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 The Pringles AffairPosted 01.26.2004 by Man from U.N.C.L.E. (20)
As a teenager, I was a big James Bond movie fan. My favorite cast member was Q. He's the guy who invented the new gadgets and weapons that James Bond would use during his missions. That guy was, and still is, amazing.
Anyway, it wasn't long before I began inventing things of my own. I discovered that you could make weapons out of simple household items -- for example, Pringles Potato Chips containers. First, you start with an empty Pringles container. Place the cover on it. Lay it on the ground, pointing the top towards one of your friends. Stomp on the side of the container (close to the bottom edge) and... Wham-O!!! It leaves quite a welt. Being a creator and researcher of these newfound technologies, I was eager to pass on my discoveries to my friends, family and other kids in my neighborhood, in the hopes that they and future generations would continue testing and researching my theories, and someday all of mankind would benefit from my knowledge. However, I never gave thought of the possibility that this particular discovery would someday bring me to the very brink of disaster -- and closer to the edge of death than James Bond ever was. It was the summer of 1973. My family was in the construction business and we were in the process of building our new family home. My uncle's family and ours where close and would always share in these projects with each other. Which means everyone in the family was there to work on the new house. Being that the house was only a little over half completed, there were no bathroom facilities available yet. You were on your own. Fortunately, I had found a little corner of the soon-to-be-completed garage that had become my place of refuge. The garage floor, which was to eventually to be concrete, had not yet been poured. The floor was made up mostly of loose gravel that had been spread around as the base of the future concrete flooring. I had managed, from time to time, to push aside the gravel with my foot, do my business, and cover it up without leaving a trace. Beautiful! For several weeks, all had been going well. The weather was great and the construction of our new house was coming along fine. But not in my wildest imagination did I ever think that my little place of refuge would become the site of one of my life's most terrifying experiences. We had been working really hard and it was hot outside. For lunch we cooked hamburgers, hot dogs and pork & beans on the grill, and by late afternoon, the beans where working their magic. I had all the symptoms; the time had come for me to take my scheduled trip to the garage to torque a moonfish. Quietly, I snuck away from the family and headed for my little spot of the universe that was unbeknownst to anyone but me. Having arrived there just as the turtle's head started to poke out, I yanked down my Levi's and found the second best release a young teenage boy could have. But no sooner did the O-ring slam shut than my twelve-year-old cousin Bud walked in the door. "Hey man, what are you doing over there?" He walks over, stares at me with my Levi's down around my ankles, stares at the one I just broke off glistening in the dimly lit garage, says, "I'm telling your mom!" and runs out the door. Panic time! I knew if I tried to cover it up, they'd find it. What the hell do I do? That's when a miracle happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an empty Pringles container in the corner of the garage. I yanked up my Levi's, grabbed the Pringles container, quickly scooped up the evidence, put the cover on, and set it on a windowsill without a second to spare. Into the garage bounds my cousin Bud, followed closely by my mother and my aunt, who all proceed directly to the scene of the crime. They begin to search the entire area. They're on a mission, and they will leave no stone unturned, literally. But much to their dismay, there is nothing to be found. Exiting the garage, my mother and aunt turn to me and shine a ray of disgust in my direction. My mother says, "You boys stop this goofing around. There's a lot of work to do!" Whew... that was a close one! My cousin Bud continues to search the area, kicking around the gravel like he's panning for goal or something. Finally he looks at me and says, "Where is it?" I grabbed the Pringles container and tossed it to him. "Here, have a Pringle, asshole." He catches it and shakes it before opening it to find his trophy. He puts the cover back on it, and for a second he just stops and stares at me. I couldn't read his reaction. He looked disgusted, pissed off, embarrassed and confused, all at the same time. Finally, he made a move I never expected. He tossed the container to the ground pointing in my direction, raised his foot, and stomped down on it. Now, I'm not the one to believe in miracles, but on that day someone upstairs was looking out for me -- because I was about to receive my second miracle the afternoon. You see, when Bud stomped down on that Pringles container, he hit the front of the container by accident. This exploded the rear of the container, firing the bottom of it into his leg, along with its entire contents. You should have seen the look on his face. Priceless! The metal bottom of the container left his leg with one hell of a bruise, and his pants were covered from knee to shoe with shit. I mean, it was everywhere. In his socks, in his shoelaces, inside his shoe, everywhere. We spent an hour hosing him off. You know, it's been more than thirty years since that day, but I remember it like it was yesterday. From that experience I derived two conclusions. First, if you're a snitch, someday things could backfire on you. Secondly, I invested in Procter & Gamble -- they manufacture Pringles, and I made a bundle. Post new comment
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