Painters Gone Wild

“Hey Gary, toss me that brush!”  Toby yelled from across the room.  It had been two hours, and the kitchen floor was covered in newspaper.  The kitchen ceiling was covered in newspaper.  Hell, the windows, the fridge, and the cupboards were covered in newspaper.  Anything that wasn’t under the ‘classification’ of ‘wall’ was under the newspaper, which made paint fights and revenge very, very appealing.

“Sure thing.”  Gary tossed the brush just as Toby’s father emerged from the door way, fresh clothes and all.  “Dude, watch out!”

“Aw, shit Gary!”  Toby’s father grimaced and sighed.  “Can’t trust you two goof balls to do anything around here, can I.”

“Sorry, Mr. Shepherd!”  Gary wheezed out, doubled over in laughter.

“Its okay.  I’m used to it.”  He sighed.  “Well, at least it wasn’t a good shirt.  Are you two retards almost done?  What if I wanted to have company over tonight?”

“Yeah, right.”  Toby said.  “It’s a weekend and you never have clients over on the weekends.”

Toby put the finishing touches on the wall he was working on and turned just in time to avoid getting paint all over his back.  Instead a large splotchy bit landed on his shoulders and chest.

“Good thing this was a shitty shirt.”  Toby commented as he stuck his finger into the newly anointed paint stain on his shirt and flung it back at Gary.  It hit him smack dab in the middle of the nose.

“Shit, dude!  I’ll die!”  Gary protested, smearing it off of his face.  “Its game on, now.”

“Boys!”  Toby’s father yelled just in time.  “Its time to finish this.  Then go out into the yard and fling paint, I don’t care.”

“K dad.”  Toby resigned himself to the slave labor.  When Gary turned his back, Toby flung a small amount on his back and went back to painting.  Seconds later, Gary grabbed a mostly-empty paint can, reached over, held Toby’s shirt back open, and dumped.

“Shit Gary!”  Toby yelled, whipping around to see his father holding back laughter, and Gary holding the paint can.  “That wasn’t cool dude!  Paint stains!  You got it on my balls!”

“Your shirt is not your balls.  Or are they that small?”  Gary asked pointedly, and Toby stabbed out with the paint brush, using it as a sword. He struck Gary on the chest.

“Out!  Both of you!”  Toby yelled in between laughs.  “And don’t get paint on my floor.  When you’ve hosed off, you can come back and finish helping me.  And Toby?”

“Yeah?”

“You better check your balls.”

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