The scene was set: a kitchen, bustling with the aroma of butter and the impending doom of whipped cream. Stan attempted to deliver his pie-in-the-face gag, but rogue timing and a flick of the wrist turned the kitchen into a creamy warzone. "That's not how you fold laundry!" exclaimed Elaine, dodging a meringue missile.
Kyle, under the impression that a bagpipe was the perfect comedic prop, unleashed what could only be described as an amphibious serenade that sent the cast scrambling for cover. Instead of laughter, it was the sound of an echoing betrayal as the neighbor's dog called for a ceasefire.
Just as the smoke from unintentional comedic crises settled, the fire alarm blared. But wait! It wasn't an alarm—it was Barry, trapped in his rubber chicken suit and mistaking the flapping for an emergency exit. "You can't spell rescue without 'us'," he quipped, barely audible over the cluck. The audience was skeptical; laughter was replaced by sympathy... and maybe a little horror.