I hate April fools. I hate practical jokes.
They’re almost never funny. The whole point is to get someone to look ridiculous.
If it works, what you’ve probably done is tricked somebody. You made them believe a lie. You made them think you were being straight with them when you weren’t. Well done, you.
It’s rudeness and dishonesty masquerading as humor. It’s the emotional equivalent of sarcasm or eye rolling.
Except, once in a while, it is kinda funny. For example, when you tie somebody’s shoes together when they’re not looking, and they stumble, but don’t get hurt or anything. Pretty funny. (Just nod and move along.)
Or… you turn out the light in the laundry room every time your wife goes in there. (This is a f’rinstance.) Just for a couple seconds. You know, until she shouts at you. That one’s always funny. (I’m being told I’m wrong in this case. Hold on–the judges… yes, the judges are ruling in my favor.)
Brother Steve insists that flipping the switch on and off to the outlet your electric mower is plugged into is fricking hilarious.
Wait, here’s a good one. Convince somebody that they haven’t fed the hamster in like a month. Wake’em up with that. Get their heart pumping. Make’em jump up and try to find it to take care of it. Then remind them–they don’t have a hamster!
That’s the one I get, with variations, almost every night. Freak out. Wake up. Sit up. (“I forgot to take out my contacts! No, there they are.” “I left my watch on! Oh, no I didn’t. And I guess it’s not that that serious, anyway.”) Always the same time, about half an hour after I fall asleep. Apparently, it’s a unique kind of panic attack (I checked). It’s cute. Sort of. And it only takes about 10 seconds. I usually just go back to sleep.
So, I get a freaky little practical joke, almost every night. A prank phone call from my subconscious. Anxiety provides the jolt; my imagination provides the storyline.
Some nights, I jump out of bed and turn on the light, waking up my long-suffering wife. (“What are you doing?” “I have to find the puppy! It’s loose.” “We don’t have a puppy!” “Oooooh, right…”) Then I turn out the light and do the walk of shame back to the bed. “Sorry, honey…”
Sometimes I remember the crazy thing I said or did. Sometimes she does. Later, it makes an amusing anecdote, like telling people what your toddler got into. Or your grandpa with Alzheimers. Or your golden retriever.
So I guess these are my peeps:
Oh. Okay. That’s cool, then.