So, Stan and Dave have got this truck all prepped and ready to turn puke-green, right? They’ve taped it, cleaned it, and psyched themselves up. Only one problem: they’re completely out of nitrile gloves. And there’s about as much chance of Bob finding this funny as there is of him cracking a smile, so naturally, they decide who has to break the news to him with a classic round of rock-paper-scissors. Stan loses. Big surprise there.
Stan approaches Bob, explains the situation, and Bob’s face goes from “mildly grumpy” to “I’m going to punch a hole through a wall” in about three seconds. He storms off, only to return 15 minutes later with a box of gloves that would look better suited for a kindergartener’s Halloween costume. They’re off-brand, flimsy, and size: Medium. Now, Stan’s hands are not “medium” anything. Stan has banana hands. Gorilla knuckles. His paws require gloves that you could probably repurpose as oven mitts.
But time’s ticking, and Dave’s got a tux to squeeze into, so Stan gives it a shot. He shoves one hand into these laughably tiny gloves, pulls out his paint gun, and gets to spraying. First pull of the trigger—snap! The glove’s history. He tries another pair, and snap! snap! Both gloves bite the dust. Now, at this point, Stan’s hit that crossroads every paint hero faces: Does he protect his hands…or finish the job?
He chooses the latter. Stan decides to spray the ugliest paint known to mankind barehanded, with all the bravado of a man facing a grizzly with nothing but a butter knife. And despite it all, the paint goes on flawlessly. If it wasn’t for the fact that the truck looked like it was wearing baby poop, Stan might’ve called it a masterpiece.
But here’s where things take a turn: clean-up time. Now Stan’s hands look like they’ve been dunked in radioactive sludge, and he’s got two options. He can go hardcore with lacquer thinner—essentially choosing third-degree burns—or he can try scrubbing it off with pumice soap and Go-Jo and pray for a miracle. Two hours later, he’s managed to scrub his hands down from glow-in-the-dark toxic to mossy swamp green, just in time for the wedding.
Now, picture the wedding scene: Dave’s at the altar, trying to hold it together. Stan’s standing beside him as his best man, proudly sporting a pair of Hulk Hands. As far as anyone’s concerned, he’s some kind of performance artist, or maybe the world’s worst spray tan gone rogue. But Dave? Dave knows. And deep down, they both know this wedding will go down in history as the day that Stan the Swamp Thing took a stand against ugly trucks, tiny gloves, and the wrath of Brow Beat’em Bob.
So, what’s the moral here? Wear the right gloves. And if you can’t, at least make sure you’ve got a good sense of humor, a solid scrub brush, and a friend like Dave who’ll let you stand beside him at his wedding—even if you look like you just crawled out of a toxic waste dump.
Here’s to safety…and a splash of chaos.
Stan approaches Bob, explains the situation, and Bob’s face goes from “mildly grumpy” to “I’m going to punch a hole through a wall” in about three seconds. He storms off, only to return 15 minutes later with a box of gloves that would look better suited for a kindergartener’s Halloween costume. They’re off-brand, flimsy, and size: Medium. Now, Stan’s hands are not “medium” anything. Stan has banana hands. Gorilla knuckles. His paws require gloves that you could probably repurpose as oven mitts.
But time’s ticking, and Dave’s got a tux to squeeze into, so Stan gives it a shot. He shoves one hand into these laughably tiny gloves, pulls out his paint gun, and gets to spraying. First pull of the trigger—snap! The glove’s history. He tries another pair, and snap! snap! Both gloves bite the dust. Now, at this point, Stan’s hit that crossroads every paint hero faces: Does he protect his hands…or finish the job?
He chooses the latter. Stan decides to spray the ugliest paint known to mankind barehanded, with all the bravado of a man facing a grizzly with nothing but a butter knife. And despite it all, the paint goes on flawlessly. If it wasn’t for the fact that the truck looked like it was wearing baby poop, Stan might’ve called it a masterpiece.
But here’s where things take a turn: clean-up time. Now Stan’s hands look like they’ve been dunked in radioactive sludge, and he’s got two options. He can go hardcore with lacquer thinner—essentially choosing third-degree burns—or he can try scrubbing it off with pumice soap and Go-Jo and pray for a miracle. Two hours later, he’s managed to scrub his hands down from glow-in-the-dark toxic to mossy swamp green, just in time for the wedding.
Now, picture the wedding scene: Dave’s at the altar, trying to hold it together. Stan’s standing beside him as his best man, proudly sporting a pair of Hulk Hands. As far as anyone’s concerned, he’s some kind of performance artist, or maybe the world’s worst spray tan gone rogue. But Dave? Dave knows. And deep down, they both know this wedding will go down in history as the day that Stan the Swamp Thing took a stand against ugly trucks, tiny gloves, and the wrath of Brow Beat’em Bob.
So, what’s the moral here? Wear the right gloves. And if you can’t, at least make sure you’ve got a good sense of humor, a solid scrub brush, and a friend like Dave who’ll let you stand beside him at his wedding—even if you look like you just crawled out of a toxic waste dump.
Here’s to safety…and a splash of chaos.
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