Dead Man Walking

This guy I work with (henceforth and forevermore referred to as FOOL - Foolishly Over-Optimistic Loser) started a war with me.

This just proves how little the FOOL knows me.

It started as a small squirmish (FOOL put ice down my back, I retaliated in kind),

grew to a serious battle (FOOL put ice down my back while I was in the dining room TAKING AN ORDER thereby eliciting a scream from me that may have adversely affected my income given that most people won't part with their hard-earned singles to a crazy woman. I responded with a well-placed handful of whipped cream)

and has now escalated to an all-out WAR.

Why? Because Friday night FOOL mashed an entire piece of chocolate cake into my face, my hair, my ears...you get the picture.

Not only did that seal his impending doom, it was a hideous waste of perfectly good chocolate.

FOOL got so much chocolate on me that I smelled like a Hershey factory all night. So much chocolate that as I undressed later that evening, I could have had a satisfying late night snack from the chunks of cake that fell out of my clothing and onto my bathroom floor. (If, of course, I was the kind of woman who loved chocolate enough to actually eat it after it had touched the bathroom floor. I'm proud to say that while my mother and grandmother own that gene, it skipped me.)

It didn't end there.

My good friend, Kelly, decided FOOL's actions were inappropriate and so she did something completely out of character. She got him back.

In spades.

She took a glass full of grits (for you Californians, that's a lot like Malt-o-Meal) and mixed it with water. FOOL was standing around a corner from the main kitchen area, thus lending Kelly the advantage of surprise.

She popped around the corner, shrieked at the top of her lungs (no one really knows why...) and threw the entire glass on FOOL. And ran.

When the rest of us got to him, he was covered head to toe in watery, yellow chunks. The spatter split on either side of him and travelled a good two feet.

He looked for all the world like a 40 pound baby had projectile vomited a week's worth of spit-up on him.

Priceless.

FOOL was all set to retaliate against Kelly (which, as I'm sure you can deduce from her screaming and running, would have been the end of her). I convinced him to aim his response at me instead because a) she was defending my honor and b) the deeper he digs himself, the more satisfying the revenge.

He hit me with a pitcher full of ice water as I was getting ready to leave.

FOOL is a dead man walking.