April 1st not foolish enough (NOT a rerun*)

737 words)

America will be better off when people spend as much time preparing for April Fool’s Day as they do for stuffy holidays like Thanksgiving.

Everyone could take the day off. Instead of watching tedious professional football games we could watch reruns of shows like “Get Smart” and “3rd Rock From The Sun.”

We could still enjoy a big family feast, but mixed in amidst the cranberry and turkey would be dribble glasses and whoopee cushions.

America’s suffering from a laughter deficit — and I’m part of the problem.

It’s been years since I’ve pulled off a really great April Fool’s Day prank and even that record is tainted because the victim was a gullible 6-year-old girl.

It was 2006 and my wife was 6-months pregnant with the child who would in June become Lucinda Grace.

It was an exciting time, especially for Josie. She was infatuated with the idea of becoming a big sister. It was a cheerful mindset that would conclude about 8 days after the actual birth.

But prior to that she was positively enraptured about the idea of having a new baby in the house.

Val and I decided to use her enthusiasms against her.

So on the morning of April 1, I crept into Josie’s second floor room and gently shook her awake. I had big news, I said.

“Congratulations, darling! You’ve got a baby sister!” I told her the baby’d arrived in the middle of the night. “Do you want to come see her?”

She did. Holding her soft, little hand in mine, we together started down the stairs. On the couch cuddling a swaddled bundle was her mother — and to this day I can’t believe I got her to play along.

With awe-filled eyes, Josie pulled back a corner of the blanket to see . . .

Barney the Purple Dinosaur!

I saw her face race from wonder to pure rage.

“April Fool!”

It was incredibly cruel. I saw the confused hurt in her face and thought, man, if anyone ever does anything that mean to her again I’ll kill them with my bare hands. But it was okay that I did it because, hey, I’m her dad. And on the plus side, she instantly assumed an irrational hatred for Barney, a result hedge fund investors might call an unanticipated collateral dividend.

She raced upstairs and buried her sobbing head in her pillow. I ran after her and told her this was what April Fool’s Day was all about. Then I put her little tear-streaked face in my hands and said, “And now how would you like to get even with Mommy?”

The thought of humiliating revenge, the essence of this great holiday, was a transformative balm.

I knew right then our angelic little daughter would be as wicked as the rest of us, and thus able to navigate her way through the often stormy seas of humanity.

So I spent the next hour showing her how to rig a rubber band around the kitchen sink spray faucet, balance an egg on top the refrigerator door, and disguise your voice on a call to Nana so she might at least momentarily think it really was George W. Bush calling to say she’d need to get her wrinkled old butt to Baghdad.

And then when all that fun was over Josie went to her mother and began plotting how to get even with me in various painful and humiliating schemes that endure through this day.

I don’t think I’ve pulled off a truly dastardly April Fool’s Day prank ever since.

The most I do anymore is make about a dozen boring prank calls to secretaries for various city big shots, give them a made up name and ask them to call me at 412 665-3640.

It’s so lame.

I could probably try and concoct something devious here on the blog, but I don’t think I’d feel right using the blog for such shiftless purposes and, besides, everyone knows it’s wrong to tell lies on the internet.

Maybe you can do better. 

Either way I hope you’ll fight the repressive pressure to be pretentious and will instead try and savor the silly.

I’ll try and do the same, but first things first.

It’s just about time to call the Pittsburgh Zoo, as I do every April 1st, and say, “Hello! This is Mr. L.E. Funt. Been any calls for me?”

* April Fools! This originally ran April 1, 2014

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The joys of saying "I told you so ..."

(710 words)

I have to tell you right up front you’re not going to like this one. So don’t say I didn’t warn you. But I’ve got to call you out for your poor judgement and duplicity. 

First, you’re persisting in reading despite my honest admission that this one’s a stinker. 

Second, I know you’ve been lying. It’s a huge lie, one I’ll bet you tell at least once every six or so months (once a week if you’re raising sassy kids).

The whopper in question?

“I hate to say I told you so …”

Sound familiar?

Saying “I told you so,” to someone who’s just ignored your best advice and fallen flat on their face is one of life’s most sublime joys. It’s maybe the only lie we can tell that allows to simultaneously appear both wise and obnoxious.

And a squall of ITYSs are bound for me as soon as I post this and it’s all because of the innocuous looking picture up top.

Because as soon as I post this, my phone is going to detonate with a profanity-laced ITYS. Or maybe my friend Jim’ll resort to fireworks and sky writing.

It’s what I’d do.

Because for, oh, about six months now Jim, an omnibus Tin Lizzy golf/drinking/music/book buddy, and I have been engaged in a tipsy sort of whodunnit over the objects in the picture.

We’ve been swapping books for more than a year now and he meets the key requirements of every good book buddy, those being shared interests, a reverence for the printed word, careful book stewardship (it’s a book, not a coaster), and an understanding that burrowed books must be returned in a timely manner.

That last part is key.

To not return a book is in some cases and depending on the book a capital offense. To book lovers, books mean that much — more than even some of our children.

Unlike a child, a good book doesn’t bum dough off you, hog the TV remote during March Madness, nor rat you out for farting at the dinner table on Taco Tuesday, a night when farting at the dinner table should be a sporting event unto itself.

Well, about six or so months ago, Jim asked when I planned on returning the Graham Nash book and the Mark Knopfler CD you see above.

Return ‘em? Sorry, ol’ pal, I said. I clearly remember returning them to you about a month ago. 

This was a lie. Jim drinks 1800 Tequila; I guzzle Wild Turkey. There is nothing “clearly” recollected when the two of get together.

But I hadn’t seen either around the house or the office, the only two places where I’d have had my hands on the items. I said they had to be in his house someplace. “Either that or you lost them,” I taunted.

He'd bring it up about once a week. The book, especially, was a sore spot, as it was a gift from his girlfriend. A keepsake.

But that didn’t make me feel any less righteous. 

I felt that way right up to Saturday while during a rare burst of spring cleaning, I saw an unusual looking bag near the shelves where I keep my treasured books.

Spoiler alert! It was Jim’s book/CD.

I decided to use the belated find as a teachable moment for the kids. I explained the situation and asked what they thought we should do.

Our options, I said, were to do the right thing and admit my error; burn the books and go to my grave insisting I was right and Jim was an idiot; or sneak them into Jim’s house and leave them somewhere he’d find them in another 10 or 15 years when I’ll be dead and he’ll feel the kind of shame from which he’d never recover.

I was perversely pleased that no one said I should do the right thing.

In the end, this is what I decided to do and in about five minutes from now submit to a howling ITYS.

And you?

You get nothing. A sloppy, rather formulaic ending to a blog that inside of one week you won’t even remember reading. A complete waste of time.

I hate to say I told you so …

Related …

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I’m now hosting Tin Lizzy book luncheons

I buy books

I am America’s drinking buddy

I pranked the trash man today

I pranked the trash man today (from '10)

I guess it all starts with me wanting to be a garbage man. Some would say I achieved that goal from 1992-2000 when I worked for National Enquirer, a job that required sifting through the occasional trash bin.

But I’m not talking about a journalistic trash man.

I’m talking about the real thing.

As a boy, I’d thrill every time the big truck with the burly men hanging off the back came roaring up the road. They were big, noisy and boisterous. They’d seize the big barrels, frisbee the lids into the hedges and dump all our stinking trash into the big maw in the back.

Then -- EERRRRGGGHH! -- they’d press the button and all the newspapers, food stuffs, bottles and cans we threw away before enlightened recycling began was devoured in the hungry maw.

I never dreamed of sitting in a small, still room all by myself spending hours crafting pointless stories destined to be ignored by the multitudes.

Geez, when I think of it in those stark terms, it’s a wonder I don’t run screaming over to Waste Management and beg them to let me jump on the back of a big green truck bound for the local dump.

And, really, why wouldn’t most men?

It’s real work. 

Martin Luther King Jr. was slain while he was engaged trying to bestow common dignity to Memphis trash haulers. The association further ennobles my appreciation for the men who haul garbage.

That’s why this morning I’m feeling so ashamed. I played a malicious trick on a man who contributes so much more for society than I could ever hope to.

Yes, this morning I pranked the trash man.

I know every week on this day he shows up in pouring rain, sizzling sun and does his dirty duties. When the record February snows closed schools, streets and businesses, this two-man crew never missed a day or slipped off schedule.

And every day when they are out there behind The Pond, the tavern above which my office is strategically located, I stop whatever I’m doing and race to the window to watch.

It’s true. It takes them about 10 minutes to hook up the winch and raise the dumpster so all the bar trash falls into the truck. The two-man crew is so conscientious, I’ve never seen so much as a bottle cap drop onto the parking lot.

Then the shaven-headed guy with the sunny demeanor to match his tanned complexion reverses the procedure. The winch cable sets the dumpster back down near the fence between the lot and family home behind it.

It’s easier work than it used to be and safer, I’m sure, but there’s still potential to get a careless hand squashed by all the heavy lifting machinery.

Then baldy unhooks the cable, jumps back on the truck and is again on his merry way.

But earlier this spring I observed him adding a surprising natural function to the procedure.

He’d step behind the angled dumpster with is back to the fence. He’d remove his work gloves and set them on the big green bin. He’d look left. He’d look right. He’d look left again.

Even with his body concealed, any man and most worldly women could tell exactly what he was doing.

The trash man was urinating behind the dumpster!

It was broad daylight. It’s in a business parking lot that would soon be crowded with lunch patrons. It’s between two busy streets where people push strollers and walk their dogs.

It seemed so audacious. I was amazed. Certainly, I couldn’t begrudge him need for relief. It’s not likely a local restaurant or customer would welcome him into their homes to use the bathroom.

So a guy’s gonna do what a guy’s gotta to do.

Yet a surprisingly prim part of me felt compelled to signal that using my bar’s dumpster for a toilet was improper.

So today from behind the curtains of my second floor office, I lay in wait for him to answer nature’s call.

He did his job then he removed the gloves. He looked left. He looked right. He looked left again. I waited until he assumed the relaxed posture of a man whose bladder is beginning to spill.

Then I pushed the red panic button on my car fob. Not twenty feet to his left, the only car in the parking lot, my Saturn Vue, began rhythmically and loudly honking. 

I don’t know how I expected him to react, but here’s what happened:

He jumped as if he’d been tased. His feet left the ground. His expression was similar to that of a jewel thief caught in the act.

A weekly routine of his that usually lasted in excess of 50 seconds was over in 8.

Startled, he zipped up and zipped back into the truck. In a flash, he and the truck were gone. Only an echo of the engine remained amid the swirling stink.

And there behind the cowardly curtain, I began to laugh. I laughed my ass off for about 10 minutes. And now an hour later, every couple of minutes, I’m still chuckling.

It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

And I feel small because of it.

It was a dirty, low-down trick on a noble, hard-working man doing a job few admire and fewer would do.

I know some day I’ll need to make amends.

One day I’ll see him in that parking lot and I’m going to apologize. I’ll tell him about my dirty trick and that the prankster in me just couldn’t resist.

Then I’ll offer my hand in apology and respect. I hope he’ll shake it.

And if he does, I know exactly what I’m going to do next.

I’ll rush straight to the bathroom and give that hand a really good scrubbing.

I pranked the trash man today

I guess it all starts with me wanting to be a garbage man. Some would say I achieved that goal from 1992-2000 when I worked for National Enquirer, a job that required sifting through the occasional trash bin.

But I’m not talking about a journalistic trash man.

I’m talking about the real thing.

As a boy, I’d thrill every time the big truck with the burly men hanging off the back came roaring up the road. They were big, noisy and boisterous. They’d seize the big barrels, frisbee the lids into the hedges and dump all our stinking trash into the big maw in the back.

Then -- EERRRRGGGHH! -- they’d press the button and all the newspapers, food stuffs, bottles and cans we threw away before enlightened recycling began was devoured in the hungry maw.

I never dreamed of sitting in a small, still room all by myself spending hours crafting pointless stories destined to be ignored by the multitudes.

Geez, when I think of it in those stark terms, it’s a wonder I don’t run screaming over to Waste Management and beg them to let me jump on the back of a big green truck bound for the local dump.

And, really, why wouldn’t most men?

It’s real work.

Martin Luther King Jr. was slain while he was engaged trying to bestow common dignity to Memphis trash haulers. The association further ennobles my appreciation for the men who haul garbage.

That’s why this morning I’m feeling so ashamed. I played a malicious trick on a man who contributes so much more for society than I could ever hope to.

Yes, this morning I pranked the trash man.

I know every week on this day he shows up in pouring rain, sizzling sun and does his dirty duties. When the record February snows closed schools, streets and businesses, this two-man crew never missed a day or slipped off schedule.

And every day when they are out there behind The Pond, the tavern above which my office is strategically located, I stop whatever I’m doing and race to the window to watch.

It’s true. It takes them about 10 minutes to hook up the winch and raise the dumpster so all the bar trash falls into the truck. The two-man crew is so conscientious, I’ve never seen so much as a bottle cap drop onto the parking lot.

Then the shaven-headed guy with the sunny demeanor to match his tanned complexion reverses the procedure. The winch cable sets the dumpster back down near the fence between the lot and family home behind it.

It’s easier work than it used to be and safer, I’m sure, but there’s still potential to get a careless hand squashed by all the heavy lifting machinery.

Then baldy unhooks the cable, jumps back on the truck and is again on his merry way.

But earlier this spring I observed him adding a surprising natural function to the procedure.

He’d step behind the angled dumpster with his back to the fence. He’d remove his work gloves and set them on the big green bin. He’d look left. He’d look right. He’d look left again.

Even with his body concealed, any man and most worldly women could tell exactly what he was doing.

The trash man was urinating behind the dumpster!

It was broad daylight. It’s in a business parking lot that would soon be crowded with lunch patrons. It’s between two busy streets where people push strollers and walk their dogs.

It seemed so audacious. I was amazed. Certainly, I couldn’t begrudge him need for relief. It’s not likely a local restaurant or customer would welcome him into their homes to use the bathroom.

So a guy’s gonna do what a guy’s gotta to do.

Yet a surprisingly prim part of me felt compelled to signal that using my bar’s dumpster for a toilet was improper.

So today from behind the curtains of my second floor office, I lay in wait for him to answer nature’s call.

He did his job then he removed the gloves. He looked left. He looked right. He looked left again. I waited until he assumed the relaxed posture of a man whose bladder is beginning to spill.

Then I pushed the red panic button on my car fob. Not twenty feet to his left, the only car in the parking lot, my Saturn Vue, began rhythmically and loudly honking.

I don’t know how I expected him to react, but here’s what happened:

He jumped as if he’d been tased. His feet left the ground. His expression was similar to that of a jewel thief caught in the act.

A weekly routine of his that usually lasted in excess of 50 seconds was over in 8.

Startled, he zipped up and zipped back into the truck. In a flash, he and the truck were gone. Only an echo of the engine remained amid the swirling stink.

And there behind the cowardly curtain, I began to laugh. I laughed my ass off for about 10 minutes. And now an hour later, every couple of minutes, I’m still chuckling.

It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.

And I feel small because of it.

It was a dirty, low-down trick on a noble, hard-working man doing a job few admire and fewer would do.

I know some day I’ll need to make amends.

One day I’ll see him in that parking lot and I’m going to apologize. I’ll tell him about my dirty trick and that the prankster in me just couldn’t resist.

Then I’ll offer my hand in apology and respect. I hope he’ll shake it.

And if he does, I know exactly what I’m going to do next.

I’ll rush straight to the bathroom and give that hand a really good scrubbing.

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