Napoleon Bonaparte was very pleased with himself. His advisors had all warned him invading Russia would be dangerous and that its winter storms were brutal. Napoleon, in what he considered a genius move on his own part, had scheduled the invasion for June 24th, 1812. About as far away on the calendar as one could get from winter. Clearly there was no possibility whatsoever that this plan could fail.
With almost half a million troops assembled behind him Napoleon jumped on his horse and personally led the way across the Niemen river into Russia. As soon as he reached the opposite bank there was an ominous rumble of thunder and a huge mass of dark gray clouds amassed on the horizon.
Louis-Alexandre Berthier, his right hand man, approached from his flank. "This does not look good to me, General. Perhaps we should reschedule the invasion until tomorrow."
"Nonsense!" Napoleon said and urged his horse forward. The horse froze up and refused to move. "What is the matter with this beast? I said let's go!"
The horse dug in its feet and neighed.
"General, I really think we ought to consider a postponement."
"I SAID NO!" Napoleon's face turned crimson and a little vein throbbed in the top of his forehead. Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Now help me to get this wretched creature to move."
"Yes, sir," Berthier said as he hopped off his horse and attempted to shove Napoleon's horse from behind to no avail.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" Napoleon flung his arms in the air in exasperation. "Put a little muscle into it! Must I do everything myself?"
Napoleon lowered himself to the ground but landed on a loose rock, twisted his ankle, and tumbled head over heel into the river. He emerged with a small fish caught in his bicorn hat. He spat out a mouthful of river water, looking not unlike a fountain in the process.
"The first person who laughs will be sent to the guillotine!" Napoleon said as he glared at the mass of troops assembled behind him.
In the meantime the mass of gray clouds had rapidly moved towards them and was now covering the entire sky, blotting out the sun. There was another loud crack of thunder and then something solid fell from the sky and smacked Napoleon on the head.
"Sacré Bleu! What is this?" He picked up an object that looked like a flattened piece of metal with a handle attached to it.
"I believe that is called a 'spatula,' General," Berthier said as he covered his head with his arms as several more spatulas trickled out of the sky.
"A spatula?" Napoleon wrinkled his nose in confusion. "What manner of Russian sorcery is this? They think some mere kitchen utensil can stop the mighty Napoleon? Come, men! To arms! Let us show these borscht-eating fools what the French are made of!"
Suddenly the sky opened up and millions of spatulas poured down in a torrential display of fury. Nearly half of Napoleon's army was wiped out on the spot.
"Run away!" Napoleon shouted as he turned tail and hurried back across the river, bobbing and weaving and occasionally taking cover under the corpses of his fallen men in his efforts to avoid the onslaught.
Nobody ever knew what caused the great spatula storm of 1812. Napoleon survived to fight another day, but he banned the usage of spatulas in his kitchens from that day forth. Later on he was exiled to the isle of Saint Helena. The exile itself wasn't the real punishment though. A little known fact was he was kept in a cage made entirely out of spatulas, which eventually caused him to go mad and drop dead. Officially they said it was stomach cancer that killed him, but in reality it was a spatula induced heart attack.
