Wentworth, for some reason, just wasn't "in the game" today. He'd come into the office, checked his messages, sent some emails, but it just wasn't all there. The sun shone outside on a mild April day, and all he really wanted to do was to frolic in the daisies. Normally, he'd be stuck.
today, no sirree! Wentworth checked to make sure his boss was in the office, and walked (ever so weakly) to her office. On the way, he slowly released pressure from the compressed air canister cleverly hidden in his shirt. Between his shirt's outer layer and surreptitious flesh-tone liner, a putty package slowly filled with air, and swelled.
Wentworth knocked on his boss's doorframe, and leaned in and told her he didn't feel well. Just as he did he opened up the cannister full-bore - and his shirt exploded with a sickening wet boom.
Bits of (disappearing ink) blood and (chopped sponge) gore spewed everywhere from his pre-perforated shirt. His face, his shirt, pants, shoes, and supervisor were all coated in what appeared to be the remains of Wentworth's gallbladder, or perhaps his pancreas.
Everyone stood in mute shock. Someone vomited. Someone else said "Cool!" and vomited. Clutching his stomach, Wentworth did his best to try not to laugh hysterically as he stumbled to his car, and after a quick hose-off, his 3:15 tee time.