Warning: What you are about to read contains unpleasant graphic material. This column is not intended for men with weak stomachs.

I received a phone call from my friend Rhoda. "What are you doing?"

"Grocery shopping. What's up?"

"I need you to come to my house right now."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you when you get here. Hurry."

When I arrived at Rhoda's house, I found her minivan parked askew in the driveway. The car keys were still in the ignition and the hatchback left opened. Once inside the house, I followed the Target bags strewn on the floor that led me to Rhoda.

Oh, the horror! Tiny bits of glass glittered in the carpet. On the floor next to Rhoda's feet lay the victim — a Panasonic, plasma, flat-screen HDTV. A large spiderweb crack swept across its 42-inch screen. Rhoda had begun on/off remote control compressions, but to no avail.

After five minutes, I called time. "This TV has gone to Jesus," I said. And I pried the remote control from my friend's hand.

Two weeks ago, Rhoda and her husband purchased the $2,000 TV. That day she also purchased a decorative TV stand from Target. "I was lifting the TV off the old stand when it just fell. What am I going to do?"

Once I got past feeling grateful this didn't happen to me, I advised my friend on what to do next. "Purchase another TV identical to this one, and don't tell your husband."

My newlywed friend replied, "But that would be lying."

"Then start packing your bags."

We called the store where Rhoda and her husband purchased the TV. They were sold out. "Now what are we going to do?" she asked.

We had four hours to find the exact TV before Rhoda's hubby and kids came home. Think, Mimi. Think. "SAMCO!" I beamed.

It's times like these, I'm glad I don't drive a Smart Car.

We loaded the new TV into my SUV. But before we drove home, we stopped and picked up two pizzas to drop off at Rhoda's youngest daughter's school. That's not relevant to the story other than the pizzas were 42 inches in size.

Once we arrived at Rhoda's house and lifted the new TV out of the box, we realized that we needed another set of hands to help install the base onto the TV. Rhoda phoned her neighbor Bess.

Who reads instruction manuals? Bess sat on the floor, flipping through pages of Spanish, Japanese and Mandarin instructions. "Look at the pictures on the box. That's what I do."

"I need you and Rhoda to be quiet while I read the instructions," snapped Bess.

"Excuse me. I didn't know we were having a sip 'n' read," I mumbled.

After we finished setting up the new TV, we needed a place to dump the dead TV. I suggested we put it into the new TV's box and hide it.

"Good idea! We'll move it to the side of the garage. My husband won't see it there. I'll cover it with the barbecue cover. Then I'll throw a blue tarp over it."

"Wouldn't you rather bury it?"

"We don't have time."

"I'm joking."

When Rhoda's kids and husband got home that evening, not one of them suspected that the TV had been switched.

Two days later, Rhoda phoned me, "My husband spotted the box on the side of the garage."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him it was trash."

"Good save."

"But what if he lifts up the tarp?"

"You're gonna need a new hiding place," I said.

Rhoda and I live Lucy and Ethel close. I arrived in a matter of minutes to watch her pulling a blue tarp with the TV's coffin on top of it across the street. Another neighbor/accomplice said she could store the box on the side of her garage. "Hurry," she cried. "My husband will be home soon."

#11030. Name: Panasonic Plasma. This remains a cold case and is not the subject of current investigation, unless new information emerges, such as a Visa bill in the mail.

To find out more about Mimi Kopulos and read her past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.

COPYRIGHT 2008 CREATORS SYNDICATE, INC.