The croissants never turned out light and fluffy. The chef despaired at their waxy, plastic texture. Nobody ate them.
His life goal turned brick. The Food Network was fantastic, distant. He plunked in a playful pit of gloom. Perhaps if he learned how to use this frying pan.
The hipster flexed comically at the waist; a snow-white bowler hat perched on his cranium. Mistaken identity assured, he pulled his pistol, his sword, and his attack dingo in one rude motion.
“Drop the frying pan, you scoundrel!”
The chef’s handlebar mustache twitched. He considered options.
“Perhaps you would enjoy a souffle?”
(100 words) Picture linked via Josh Mosey.