Page 12 of Resting Scrooge Face
(2) I will fight someone to their death if they tell me bubble gum is a legitimately tasty artificial flavor. Nothing, and I mean nothing, tastes good in bubble gum flavor other than actual bubble gum.
(3) And finally, when I was a punk eleven-year-old, my friends dared me to tug on Santa’s beard at the mall and expose him to all the children waiting in line to see him. So, I waited, and when it was my turn, I walked up to him and gave his beard a giant tug, only to find out it was real, and I basically body-slammed him to the ground by his beard. I have never sprinted so fast in my life. Guilt consumed me, to the point that I turned myself in the next day, and I ended up shoveling “Santa’s” driveway for the rest of that winter.
Now it’s your turn not to judge me.
Sincerely,
Resting Scrooge Face
Dear Resting Scrooge Face,
You’ve collected flowers from your mom’s garden since you were seven?
Okay, that is probably the sweetest, cutest, most charming thing I’ve ever read, and if we weren’t firmly in the friend zone, I very well might swoon over something like that.
But don’t worry. There’s no swooning.
None whatsoever.
And to solidify there is no swooning, I think we need to tell each other a horrifying story. Something that is so embarrassing we’ve never told another soul. This sort of information will tamp down the swooning and officially put us in a firm friend zone.
Now, you need to go first, because I need to judge my story off the extremity of yours. So please delight me with your embarrassment.
Sincerely,
Ho Ho No
Dear Ho Ho No,
To be honest, I wrote the flower thing in the hopes that maybe ... just maybe you would swoon.
So, if anyone should be worried about not staying in the friend zone, it’s me. *Whispers* I think ... I think I’m morphing into one of the mistletoe-ians, so this idea of throwing down something embarrassing, I think, is a smart move. Putsome “ick” out there so there is no chance of us becoming like the rest of the people in this town—holly jolly, with a penchant to dabble in romance.
So, to tamp down any possible chance of swoon, I will tell you when I was ten, I went to my dad’s company party. My dad introduced me to his boss, and when I shook his hand, I said, “Dad, is this the son of a bitch you were telling me about?” I’ve never seen my dad’s face turn so red. I had to apologize with a card the next day saying that I didn’t know where I heard that phrase from, even though my dad said it in the car on the way to the party. Afterward, he brought me to get ice cream, and I was so confused about how to feel that I ended up throwing up ice cream and sprinkles on a little girl in line who was waiting at the counter. I’m still emotionally distraught as I think about it.
Sincerely,
Resting Scrooge Face
Dear Resting Scrooge Face,
Well ... that didn’t really do the job, just made me feel sad for the little boy who thought he was asking a solid question. Although throwing up on an innocent little girl does have some horror appeal to it.
Therefore, I will tell you an equally embarrassing story.
I had this squishy ball that I loved playing with—I was about twelve, for reference—and I used to rub it along my dad’s hairy legs because it would make the hair stick up and I thought it was funny. So one day, my friend asked me if I wanted to play, and I told her yeah and that I wanted to show her how I gave mydad a ball massage—not understanding exactly what I was saying. My more mature friend told me I was a freak and then told her parents, who called my mom and confronted her about my sick idea of getting their daughter to massage my dad’s balls.
The ball massage on the hairy legs ended after that.
So, where does that put me in the friend zone?
Sincerely,
Ho Ho No
Dear Ho Ho No,
I’m sorry, I’m still cackling over here. Ball massage. *Wipes tears*
