I hate practical jokes. Always have, always will. I would just as soon stay in bed on April Fool’s Day as get up and run the risk of being the fool. It seems like practical jokes rely on making a fool out of someone, embarrassing someone, or scaring someone. If you like practical jokes, by all means indulge. I just find them to be one step up on the comedy ladder from slapstick. Practical jokes are the whoopee cushions of comedy.
That being said, I became a practical joker quite by accident a couple of days ago. While rummaging through an unpacked box, I found a metal sculpture I have had for many years. It has always had a place in my house but, on this move, it got left in a box of what-nots. I took it out, planning to find a place to put it later. Without thinking, I leaned it up in the bathroom window and put the box back under the sink. I went off to bed not giving it another thought until the next morning when I walked into the bathroom!
I screamed, “I hate practical jokes.” Practical jokes are cruel.” “Help me, help me!”
Then I remembered that I was the practical joker for once. It was my mouse in the fridge, my whoopee cushion, my snake in the toilet. I felt the power, the lure, the humor. I could have moved the hand from the window and that would have been the end of it but, Michael would be getting up in a couple of hours and needing to use the bathroom. Why waste a perfectly good scary hand in the window? So I left it. Let’s just say if Michael didn’t need to use the bathroom when he went through the door, he did when he looked up. Bwahahahahaha.