Cream, lightly whipped

Years ago my grandma bought all of the kids special whipped cream dispensers. They are pretty much the greatest thing since sliced wheat bread because it involves a trigger and a CO2 cartridge. Once upon a time, at some family gathering at Grandma's, I tried to convince my cousin Eric to put the nozzle in his mouth and pull the trigger. This was accompanied with the most persuasive argument I have ever used: "Come on! It'll be fun!!"

Despite the overwhelming strength of such an argument, Eric declined the opportunity. It had to be done and the buck stopped with me. The result was sheer chaos for my cheeks which were suddenly blown out in overstuffed chipmunk fashion, for Eric who was immediately paralized with laughter, and for my mom who promptly gave me a good swat for spewing shards of whipped cream all over Grandma's immaculate kitchen.

That was a ridiculous response, I thought. How could I help it? Hurricane force winds shooting out of a narrow, white plastic nozzle had just nearly blown off my head. It seemed a bit irrational to expect me to keep my mouth closed in that situation. Besides, other people were going to use it and I was sure they wouldn't want my lip funk all over the nozzle. I was actually quite considerate, I harumphed in my mind, as I advanced the cause of mankind. I discovered critical information through trial and error which could be passed down as a legacy to posterity: do not activate any form of compressed air while any adults are within hearing range.

I deserve the Nobel Prize.