Friday, December 3, 2010
The Smurf Incident
My friends are a frequent source of funny stories. Several have said they have often thought of starting there own blogs to tell my darkest secrets. I just laugh and say I can't wait to read them and when they do I will rerun them on my blog, but for now I bring you The Smurf Incident.
It was a hot summer’s day in Yakima. My roommate had this girlfriend that would come over when I was gone. It was the same girlfriend that made my dad pancakes. (Blog post, The Pancake Incident)
I was half through my evening shift at work when my cell phone rang. It was my roommate’s girlfriend. She sounded distressed and with each word I could tell she was both nervous and at the point of breaking down in total uncontrolled amusement.
"How do you get color frosting off skin?" she asked, hoping I would just leave the reasons for the question alone and just answer.
"Warm water and some soap I should think," I answered.
"No, that just made it worse,” she answered, now sounding a bit frustrated.
"What happened?" I asked.
"We were playing around and we wanted to try something different," she answered. There was a pause in the conversation.
"So what did you do to him?" I asked, already my imagination was going wild.
You see she had a history of what you might call abuse. She didn’t hurt him (too badly) and he liked the results most of the time. What every the two of them planned, ended in an amusing position, both in body and in mind. (Think the Simpson’s)
"I took some of your blue frosting from the kitchen draw and used it on him," she laughed, “and it won’t come off.”
I could hear him in the back ground telling her to get this stuff off of him and that it was her idea, not his. (He didn’t use the word ‘stuff ’.)
"I don't own any frosting. Wait, you mean that stuff in the draw, that stuff is nasty, it is for changing white frosting to blue. It is more like a die than frosting," I stated, laughing so hard I had to pull over. Back then I delivered pizza as a part time job. (However, I did use the word, ‘stuff ’.)
The line got quiet. I could hear her breathing on the other end.
"How much did you use?" I asked.
"All of it,” she answered, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out.
“Why,” I asked.
“I just started on his face and drew a line down his body to his feet,” she answered.
“Okay, Why,” I asked, in the most monotone voice I could muster at the time.
“You know,” she laughed.
“Great,” I answered, trying to hold the laughter back.
I could hear him in the back ground. I am known in my group of friends as the problem solver. You need a body moved, give me a call, I will figure it out.
He was asking, “What is he telling you?” His only hope was if I knew of a way.
Later, I found out that she was just standing there shaking her head as I told her that she had just pour dye on him and it was never coming off. She soon left the apartment. Mostly because she was tire of listening to him and every time she looked at him she would bust out into to another round of laughter.
When I got back there he was sitting in his wheelchair as blue as a Smurf, from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. For two weeks the man was blue. Nothing could be done. No type of cleaner would work. It even said as much on the packaging not to let it come in contact with your hands, because staining would occur.
My friend just had to wait it out and wait for his girlfriend to come back, which she did and soon after that another incident occurred involving lighter fluid and Solarcaine, but that story will have to wait.