Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer

Day twenty-three. Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, is still chewing the same piece of gum. And now, despite Susan’s absolute disbelief, salvation has arrived from above.

The coffee shop erupts into chaos as the unmistakable whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades echoes through the ship. Cups rattle, napkins fly, and Leslie dramatically clutches her pearls as the sheer absurdity of the situation unfolds. Lauren, meanwhile, has climbed onto a chair for a better view and is shaking Susan’s arm like an overcaffeinated squirrel.

Lauren, practically vibrating with excitement, claps her hands. “Oh. My. God. This is, like, giving Mission Impossible: Duct Tape Edition. I am LIVING for this.”

Elaine stands near the window, cool and composed as ever. “Told you I knew a guy.”

The helicopter hovers precariously close to the ship, and out the side leans none other than Danny Trejo—actor, legend, and apparent savior of maritime disasters. He wears aviator sunglasses, his signature scowl, and a tool belt equipped with way more than just duct tape. Also, inexplicably, a flamethrower.

“Y’ALL ORDER A FIX?” he bellows over the roaring blades.

Captain Sal waves frantically. “Yes! Yes! We need that tape immediately! And maybe not the flamethrower!”

Trejo ignores the second part, letting out a gravelly chuckle as he clutches a roll of duct tape the size of a car tire. He slides down a rope ladder with the kind of agility that makes Leslie swoon dramatically into Patty’s arms.

Trejo stomps toward the leak, rips off a strip of tape with his teeth, and slaps it onto the hull like he’s sealing a portal to another dimension. The ship shudders, the ocean itself seems to hold its breath, and then—silence.

Patty, arms crossed, lets out a begrudging nod. “Huh. Well. That’s some damn good tape.”

Lauren gasps, clutching Aly’s arm. “No, but, like… can we talk about how this is the most insane day ever? Bernie is still chewing that same toxic gum, a literal helicopter saved us, Danny freaking Trejo just flex-sealed the ship, and Susan looks like she just lost ten years off her life.”

Susan, looking utterly spent, presses a hand to her forehead. “I don’t even care anymore. As long as this ship isn’t sinking, Bernie can chew whatever the hell he wants. I give up.”

Leslie cackles. “So what you’re saying is, Bernie wins?”

Trejo crosses his arms, nods at Bernie, and mutters, “Respect.”

Bernie, triumphant, takes a slow, deliberate chew. “I always do Susan, I always do.”

Then, just when it seems the madness is over, the ship’s loudspeaker crackles to life. A voice, panicked and out of breath, yells, “Attention passengers, we have a new situation—there’s an alpaca loose on Deck 7!”

The coffee shop gang collectively groans, but before they can react, the alpaca bursts through the door. It’s wearing a tiny captain’s hat, looking unreasonably confident for a barnyard animal lost at sea.

“Okay, no, but why is he dressed like that?” Lauren wheezes.

Captain Sal’s face turns pale. “That… that’s Captain Chauncey. He’s supposed to be in the petting zoo.”

Trejo, completely unfazed, extends a hand. “Chauncey. Good to see you again.”

The alpaca snorts, nodding solemnly.

Patty throws up her hands. “I have officially seen everything.”

Aly, ever the optimist, claps her hands together. “Maybe we can train him to help with the ship’s duties! I bet he could carry lattes!”

Susan groans. “Aly, I swear—”

The intercom crackles again. “Also, minor detail—there’s a SECOND hole in the hull. And… um… the duct tape fell off.”

The coffee shop falls dead silent.

Lauren, still perched on her chair, turns slowly toward Bernie. “Dude. I hate to say this, but… we need the gum.”

Bernie gasps, clutching his jaw in horror. “You can’t be serious.”

Susan nods, rubbing her temples. “Oh, we’re serious.”

Everyone turns to Bernie, eyes pleading. Even Chauncey, the newly promoted alpaca, is staring at him with silent expectation.

Bernie takes a long, dramatic breath. Finally, with a deep sigh of sacrifice, he reaches into his mouth, pulls out the legendary wad of gum, and solemnly places it in Patty’s outstretched hand.

Patty grins. “Alright, let’s make some magic.”

And with that, the legendary gum finally fulfills its destiny—patching a hole in the ship and saving everyone’s lives. It had lived a long, chewy life, but in the end, it was never about how long Bernie could chew it. It was about how it would end.

Danny Trejo, visibly moved, salutes the gum as Patty seals the hole. “You did good, kid.”

Bernie wipes away a single tear. “I know.”

And as the sun sets over the open sea, the coffee shop gang—now including one heroic alpaca—sits in exhausted silence, sipping coffee and wondering what fresh insanity tomorrow will bring.

The End. (Probably.).

Day twenty-two. Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, is still chewing the same piece of gum. And today, he has drawn a line in the sand.

“I’m not giving it up,” Bernie declares, clenching his jaw. “Not now, not ever. This gum and I have been through too much together.”

Lauren groans, dramatically flopping into a chair. “Bernie, bestie, respectfully? You are, like, fully unhinged. At this point, your gum is just a microplastic nightmare. It’s giving radioactive. You need to let it go.”

Aly nods way too enthusiastically. “It’s probably developed sentience by now! You could be chewing life!”

Patty, the ship’s master chef, slams a ladle onto the counter. “I have poured my soul into this ship! I have sacrificed precious kitchen time to make gum glue, and what did you people do? You let it slip into the sea! If I hear one more word about ‘the sacred gum,’ I swear to all things edible, I will personally yeet Bernie overboard.”

Lauren, undeterred, pulls out a small baggie and grins. “Okay, but hear me out—what if we just, like, replaced it with something better? I have these all-natural, artisanal Asian bacon gumballs. They’re, like, sustainably harvested or whatever.”

Silence.

Then, a collective groan.

Leslie cackles. “Lauren, that is quite literally the worst idea I have ever heard. Bacon gumballs? What is wrong with you?”

Captain Sal sighs. “If this ship goes down, it won’t be because of the leak. It’ll be because we turned on each other over a chewing gum crisis.”

And just when things seem at their most hopeless, the coffee shop door swings open.

Elaine enters. The woman who normally only removes things—problems, obstacles, unwanted people—steps into the fray. The room hushes. Normally, Elaine works remotely and is barely seen in person, which makes her sudden appearance even more shocking.

Elaine clears her throat. “Listen, I know a guy I used to work with before. He has a helicopter and a giant roll of duct tape.”

The group stares at her in stunned silence.

“Why,” Bernie finally manages, “do you know someone with those things?”

Elaine shrugs. “I have a past.”

Lauren gasps. “Okay, slay queen! Mystery woman era.”

Rosie barks excitedly. “Finally! Some competence!”

Captain Sal perks up. “If we can get that duct tape, we might actually be able to patch the hull.”

Leslie shakes her head in disbelief. “I cannot believe we are being saved by a woman who just materialized out of nowhere with a helicopter guy.”

Susan, the ever-exasperated coffee shop manager, throws her hands up. “So let me get this straight. We’ve got a web developer clinging to a piece of gum like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic, a chef threatening violence over lost glue, and now this—some mystery woman summoning a helicopter out of thin air like we’re in a bad action movie?” She crosses her arms. “You know what? Fine. Sure. Why not. At this point, I’ll believe anything.”

Bernie chews his gum, deep in thought. “Fine. But no one touches my gum.”

Stay tuned.

Day twenty-one. Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, is still chewing the same piece of gum. But today, fate has spoken—he must part with half of it.

The coffee shop gang watches in reverent silence as Bernie, jaw aching but spirit unbroken, peels a portion of the gum from his teeth. He stares at it in his palm, the once-mighty chewable now a fragile, overworked remnant of its former glory.

“It’s like a bread mother,” Bernie whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “A sourdough starter. It will live on.”

Lauren wipes away an imaginary tear. “You’re an inspiration to us all. Truly, Bernie, I never thought I’d say this, but your absurd commitment to that gum has made me believe in something greater than myself. Also, I’d kill for an oat milk latte right now.”

Aly, still suspiciously cheerful, claps her hands together. “Think of it as a fresh start! New gum, new opportunities! You’ve given the old gum a purpose, and isn’t that just beautiful? Kind of like the circle of life?”

Leslie snorts, crossing her arms. “Or we can finally move on from this absurdity. Honestly, I was hoping the gum would just self-destruct in your mouth by now. But sure, let’s memorialize it.”

Patty, the ship’s master chef, carefully takes the sacrificed gum and drops it into her bubbling concoction. The air is thick with tension—and possibly the scent of desperation—as the glue simmers to perfection.

Captain Sal nods approvingly. “Good work, Patty. Maintenance, take the glue and patch the leak.”

The crew, moving with the urgency of people who’d rather not drown, grabs the pot and rushes to the deck. The coffee shop erupts into cheers—relief washes over the group. Finally, an end to their troubles!

But just as hope reaches its peak, disaster strikes. A misplaced step, a rogue gust of wind—no one knows exactly how it happens, but in one horrifying instant, the pot of glue plummets overboard.

Silence. Then chaos.

Lauren lets out a strangled scream. “MY GODDUH! How is this even our reality? We’re trapped on a slowly sinking ship, and now we’re glue-less? We’re doomed. Someone get me a drink.”

Rosie barks in horror. “This is why we can’t have nice things! You people are hopeless.”

Leslie bursts into laughter, doubling over. “Oh, this is just too good. You mean to tell me the sacred gum glue is now feeding fish? This is the best day of my life.”

Bernie, his half-gum still in his mouth, closes his eyes. “We are so doomed. Maybe if I chew fast enough, I can turn the rest of this into a new batch of glue. I just need another… ten hours.”

Captain Sal sighs, rubbing his temples. “Well. Any other bright ideas? Preferably ones that don’t involve airborne adhesives?”

The coffee shop gang stares at each other, the slow leak still leaking, the ship still very much sinking, and Bernie’s gum now only half of what it once was.

Stay tuned.

Day twenty. Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, is still chewing the same piece of gum.

But tensions are rising. The slow leak is still, well, leaking, and the coffee shop gang is now unanimously griping at Bernie.

“Bernie, you have to give up the gum,” Susan pleads. “It’s time.”

“You’ve had a good run, but this is getting ridiculous,” Lauren adds. “The ship is literally sinking.”

Rosie wags her tail, trying to be diplomatic. “Think of it as a noble sacrifice, Bernie.”

Bernie clutches his jaw, looking around in betrayal. “I thought you were on my side.”

Aly, ever the picture of suspiciously sweet enthusiasm, leans in with a smile just a little too big. “Bernie, don’t worry! I’m sure if you let it go, you’ll feel so much better. You want to help, don’t you?”

Before Bernie can formulate a response, Leslie snorts from her corner of the room. “Oh, please. If he gives up the gum now, what was the point of all this? Twenty days of commitment down the drain?” She smirks. “Typical.”

Then, just as it seems like the mutiny is reaching critical mass, Captain Sal enters, leading Patty, the ship’s master chef, into the room.

“Everyone, settle down,” the captain says. “Patty has an idea that may save us.”

Patty, a woman who has likely seen more kitchen disasters than she can count, folds her arms and surveys the scene. “I just need about half a stick of gum,” she says. “That’s all. Just half. I can make a pot of glue strong enough to patch the leak.”

Silence falls over the coffee shop. All eyes turn to Bernie.

Bernie grips his jaw tighter. His mind races. He’s made it twenty days. He’s built a legacy. A following. A movement. Could he really betray the gum now? Could he betray himself?

Patty clears her throat. “Bernie?”

The gum-chewing web developer swallows hard (not the gum—never the gum). The fate of the ship may rest in his very sticky hands.

Stay tuned.

Day nineteen. Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, is still chewing the same piece of gum. Luckily for him (and everyone else), the ship only has a slow leak. Unluckily, the coffee shop gang is now in full-blown debate mode over how to patch it.

Lauren, ever the collector of the bizarre, gestures wildly toward her tote bag. “I have a perfectly good taxidermied possum in here. We just shove it in the hole and call it a day.”

Susan pinches the bridge of her nose. “Lauren, we are not stuffing a dead possum into the ship. What else do we have?”

Rosie, taking her self-appointed engineering duties seriously, tilts her head. “Well, I have an entire bag of tennis balls. We could wedge them in, see if they expand.”

Leslie, clearly reveling in the chaos, smirks. “Or, we could just use Bernie’s gum, since that’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”

Aly, still too cheerful given the circumstances, clasps her hands. “I have a collection of artisanal candles! Maybe if we melt them, they’ll seal the hole?”

Lauren scoffs. “Oh, my idea is ridiculous, but shoving a bunch of wax into an active leak makes sense?”

Captain Sal, growing more exasperated by the second, rubs his temples. “So our options are: roadkill, sports equipment, old gum, or fancy candles?”

Bernie, meanwhile, is hunched over in the corner, shielding his gum like a dragon hoarding treasure.

Susan sighs, takes a sip of her coffee, and mutters, “If we’re going for nonsense, why don’t we just shove a bunch of napkins in there and call it a day?”

“Napkins?” Leslie scoffs. “Sure, while we’re at it, let’s plug it with dreams and good intentions.”

“Duct tape!” shouts Rosie, wagging her tail. “Every ship should have duct tape!”

Captain Sal raises an eyebrow. “You think I haven’t already tried that?”

The entire coffee shop falls silent for a moment before the arguing picks back up at full force.

Meanwhile, Bernie’s jaw is getting sore, and a single, horrifying thought crosses his mind: What if I really do have to sacrifice the gum?

The debate rages on. The ship is still leaking. The only question now: what ridiculous solution will win out?

Stay tuned.

Day eighteen. Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, is still going strong—or at least, still chewing. But his focus on maintaining his record is shattered when the coffee shop door swings open and in strides Captain Sal, looking exactly how you’d expect a cruise ship captain facing impending doom to look: mildly annoyed, slightly sweaty, and possibly reconsidering his career choices.

“The ship has a hole in the hull and is sinking,” he announces, like he’s reading off a dinner special.

The coffee shop collectively pauses. Even Lauren, mid-sip of her Liquid Death, sets her can down in shock.

Captain Sal crosses his arms. “You people here are all smart. Do you have any ideas how to plug the leak?”

The group exchanges glances. Sweet Sweet Rosie looks thoughtful, possibly considering how many tennis balls it would take to stop ocean water from rushing in. Leslie is suspiciously quiet, likely calculating how to pin this entire disaster on Bernie’s gum. Susan, ever the pragmatist, mutters something about finding duct tape.

Lauren, never one to let a crisis go to waste, leans in. “What if we just… turn the ship around? The hole would be in the back instead.”

Aly, still eerily chipper, claps her hands together. “What if we manifest the water out of the ship? Positive thinking is powerful.”

Rosie, who by now has inserted herself as the unofficial ship’s engineer, barks, “We need something sticky, something strong, something that can hold under pressure…” All eyes turn to Bernie.

Bernie, however, is frozen. His jaw slows, his gum weak and stretched to its very limits. The weight of responsibility settles on him. He knows—they know—there is only one real solution.

“Absolutely not,” he says, clutching his gum protectively.

“Well, do you want to be known as Bernie, the Gum-Chewing Web Developer, or Bernie, the Man Who Let Us All Drown?” Susan snaps.

The room falls silent. The waters are rising. The gum’s destiny is upon us.

Stay tuned.

Day seventeen. Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, is still at it. But today, there’s a shift in his demeanor. He’s chewing slower, his eyes darting around like a man with a guilty conscience. The gum—the same piece he’s been working on for over two weeks—is showing signs of collapse. The texture is failing. The elasticity is questionable. He’s beginning to wonder… what if he just added a new piece? Just a little reinforcement. No one would have to know. Why upset all his fans?

As Bernie contemplates this moral dilemma, suddenly, the ship’s loudspeaker crackles to life.

“Everyone stay calm, there is a minor problem with the ship. Please stand by.”

Silence falls over the coffee shop. Lauren, clutching her Liquid Death, whispers, “Oh my godduh.” Rosie’s ears perk up. Susan immediately shifts into crisis mode, while Leslie and Aly exchange the kind of look that makes everyone even more suspicious. Was this part of their plan? Was the gum sabotage escalating to ship wide chaos?

Bernie, distracted from his gum crisis, looks around. “Did… did the ship just lurch?”

Lauren takes a dramatic sip of her drink. “If I die here, just know that I always suspected Aly.”

What exactly is going on with the ship? Is this an actual emergency, or is this part of a sinister plot to finally take Bernie’s gum down for good? And more importantly—will Bernie cheat, or will he stay true to his chewy commitment?

Stay tuned. Things are getting sticky in more ways than one.

Day sixteen. Bernie is still chewing. The gum is still holding on by a miracle of science and sheer force of will. But today, the drama in the coffee shop took an unexpected turn.

I should probably mention something important: this coffee shop? It’s on a cruise ship. That’s right. We’ve been adrift on the open sea this whole time, and somehow, it took me over two weeks to bring it up. Maybe I was too focused on the gum saga. Maybe I was distracted by the espresso machine that sounds like it’s summoning demons every time it steams milk. Either way, we’re floating, and the weirdness is increasing.

Now, let’s talk about Aly, the barista. Aly is… suspiciously nice. Like, too nice. She smiles too much, never seems annoyed when someone orders a complicated drink, and once offered Lauren a free refill without even sighing. No one trusts it. Lauren, Bernie, and I have exchanged glances about this multiple times. Nobody is that pleasant. Not in a confined space. Not while serving people who demand oat milk and whisper “extra hot” like it’s a government secret.

Enter Sweet Sweet Rosie, our whistleblowing, truth-seeking canine companion. This morning, she pulled Susan aside, her fluffy tail wagging in alarm. “I saw Aly,” she whispered dramatically, “passing a package to Leslie.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “Leslie?”

Rosie nodded gravely. “It looked like… a mushroom.”

Susan gasped. “A mushroom?”

“Yes,” Rosie confirmed. “And I know what you’re thinking: maybe she just enjoys fungi. But no, Susan. This wasn’t just any mushroom. It was a suspicious mushroom.”

It didn’t take long for them to put the pieces together. Aly and Leslie. Both suspiciously nice. Both always conveniently around when gum-related incidents occur. What if… they were witches? What if they were working together to sabotage Bernie’s gum through some kind of sinister cruise ship magic?

Lauren, walking past at just the right moment, overheard the conversation and immediately clutched her chest. “Oh my godduh,” she muttered, her face frozen in an expression of pure scandal.

Now, the coffee shop is divided. On one side, we have Bernie, blissfully unaware of the rising paranoia around him, just happily chewing away. On the other, we have Susan and Rosie, now deep into conspiracy mode, possibly planning an anti-witch task force. And in the middle, we have Lauren, sipping her Liquid Death and relishing the drama.

Will we uncover Aly and Leslie’s true intentions? Are they just friendly employees or actual sorceresses plotting against the gum? And, most importantly, how has Bernie not just given up and swallowed that thing yet?

More updates to come from the high seas of caffeinated chaos.

Fifteen days. Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, is still going strong, though his gum—his once-mighty, minty companion—is clearly struggling. It stretches too much, clings to his teeth a little too eagerly, and seems to be defying the laws of elasticity. Yet, against all odds, he chews on.

The coffee shop crowd is as invested as ever, but today, the real headline wasn’t just the gum—it was Bernie’s wardrobe. He walked in wearing a shirt without a single hole in it, which, for those who know Bernie, is nothing short of a miracle. Lauren nearly dropped her can of Liquid Death in shock. “Bernie! Did you—did you get a new shirt?”

Bernie looked down at himself, as if only now realizing the significance of his attire. “Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Laundry day.”

The room collectively nodded in silent respect. A fresh shirt. A worn-out gum. The paradox of Bernie deepened.

But not everyone is on board with the ongoing gum saga. Susan, the coffee shop manager, has finally had enough. With her arms crossed and a tired expression, she pulled Sweet Sweet Rosie aside, her patience clearly wearing as thin as the gum itself.

“Rosie,” she said in a hushed but urgent tone. “What exactly is going on here? Why is this man still chewing the same piece of gum? Why are people acting like it’s some sort of epic tale?”

Rosie, ever the diplomatic talking dog, wagged her tail and gave Susan an understanding nod. “It’s about resilience, Susan. It’s about determination. It’s about seeing something through to the bitter, rubbery end.”

Susan sighed. “It’s about a guy chewing gum for too long.”

“That too,” Rosie admitted. “But also, destiny.”

Susan pinched the bridge of her nose. “Rosie, I just need to know—is this ever going to stop?”

Rosie tilted her head, deep in thought. “That depends on the gum.”

Susan groaned and walked away, muttering about how she never signed up to manage a coffee shop that doubles as a reality show. But no matter how exasperated she is, the truth remains: Bernie is still chewing, the people are still watching, and the legend continues.

How much longer can the gum last? And, perhaps more importantly, how much longer can Susan tolerate this nonsense? We’ll find out soon enough.

Two full weeks. That’s 14 days of Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, sticking to the same piece of gum. Against all odds—and the schemes of Evil Leslie—he’s made it this far. But today, a new character entered the fray: Sweet Sweet Rosie, Leslie’s talking dog, and she came bearing secrets.

Let’s rewind a bit. Bernie was at his usual spot in the cafe, headphones on, typing away, his gum looking… well, let’s just say it’s seen better days. Two weeks of constant chewing has taken its toll. The gum, once a proud symbol of minty resilience, now appears weak and overly sticky, clinging to Bernie’s resolve like a desperate ex.

Meanwhile, Sweet Sweet Rosie made her grand entrance. Rosie is a tiny, fluffy dog with big, soulful eyes and a penchant for attention. She’s also, apparently, a tattletale.

Lauren and I were sitting nearby, discussing Evil Leslie’s antics from the day before, when Rosie trotted up to us, her sparkly pink collar jingling. “Hi, Rosie,” Lauren cooed, offering her a pat. That’s when Rosie looked at us, wagged her tail, and said—yes, said—“My mom tried to ruin the gum.”

Lauren and I froze, staring at Rosie in shock. “What did you just say?” I managed to sputter.

“She offered him banana nut bread,” Rosie explained, her voice sweet as honey. “She knew it would ruin the gum. She told me it was her ‘master plan.’”

Lauren’s jaw dropped. “Leslie tried to sabotage the gum… with banana nut bread? That’s low. Even for her.”

Rosie nodded solemnly. “She baked it herself. Said no one can resist her banana nut bread.”

At this point, Bernie had taken off his headphones and was looking at us quizzically. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Your gum’s integrity was almost compromised,” Lauren said dramatically. “Leslie tried to trick you with banana nut bread!”

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “I mean… I wouldn’t have eaten it. I’m allergic to bananas.”

Rosie wagged her tail. “You’re welcome.”

While Bernie seemed unfazed, the rest of us were shaken by Leslie’s underhanded tactics. And honestly, I’m worried about the gum. It’s not just a metaphorical battle anymore; it’s a physical one. The gum is visibly weakening. It stretches too much, and Bernie has to adjust it constantly to keep chewing. Can it survive another week? Another day?

We’ll see what happens next, but one thing’s clear: Sweet Sweet Rosie may be Leslie’s dog, but her loyalty lies with truth and justice. And gum, apparently.

Stay tuned for the next chapter in Bernie’s chewy saga. Will the gum hold out? Will Leslie cook up another evil plan? And will Rosie uncover even more secrets? Only time will tell.

Day 13. Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer, is still going strong. His dedication to this single, well-worn piece of gum is becoming the stuff of local legend. But every hero needs a nemesis, and today, that nemesis arrived in the form of Evil Leslie.

If you’ve never met Leslie, count yourself lucky. She’s like a modern-day Cruella de Vil, but instead of obsessing over Dalmatian fur, she’s obsessed with drama—and apparently, ruining Bernie’s gum journey. She swept into the cafe this morning, clad in a fur-trimmed coat and heels so sharp they could probably puncture tires. Her entrance practically screamed, “Villain in the making.”

Lauren, the ever-enthusiastic Liquid Death drinker, and I were already seated, keeping our usual watch over Bernie, who was clicking away at his laptop. Leslie zeroed in on him almost immediately.

“Well, well, well,” she said, sauntering over to Bernie’s table. “If it isn’t the gum guy.”

Bernie looked up, clearly caught off guard. “Uh, hi?”

“Thirteen days with the same gum? That’s… disgusting,” she said with a smirk. “Don’t you think it’s time to give it up?”

Before he could respond, she pulled a shiny new pack of gum from her bag and slid it onto the table. “Here. A gift. For the greater good.”

Lauren nearly choked on her Liquid Death. “Excuse me, Leslie, but Bernie doesn’t need your charity.”

Leslie turned her icy glare toward Lauren. “Oh, I’m sorry, are you the president of the gum preservation society?”

Lauren stood her ground. “No, but I am a fan of commitment, which you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

Bernie, ever the diplomat, held up a hand. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’m sticking with this piece. It’s a… thing now.”

Leslie let out a theatrical sigh. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when your jaw gives out.” And with that, she tossed her hair and strutted away, leaving a faint scent of expensive perfume and bad vibes in her wake.

After she left, the cafe was buzzing with whispers. Bernie, to his credit, just shrugged and went back to work, the now-infamous gum still in motion. Lauren, however, was livid. “Who does she think she is?” she fumed. “Trying to sabotage a hero’s journey like that!”

Hero’s journey. I’m not sure I’d go that far, but I have to admit, Bernie’s resolve is impressive. Evil Leslie may have tried to derail him, but he’s unshakable. This gum saga is bigger than all of us now.

As the day wrapped up, I couldn’t help but wonder what tomorrow would bring. More drama? Another nemesis? A surprise twist? One thing’s for sure: Bernie’s gum adventure is far from over.

Another day, another milestone for Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer. It’s now day 12, and while I’m impressed by his unyielding commitment, someone else has officially joined the fan club: Lauren, the Liquid Death devotee who’s usually seen sipping her canned water like it’s a holy relic.

Lauren is one of the regulars at the cafe, known for her strong opinions on hydration and her almost evangelistic enthusiasm for sparkling water in edgy packaging. Today, she was practically buzzing with excitement as she watched Bernie settle into his usual spot, gum still intact.

“I love this guy,” Lauren declared, holding her can of Liquid Death like a trophy. “He’s the definition of dedication. People don’t appreciate perseverance like this anymore!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You really think chewing the same gum for 12 days is inspirational?”

“Absolutely,” she said without missing a beat. “It’s like… a metaphor. For life. You know, sticking with things even when they get tough.”

Sticking with things. I’m pretty sure she didn’t intend the pun, but it was hard to miss.

Bernie, oblivious to all this admiration, kept typing away at his laptop, his rhythmic chewing as steady as ever. Lauren, however, decided to make her appreciation known. She approached him, Liquid Death in hand, and said, “Bernie, you’re a legend. Can I buy you a drink?”

He looked up, slightly bewildered but smiling. “Uh, thanks, but I’m good,” he replied, gesturing to his half-empty coffee cup. “I appreciate it, though.”

Lauren wasn’t deterred. “Well, just so you know, you’ve got fans,” she said, raising her can in a toast. “Stay strong, gum warrior.”

“Gum warrior,” Bernie repeated, chuckling. “I’ll take it.”

The whole interaction was both hilarious and oddly heartwarming. Who knew that a piece of gum could bring out such camaraderie? The cafe feels like a sitcom at this point, with Bernie as the unlikely hero and Lauren as the spirited sidekick.

As for me, I’m just here for the show—and to document every chewy moment. Will Bernie make it to two weeks? Will Lauren start a fan club? The saga continues, and I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.

It’s official: Bernie has now been chewing the same piece of gum for 11 days. That’s one day longer than most people’s attention spans in 2025, and honestly, it’s starting to feel like he’s on the cusp of some kind of endurance record.

I saw him again today at the cafe, in his usual spot—headphones on, coding away like he’s reinventing the internet. His jaw was still doing its now-familiar rhythmic chew, like a metronome for productivity. I couldn’t help but wonder if the gum had gained sentience by now.

“Bernie,” I said as I grabbed my coffee, “you’ve really committed to this gum thing, huh?”

He looked up, his ever-present grin widening. “Why quit now?” he said. “At this point, it’s not just gum. It’s a symbol.”

“A symbol of what?” I asked, half-expecting some deep philosophical insight.

“Persistence,” he said, “and maybe a little stubbornness. But mostly persistence.”

Right. Persistence. Because when I think of inspirational figures, I absolutely think of Bernie and his decade-old gum. I mean, sure, there are Olympians and astronauts, but have they chewed the same gum for 11 days? Didn’t think so.

It gets better, though. Today, one of the baristas asked if Bernie wanted a fresh piece of gum on the house. He politely declined, explaining that switching now would be like abandoning a project right before launch. “This gum has been with me through endless debugging,” he said. “We’re in this together.”

We’re in this together. Spoken like a true developer in a co-dependent relationship with his code—and apparently, his gum.

I’m not the only one who finds this fascinating. The cafe regulars are starting to rally behind Bernie. Someone suggested making a betting pool to see how long he can keep this up. Another person joked about starting a Kickstarter to enshrine the gum in a glass case if it ever retires. It’s ridiculous, yes, but it’s also becoming part of our collective routine. Bernie’s gum saga is uniting us in a weird, sticky way.

Will he make it to day 12? I’ll be here to find out. In the meantime, here’s to Bernie, the web developer whose dedication—to gum, if not dental hygiene—is nothing short of legendary.

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There’s this guy in my neighborhood—Bernie. Bernie is… well, let’s just say he marches to the beat of his own drum. Not in the “he’s a quirky artist” kind of way, but in the “he might need his own Netflix documentary” kind of way.

Bernie’s thing? He’s been chewing the same piece of gum for 10 days now. Not ten different pieces of gum. One. Singular. Piece. This lone wad of minty endurance has been with him, like a sticky sidekick, since January 14th.

I first noticed Bernie during one of my morning coffee runs. He was sitting at his laptop in the corner of our local cafe, headphones on, furiously typing away. His jaw moved in a slow, methodical rhythm, and I thought, “Wow, Bernie really likes his gum.” Then, I saw him again the next day. And the day after that. Same table. Same focus. Same chewing.

By day five, my curiosity got the better of me. As I was refilling my coffee, I decided to ask him about it.

“Hey, Bernie,” I said. “You’ve been chewing that gum for a while now, huh?”

He looked up from his screen and gave me a thoughtful smile, pausing mid-chew. “It’s the perfect piece of gum,” he said, as though he were revealing the secret to life itself. “Why would I waste perfection?”

Okay, Bernie. Sure.

As it turns out, Bernie is a web developer, and he unwrapped this particular piece of gum during a late-night debugging session. “It keeps me focused,” he explained. “You know, like a stress ball, but for your mouth. Plus, it’s still got flavor. Sort of. It’s… evolving.”

Evolving. Like a Pokémon, but grosser.

I had to admire his dedication, even if I couldn’t relate. I mean, most people would’ve tossed that gum by the time it turned into an unflavored rubbery blob, but not Bernie. He’s a man of principle—or maybe just stubbornness. Either way, he’s committed.

Now, Bernie’s become something of a local celebrity. Regulars at the cafe have started to notice his ritual. Some offer him fresh gum, which he politely declines. “This piece and I have been through too much together,” he’ll say. “It’s like a long-term relationship. You don’t just walk away from that.”

By now, I’m fully invested in Bernie’s journey. Is it weird? Absolutely. But it’s also weirdly inspiring. Here’s a guy who’s sticking—quite literally—to his principles. Meanwhile, I can’t even stick to a New Year’s resolution for longer than a week.

So here’s to Bernie, the gum-chewing web developer. Will he make it to 20 days? A month? A year? Who knows? But I’ll be here, documenting his chewy adventure, one bizarre day at a time.