3 posts tagged “pranks”
Isn't that what April Fools' Day is really for? So that cynics can triumph over the wholesome yet gullible people of the world. So that jaded, suspicious types can lord it over their more trusting brethren. Shit, that's what I use it for. I used to anyway. Of course, I used to be a huge cynic, but I've since lost about 25 pounds.
Here's the thing I don't get and the reason I stopped participating: how can people not get it? How can anyone be fooled by anything on April 1. Sure, I go through life assuming everything I hear is false. I hear good news and think, "Yeah, what's the catch?" I hear bad news and think, "Oh, come on, don't be so melodramatic." On April Fools Day, though, I assume everyone is full of shit. '
Which means it's not even worth the trouble. Instead, I'll save it up for some other day. When you least expect it. When you've been lulled into a false sense of security.
Crap, I just realized what I should have done... I should have saved the RedScylla deal for today. Then you all would have assumed it was a joke, but it would be true. Hahahahaha! The old switcheroo.
Oh well. *yawn*
Someone amuse me, damn it.
I've been thinking a lot about my Aunt LaJuana these days. Nothing nostalgic or sentimental, but every time I hike up my pant leg or skirt to check on the progress of my bike-wreck scab, I can't help but think of her.
Aunt LaJuana was a scab picker. One of those people who love to scrape off the dead, battered skin of injuries. She didn't just pick her own scabs, though. She liked to pick other people's scabs. She loved to peel sunburns. As a child, this always frightened me. Like most kids, I was a walking scab factory. Always with a scraped elbow or knee. Some crusty half-healed contusion or abrasion. So there were few things as creepy and terrifying as going to Sunday dinner with a banged up knee. Invariably, someone said, "Oh, and little Redz took a spill on her bike/on the roof/on the monkey bars/on her own two stupid feet. Really banged herself up."
Then Aunt LaJuana descended upon me with her long, vicious claws extended, ready to pick. She didn't care if it hurt or bled or made you squirm, and she was big enough to hold you down if you tried to resist. Plenty big enough. She clocked in around 500 pounds when I was a child, so the only real chance of escape was to run. Unfortunately, my grandmother's house was small and filled with many ornery uncles and cousins who were happy to capture and return an escaped scabbee.
When I was very young, four or five years old, the worst part wasn't even the scab picking. The scariest part was the proximity of the Blood Ruby. Aunt LaJuana wore a ring with a large, dark, glossy, evil-looking ruby in it. She said that if you touched it without her permission, you would disappear. I was predisposed to believe, because my other grandmother had a ruby ring that she claimed had killed someone every time she wore it. Three times she'd worn it since her mother-in-law gave it to her and three times someone she loved died: her mother and two of her sisters. That ruby was remade into a ring for my grandfather, who as far as I know never killed anyone with it.
As for Aunt LaJuana's Blood Ruby, I knew what she said was true, because I'd seen it happen.
My cousin, Stu, touched it once. Stu is eight years older than I am and he was one of the ornery cousins. So ornery he was dangerous. The kind of kid you wanted to keep your distance from. One Easter, he decided he was too old to believe in things like the Blood Ruby, so he marched up to Aunt LaJuana and touched it. Laid his finger right on it.
Aunt LaJuana let out this terrible moan. A sound of anguish and mourning that made my grandma run in from the kitchen. "Oh, he touched it! He touched the Blood Ruby!" Aunt LaJuana said and she put her head in her hands and sobbed.
Grandma took up the moaning and crying and pulled her apron up over her head. Stu, who'd been laughing and strutting until then, looked concerned. Everyone got involved, crying and carrying on about what a reckless fool he was. He never could obey and he was always in trouble, but they loved him! It broke their hearts what he'd done.
"That's bullshit! That's fucking bullshit!" Stu said, knowing he'd get smacked for that. Only nobody smacked him. Nobody said, "Watch your potty mouth!" Nobody but us other kids could hear him or see him, but none of the adults believed us.
When lunch time came, Grandma set the tables for 18 instead of 19, even though I told her, "I can see him, he's right there, Grandma."
"Don't you tease me, Redz, I know he's gone," she said. "If you try to pull my leg, why I'll pinch you."
That was no idle threat. The mothers of scab pickers are natural pinchers and vicious, to boot. The rest of the kids kept their mouths shut about being able to see Stu.
So while we ate fried chicken and mashed potatoes, with chocolate cake for dessert, Stu stood in the kitchen and cried. The adults just went on like he was invisible. They couldn't see him or hear him, and after a while they stopped talking like it was his funeral and just went on with their usual conversations.
Stu's disappearance lasted all day, until dusk fell and everyone got ready to go home. We packed up our leftovers and started out toward the cars. Some of us looked back at Stu, still huddled up in one corner, but after a moment, Uncle Jack got up from the sofa and put out his cigarette.
"Come on, Stu, let's go," he said.
"You can see me?" Stu said.
"Of course I can see you. The Blood Ruby wears off after a while. Have you been there all along?"
Oh, we wanted to believe it wasn't real. We wanted it to be a cruel prank the adults had played, but as we hurried across the gravel drive to our cars, Aunt LaJuana stood on the stoop and cackled like a witch. None of the rest of us ever touched the ruby, except perhaps the mortician who prepared her for burial. Yes, it was buried with her. Stu didn't learn his lesson. He went on being a disobedient, reckless fool, until adulthood snuck up on him, like the delayed effects of the Blood Ruby. In that sense, maybe we all touched it.
I went to Target for a few items and while I was looking at light bulbs, a pair of skwerly teenage boys approached me, one pushing an empty shopping cart, the other carrying some sort of ceramic Spider-Man head. For convenience we'll call them Dip and Shit.
Dip: Hey, look what I found. (holding the Spider-Man head toward me.)
Me: Yeah, that's awesome, dude. (backing away.)
Dip: There's something stuck in it, though. Can you help me get it out?
Me: Sorry, you're on your own with that.
Dip: Please, won't you just help me?
At that point, he was too close, so I put my hand up and said, "Back off, you little jackass."
Shit: Why are you being so rude to him?
Dip: Yeah, why won't you just help me?
Me: Look, assholes, I get it. You're trying to pull some kind of prank involving whatever you've stuffed into Spidey's head, but you're failing miserably.
Dip & Shit: Uhhhh...
Me: Do you know why you're failing?
Dip & Shit: (giving each other skwerly looks, because they can't decide what to do.)
Me: You're failing, because this is a grade school prank, and you're, what? Fifteen or sixteen. Plus, you've got your dopey friend just hanging back with the shopping cart. If he's your friend, why doesn't he help you? See why it doesn't work? It screams set-up. If you want this to work, you've got to change the dynamics. At your age, this prank only works if one of you pretends to be a retard and the other one pretends to be his embarrassed friend. Or better yet, develop a prank that works with your age. Now go away and stop bothering me.
So, I picked out my light bulbs and moved on to my next item: cat litter. As I was loading the cat litter into the cart, what do you think I heard? Dip & Shit trying their prank in the next aisle. I'll give them this: they were able to take a critique and learn from it. They were playing it with Shit as the retard and Dip as the embarrassed friend, who would arrive too late and apologize. I went around the corner and barreled down on them like my hair was on fire.
Me: Kenny, Dylan, what are you doing?
(Now I have no idea what their names were, but I used the infuriated Mom voice and that was enough to get them both to flinch guiltily. By then I was right on top of them and the hapless grandma they were trying to prank.)
Me: Didn't I warn you not to try this stunt again? Ma'am, I'm so sorry. Were they trying to pull a prank on you?
Grandma: Oh, I don't know...
Me: I am so sorry. He was pretending to be retarded, wasn't he? Dylan, I swear, my patience with that cruel little joke is over. I want you boys to go wait in the car for me, and so help me god, if you aren't out there when I finish here, I'll leave you. You can just walk home. Now go!
Dip & Shit fled, leaving the Spider-Man head in Grandma's hands. What had they stuffed in it for their prank? A package of condoms.
Ten minutes later, I had the last thing on my list, a new filter for the furnace, and I was making my way back to the cashier when I heard someone in the aisle ahead of me, crying and saying, "Billy, where are you? Help! I lost my friend, Billy. Can you help me find my friend?" Yup, it was Dip (or Kenny, as I now thought of him) playing retarded. I skidded around the next aisle, just in time to cut off his faux-retard-lope with my cart. His eyes went wild when he saw me.
Dip: Why are you hassling us?
Me: Because you annoyed me and you're still annoying me. And Billy? What kind of pathetically obvious fake name is that?
Dip: We were just messing around.
Me: No, you were annoying me. If you want to pull pranks, that's fine, but you need to go over to Wal-Mart to do it.
Dip: Wha--why?
Me: Because I don't shop at Wal-Mart. If you don't get out of here, I'll show you what a prank really looks like. You want to know what'll happen after I tell the security guard you pulled your pants down and flashed me?
He wasn't stupid. He ran.
