Iwon'tgrowup
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2005
- Messages
- 643
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Sometimes it's great to watch the results of someone else's conspiracy.
Years ago, a group of us college juniors were putting the finishing touches on a spring parade float. I noticed two acquaintances (Tim and George) standing away from the group, heads close together, whispering. I was curious, but kept using my staple gun, minding my own business.
Ginger concentrated on lettering a sign, momentarily oblivious to everyone. She sat on the edge of the float, dangling her jeaned legs and sandaled feet. Everyone liked this friendly brunette with the wire-rimmed glasses. Her smile left an impression after prettier girls were forgotten.
But George and Tim were now sneaking around the side of the nearly-finished float, swishing past the fake-grass skirt I'd just stapled on. Both boys carried small paintbrushes; Tim had a can of . . . rubber cement?
By the time I'd figured out their plan, Tim was shouting NOW! Each grabbed one of Ginger's legs and began shoving their brushes, wet with glue, into the spaces between her sandals and her bare soles.
WHAT the . . . HAHAhahahahaEEEEEE! Ginger shrieked with laughter, but the two burly guys (one a football lineman) had her securely pinned. STOOPPPP! she cried out, but the gluebrush tickling continued. Tim and George were laughing themselves as Ginger twisted and struggled and giggled uncontrollably.
I stood, transfixed, watching Ginger's predicament . . . and taking in her delicious laugh. Another co-ed, Nina, walked up beside me in a skirt, hose and dress sandals (one of the styles of the day). "Oh, no!" Nina said, watching Ginger's tickling. "Yeah . . . oh, no," I answered, looking speculatively at Nina's feet. She looked at me looking . . . then I wiggled my eyebrows at her. "Oh, no, YOU'RE NOT TICKLING ME!" Nina screeched, scurrying away on her heels.
Finally, George and Tim had mercy on Ginger. She was red, sweaty, panting, fanning her face with her hands. "You GUYS!" she scolded, easing down from the float's edge, standing on the pavement. Then: "EWWWW!" as her feet squished into the gluey mess. George and Tim collapsed with laughter.
Creating that mess was probably their big plan, but the memory of Ginger's feet tickled with the gluebrushes continues to be a favorite of mine. (And by the way, she's more beautiful in her forties than she was at 21. I have since observed her tickled again, but that's for another day).
Years ago, a group of us college juniors were putting the finishing touches on a spring parade float. I noticed two acquaintances (Tim and George) standing away from the group, heads close together, whispering. I was curious, but kept using my staple gun, minding my own business.
Ginger concentrated on lettering a sign, momentarily oblivious to everyone. She sat on the edge of the float, dangling her jeaned legs and sandaled feet. Everyone liked this friendly brunette with the wire-rimmed glasses. Her smile left an impression after prettier girls were forgotten.
But George and Tim were now sneaking around the side of the nearly-finished float, swishing past the fake-grass skirt I'd just stapled on. Both boys carried small paintbrushes; Tim had a can of . . . rubber cement?
By the time I'd figured out their plan, Tim was shouting NOW! Each grabbed one of Ginger's legs and began shoving their brushes, wet with glue, into the spaces between her sandals and her bare soles.
WHAT the . . . HAHAhahahahaEEEEEE! Ginger shrieked with laughter, but the two burly guys (one a football lineman) had her securely pinned. STOOPPPP! she cried out, but the gluebrush tickling continued. Tim and George were laughing themselves as Ginger twisted and struggled and giggled uncontrollably.
I stood, transfixed, watching Ginger's predicament . . . and taking in her delicious laugh. Another co-ed, Nina, walked up beside me in a skirt, hose and dress sandals (one of the styles of the day). "Oh, no!" Nina said, watching Ginger's tickling. "Yeah . . . oh, no," I answered, looking speculatively at Nina's feet. She looked at me looking . . . then I wiggled my eyebrows at her. "Oh, no, YOU'RE NOT TICKLING ME!" Nina screeched, scurrying away on her heels.
Finally, George and Tim had mercy on Ginger. She was red, sweaty, panting, fanning her face with her hands. "You GUYS!" she scolded, easing down from the float's edge, standing on the pavement. Then: "EWWWW!" as her feet squished into the gluey mess. George and Tim collapsed with laughter.
Creating that mess was probably their big plan, but the memory of Ginger's feet tickled with the gluebrushes continues to be a favorite of mine. (And by the way, she's more beautiful in her forties than she was at 21. I have since observed her tickled again, but that's for another day).
Not another dayyyy!!!!! 
