’d conveniently forgotten to pay back.
And just like that, she left him sitting at Langley Memorial, wondering if maybe this was karmic justice after all.
As she mulled over whether it was time to upgrade her life by downgrading Steve, he lay there, piecing together the remnants of his reality. Face full of scratches, no clue who he was, and not a single person willing to foot the bill to take him home. Only Steve could end up stranded like this—and still make a habit of somehow living to mess it all up again.
Steveland Morris, Sector 14’s walking hazard sign, had a talent for trouble that defied logic. Life threw disasters at Steve like it had a grudge to settle, and Steve—being Steve—always managed to make things hilariously worse.
Take the nail incident, for instance. One fine day, Steve was attempting to “help” a friend build a deck. Now, Steve’s idea of “help” was standing around, pointing at random things, and giving unsolicited advice.
He decided to lean on a railing that wasn’t, well, installed. Down he went, hand-first into a long, rusty nail that skewered his palm like a kebab. Steve just stared at his impaled hand, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck had failed him yet again.
His friend, who was more than a little exasperated, sighed, grabbed some pliers, and yanked the nail out while Steve babbled on about needing a tetanus shot “just in case.”
Or there was the time he went grocery shopping. He found himself in line behind a guy who was passionately explaining his weekend fishing trip. This guy was all about hand gestures, and Steve—naturally—stood just a little too close.
Right as Steve opened his mouth to say something dumb, the guy’s hand swung back and smacked Steve square in the throat. Steve staggered, gasping for air like he’d just been hit with a tranquilizer dart, while the guy, oblivious to the carnage he’d caused, kept rambling on about trout.
Steve was an accident magnet, plain and simple. There was that time he tried to fix his girlfriend’s car (something he knew nothing about) and ended up dumping a quart of oil on his foot. He slipped, fell flat on his back, and lay there in an oil puddle, looking like a poorly made pancake.
Or when he thought he’d take up jogging to impress someone, only to trip on his own shoelace and tumble headlong into a row of trash cans. A neighbor found him under a pile of empty cans, muttering something about “new workout techniques.”
By now, Steve was starting to realize that life just wasn’t on his side. But did he stop, did he even slow down? Of course not!
That’s the thing about Steve—he was unstoppable, not in a heroic way but in the way that gravity is unstoppable when it comes to finding the floor. Every day, every move, was a new opportunity for disaster, and Steve, bless his accident-prone heart, was always up for the challenge.
Steveland Morrisland had finally met his match in Terry, the no-nonsense queen of Sector 14. The woman had a reputation for taking zero nonsense, and everyone knew it—except, apparently, Steve.
Never one to let caution or common sense interfere with his daily antics, Steve saw her about to head out for lunch and, in his classic charm, thought it would be hilarious to call out, “Okay, bitch.”
Terry froze mid-step. “Excuse me?”
If Steve had any self-preservation instincts, he might have backpedaled. But instead, he grinned like a fool and repeated it. In a single motion, Terry swung around, and SMACK! She slapped him so hard that for a second, the entire office felt the reverberation.
Steve just stood there, stunned, like a deer that had finally realized it was in the middle of the highway. People nearby tried to stifle laughter, while Steve’s face burned with embarrassment.
After that, Terry, being the grown adult in this saga, circled back later that day to address the incident in a level-headed way. They came to an agreement, squashing any beef—at least from her end.
But Steve wasn’t so lucky with everyone. Lila, another coworker who’d silently put up with Steve’s endless string of accidents, was done for good. From that moment on, she held a grudge like a champion, counting down the days until karma caught up with Steve.
And karma, it seemed, didn’t make him wait long.
On his very last day, Steve bumbled his way to what could only be called his final act of clumsiness. He tripped, somehow managing to knock over a stack of metal shelving, which promptly fell like dominos.
His coworkers watched, mouths agape, as Steve staggered back, only to trip over a box of supplies and tumble down, finally landing face-first in a mess of debris.
This was it: Steve’s slapstick life had finally gone too far. By the time they got him to the hospital, it was clear that Steve wasn’t going to be leaving this time—at least, not on his own two feet. And in the end, it was as if the universe itself had delivered the ultimate punchline, packing up his accident-prone life in a final, unexpected box. Bye Steve!
