I thought I knew what regret was, but when I saw those smurf-me eyes staring through the crack in the door, I removed the chain and let the personification of regret in my room. It wasn’t just the eyes. Not far down a face I’ve smurfed all over in the past, were the perfect pair of SSLs (you know, smurf smurfing lips). When they started moving, I got a real Gargamel. I guess that’s why I didn’t see the gun.
“SMURF ME IN THE SMURF! You shot me in the smurf!”
My mind was red with fear and pain and confusion…was it because I called her a smurf the last time I smurfed her? I got my answer quick. While I was bleeding and crying on the bed, she strapped on a smurf and began smurfing me in my smurf wound. “Who’s the smurf now! You are, you smurfless smurf! Enjoy your new life as a smurfette.”
She smurfed me like that for an hour. I don’t know how I survived, but the most amazing part was that she hadn’t finished. As I was passing out for the third time, I saw a man with a surgeon’s mask enter the room. Four days later I woke up, hoping it was all a horrible nightmare. When I looked in the mirror I exclaimed, “ Holy Smurf! I’m a smurfin’ Snork!”
