The War of the Whipped
The truce between Danny and I ended this night at 7 PM. Like the beginning of most of the great wars, it's a tad bit confusing how it started.
Okay, so not that confusing. Cute manager (Kirk) sprayed my arm with whipped cream and then moved out of range. Angry and unable to retaliate, I struck out at the nearest bystander: Danny. And the war began. Again.
This war included two casualties: Two green B&N aprons will never be the same...at least not until they're washed.
My black pants were wounded, but I still plan to wear them the next time I work.
Danny carrying me into the storage room.
The landscape was transformed from a clean storage room into something akin to a nuclear winter, except more creamy.
Half the store heard me scream like the girlie-girl that I am.
The climax of the war came when I had my last break. Accounts are still varied, but it may or may not have featured a certain crazy person, clutching a can of whipped cream, screaming, "Hold still! I only want to get your arm!" chasing cute manager around the store until he ran into the men's room; territory I--I mean, the crazy person--was unwilling to invade.
No peace treaties were signed. Instead I have made a promise to seek revenge. After all, vengeance is a dish best served cold with whipped cream on top.
On the plus side, I'm guessing few people can say they've chased their boss in front of dozens of witnesses threatening to spray whipped cream during work. A game of 10 fingers, anyone?
Okay, so not that confusing. Cute manager (Kirk) sprayed my arm with whipped cream and then moved out of range. Angry and unable to retaliate, I struck out at the nearest bystander: Danny. And the war began. Again.
This war included two casualties: Two green B&N aprons will never be the same...at least not until they're washed.
My black pants were wounded, but I still plan to wear them the next time I work.
Danny carrying me into the storage room.
The landscape was transformed from a clean storage room into something akin to a nuclear winter, except more creamy.
Half the store heard me scream like the girlie-girl that I am.
The climax of the war came when I had my last break. Accounts are still varied, but it may or may not have featured a certain crazy person, clutching a can of whipped cream, screaming, "Hold still! I only want to get your arm!" chasing cute manager around the store until he ran into the men's room; territory I--I mean, the crazy person--was unwilling to invade.
No peace treaties were signed. Instead I have made a promise to seek revenge. After all, vengeance is a dish best served cold with whipped cream on top.
On the plus side, I'm guessing few people can say they've chased their boss in front of dozens of witnesses threatening to spray whipped cream during work. A game of 10 fingers, anyone?
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home