Prank #3: Bringing Home the Bacon, Part I

By Shawn

Like my sibling, I don’t really understand the difference between expressions of affection and surreal forms of terrorism. It’s just how we say “I love you.” In grad school, I have a good friend—let’s just call her “Cathy”—who’s very dear to me; unfortunately what that means is that she’s on the receiving end of random acts of friendship-terrorism all the time. Here’s an example.

Cathy is a gracious host, and whenever my group of friends wants to cook together, we usually do it at her place. Because my group of friends is kind of disgusting when it comes to food, this usually involves making a shit-ton of bacon. As one might expect, this gave rise to the need for a container in which to drain off copious amounts of grease. Whence came the Bacon Jar.

The origins of Bacon Jar are shrouded in mystery. He may once have been a jar of preserves, but no one knows for sure. Though destined for Cathy’s recycling, he was spared that ignominious end by  a quirk of fate, and was instead re-purposed to serve as a beloved storage vessel for six people’s gluttonous leavings.

Back then, when Bacon Jar was new and brimming with youth/bacon fat, we kept him in Cathy’s fridge, the better to have him handy. Then one day, after a particularly bacon-heavy cooking session, I decided for whatever reason that it would be amusing to hide him under Cathy’s pillow.

Well, she sure loved that. Somehow she managed not to find it until about 3 AM, when her arms knocked against it as she shifted positions. Startled by the feel of the cool, moderately greasy glass against her skin, she bolted upright and turned on the light. And there he was, in all his glory. She stared at Bacon Jar with a mixture of rage and incredulity. I was going to hear about this.

She confronted me the next time we were at her house.

Cathy: Shawn. The other day, did you put the jar of bacon fat under my pillow?

Shawn: Surely not.

Cathy: I think maybe that you did.

Shawn: I think I’d remember that.

Cathy: (shoving Bacon Jar into my arms) I think you need to get this jar of bacon fat out of my house.

Shawn: (accepting) Sure, I’ll take it. But you know what they say: “If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you…”

Cathy: Oh no. Wait. Give that back.

Shawn: Too late!

And that was the last Cathy saw of Bacon Jar for months. But in the meantime, my friends and I have not been idle. The preparations have been made. The Bacon Jar is coming home. And this is how Cathy’s finding out.

Stay tuned for Part II.

P.S. Also, “Cathy,” I deliberately arranged today so that I’d be putting up this post while you were sitting across from me at the same coffee shop table. And, apropos of something else entirely, you just uttered the sentence, “You know, you’re in danger of constantly appearing like an evil genius without ever bothering to put in the actual work.” Well, here’s the work.

The Evil Tooth Fairy

By Shawn

Being a good big brother is all about looking out for your sibling, so I always did my best to help my parents take care of my sister. Of course, I had my own very distinct ideas about what exactly that entailed. Here’s an example, from when Ann was four and I was eight.

Mom: I just can’t get Ann to brush her teeth without constantly nagging her.

Dad: I know, I’ve talked to her about it twice already. What do you think we should do?

Shawn: (from the corner, where I’m sitting, coloring) Don’t worry, I got this.

Mom: You got this? What does that mean?

Shawn: Nothing, don’t worry about it.

Mom: … Should we do something here?

Dad: If he doesn’t tell us what he’s planning, we have plausible deniability.

Mom: Good point. Carry on, sweetie.

Thus implicitly authorized by my parents to get my little sister to brush her teeth by any means necessary, I immediately went to work.

Shawn: Hey Ann, guess what?

Ann: What?

Shawn: You know about the tooth fairy, right?

Ann: Yeah…

Shawn: Well, did you ever hear about the evil tooth fairy?

Ann: The evil tooth fairy?

Shawn: Uh huh. She’s just like the tooth fairy, except instead of taking your teeth when they fall out, she snatches them right out of your mouth.

Ann: (eyes widening) What?

Shawn: The worst part is, once she yanks your teeth out, she eats them right in front of you. Laughing.

Ann: But, but–

Shawn: Don’t worry though. So as long as you brush your teeth, she won’t get you. She only likes dirty teeth, because clean teeth don’t taste good to her. And they’re too hard to pull out with her pliers. Which have spikes.

Ann: If I don’t brush, she’ll really come take my teeth??

Shawn: Oh yes. Just look at this drawing.

Ann: Oh no!

Shawn: (is suddenly struck by the same realization that made medieval Catholicism go bad) … There’s another way to get rid of her, you know. You know how the good tooth fairy takes your teeth and gives you money?

Ann: Yeah…

Shawn: Well, if you leave the bad tooth fairy money, she won’t take your teeth. Just put a quarter under your pillow every night. Or, you know what’s easier? Just give it to me, and I’ll make sure she gets it.

Ann: But I don’t have to, right, if I remember to brush my teeth?

Shawn: Hmm, I dunno. What if you forget or don’t do a good enough job? Do you really want to wake up in the middle of the night to see the evil tooth fairy standing over your bed, eyes glowing red in the night, cackling as she eats your filthy teeth right in front of you?

Ann: (panics) Mooooooooomm!!! (runs out of the room)

Shawn: Dang, overdid it.

My parents were not exactly pleased by my attempt to set up an evil tooth fairy extortion racket. I admit I probably deserved the stern talking-to I received. I will say, however, that even though my parents disabused Ann of the notion that there was an evil tooth fairy waiting to attack her in the night, they could not totally efface the primal fear I’d managed to instilled in her heart. As a consequence, you can bet your ass she started brushing her teeth. And if my methods work, is it really so bad to expect a little remuneration for my efforts? Just sayin’.

Adventures in iPhoning

By Ann

Today, I’ve been reading about Siri, the awesomely creepy assistant programmed into the new iphone, who can talk to you and follow voice commands. Naturally, I’m endeavoring to create as intimate a relationship as possible with Siri to build up the terrifying illusion that my phone is a sentient robot who knows and understands my every wish.

Apple seems eager as ever to assist me in my mission. In my research, I discovered that you can tell Siri about your relationships with contacts in your phone to be able to say, “Call my brother,” for instance, instead of “Call Shawn.” Never mind the fact that it would clearly be more efficient just to say, “Call Shawn.” That is entirely beside the point.

So I tried to put Grant into my phone. Here’s how that went:

Siri: What can I help you with?

Ann: Siri, Grant is my boyfriend.

Siri: I’m not sure what you mean by, ‘France is my boyfriend.’

However, after I learned to annunciate, I soon discovered that I could abuse this feature wildly by plugging whatever the hell I wanted into the formula:

Name of Contact is my XXXXX.

Case in point:

Siri: What can I help you with?

Ann: Siri, Maia is my evil badger.

Siri: Do you want me to remember that Maia is your evil badger?

Ann: Oh, yes, please do.

Siri: Ok. I’ve added this relationship.

<Lists Maia as: Evil Badger: Maia.>

I’ve never been so happy.

Prank #2: The Twizzler Stalemate

By Ann

I don’t really like Twizzlers. I mean, I like them okay, but that’s just not how you’re supposed to feel about a piece of candy. If you’re not excited about it, then what’s the point? But at the same time, it technically is candy. You can’t just throw out a piece of candy. Hence, every time I somehow acquire one of these little red sticks of disheartening mediocrity, I get stuck in this terrible stalemate with myself—unable to eat it, unable to throw it out, able only to regard it with a disdainful, “Eh.”

That’s why, when someone gave me a Twizzler two years ago, I didn’t eat it. I didn’t throw it out. Instead, I stuck it in the pocket of my winter coat to forget about. Last winter, a year ago, I noticed it was still there. Once again, I faced a familiar dilemma—couldn’t eat it, couldn’t throw it out. I just went, “Eh,” and tucked it back into my pocket.

This winter, I found it again. I took it out of my coat, looked at it with quiet disappointment, and was about to stick it back in there, when it suddenly occurred to me! The answer to my two-year stalemate:

FEED IT TO SOMEBODY ELSE.

Of course! Why hadn’t I put it all together before?! It was the perfect way to get the accursed rod of licorice out of my pocket, while also proving an opportunity for a small bit of hilarious evil.

The only problem was, no one was gonna want to eat a two-year old piece of licorice. I could’ve omitted the two-year-old bit of information when I was offering it to potential victims, but that didn’t seem right. I had to tell them what was wrong with it at least once before they ate it. Otherwise, it would hardly be sporting. Plus, where was the challenge? Hence, I knew this would have to be a long-term project.  My winter 2011-2012 goal: to tell one of my friends that this piece of licorice is two years old, and get them to ingest it for me anyway.

So, I offered Katie the licorice in late November and told her it was two years old. She declined to eat it.

I offered Grant the licorice in mid-December and told him it was two years old. He, too, declined to eat it.

But there I stopped my search for potential victims, and lay in wait like a patient spider who had just finished spinning her web. Before the winter was out, the flies would come. It would be Katie or Grant. They would get hungry, they would be drunk, they would forget just how old it was… One or all of these factors would unwittingly lead one of them right into the licorice trap.

This brings us to this past Monday, January 9^th, 2012. Katie and I were walking to meet a friend in DC. She was hungry, it had been over a month since I had offered the licorice to her… She wasn’t drunk, but still, things were falling into place. The following scene shortly took place:

Katie: I’m so hungry! Where is Jamie? I want dinner!

Ann: How hungry are you?

Katie: I’m really freaking hungry!

Ann: Well, in that case, do you want a piece of candy?

Katie: Candy? Yes! Give it to me now!

Ann: (Offering Twizzler from pocket) Here you go.

Katie: (Hesitating) Wait. That Twizzler. What’s wrong with it?

Ann: What do you mean?

Katie: I can’t explain it, but I feel like something’s wrong with that Twizzler. Did you tell me something was wrong with it?

Ann: Well, it’s a Twizzler, so that’s what’s wrong with it.

Katie: I dunno… (Pause as she vacillates between common sense and reckless abandon.) Well, okay! (Taking the Twizzler) Thanks!

Ann: You’re welcome.

Katie: (Biting into it) Oh, sweet Jesus! It’s rock hard! What’s wrong with you? How old is this?!

Ann: TWO YEARS OLD! IT’S TWO YEARS OLD! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I’M FREE! I’M FINALLY FREE!!!

(A pause.)

Ann: Do you hate that I’m your best friend?

Katie: YES. BECAUSE YOU’RE TERRIBLE.

She got over it, though.

Now, for the sake of those I love, no one had better give me any more Twizzlers.

Prank #1: THE CAR, Part 2

By Ann

Now, as you may or may not recall, on Saturday I posted the first part of a terrible story in which I needlessly sought elaborate revenge upon my boyfriend because of a small prank he pulled on me. If you do not recall, I suggest catching yourself up to speed by reading: The Car, Part 1. Otherwise, boy, are you going to be confused by the second half of this story.

THE CAR.

So, as you now definitely recall, where we left off, I had just entered Katie, Maia, and Shawn all into Grant’s phone, all listed as “The Car.”

Katie kicked off the texts again:

The Car (Katie): So how’s it going?

Grant: Sok. You?

The Car (Katie): Well, I kind of need an oil change. Other than that I’m good.

Grant: Ive heard sugar is a fantastic substance and much cheaper than oil. Im sure a few ounces would do wonders

The Car (Katie): Oh, you clever chap. I’m going to miss your little jokes when you’re dead.

Then Shawn joined in…

The Car (Shawn): Hey. Just a reminder. I’m still comin’ to kill you.

Grant: Oh i know – im working on my religion thing now

The Car (Shawn): No god can save you… from THE CAR.

Grant: Actually – distinctly remember hallowed ground being a weakness
of yours so …

The Car (Shawn): No, it’s just that cemeteries freak me out. My father died of
car-AIDS, and the funeral service kinda traumatized me.

Grant: Really shouldnt tell enemies a weakness. But thanks

The Car (Shawn): I mean, I’m getting over it. I’m in therapy.

Grant: So its cool if i told you im using his old battery to power my car.

The Car (Shawn): In that case, you’re probably gonna wanna check it for
car-AIDS. Because it probably has a raging case of car-AIDS.

Grant: Nah – he didnt have car aids. Thats just what he said was an
excuse to avoid some kid he had

The Car (Shawn): It’s kind of hard to believe, given how many car-hookers
passed through our house. Which was a garage. Because we’re cars.

Grant: Sounds like you had a difficult childhood. Did he get drunk and
hit you a lot?

The Car (Shawn): Yeah, but they were mostly minor fender-benders. Still, I got
a lot of anger. And I’m gonna take it out. On your intestines.

Grant: You threaten and threaten but like your father youre never around

The Car (Shawn): Or am I? Check your bathtub.

Grant: So im getting the idea that you like to kill things. Youd say
that is apt?

That night, Maia sent out an email to us explaining that she was “taking the night shift.” From 3:30-7:30 am, Maia sent out an ominous text full of honking noises every hour on the hour.

When Grant woke up, he and Maia had a short chat.

The Car (Maia): Enjoy your last days alive. I’m parked now, but hitting the road on the morrow, foolish human.

Grant: oh.

The Car (Maia): huh. huh. huhuhuhuhuh. 

The Car (Maia): Getting hungry, hungry for your misery.

Grant: I’m good but thanks.

The Car (Maia): Your fate is immutable.

And then Katie returned:

The Car (Katie): MURDERTOWN.

Grant: Is that a holiday?

The Car (Katie): No, it’s a town, dumbass.

Grant: A town without holidays?

The Car (Katie): Shut up. I’m going to do wheelies on your grave.

Grant: Do you listen to the radio while you kill. I think you would like Holiday Road.

The Car (Katie): Ooh, what’s that?

Grant: It’s okay.

The Car (Katie): I’ve been listening to 97.1 lately but maybe I should check out holiday road. Mix it up.

Then, Shawn returned that afternoon and made everything a whole lot weirder.  As Shawn put it, “Interestingly, Grant never responded to any of it…”

The Car (Shawn): VVRROOOM VRRRROOM! Don’t mind me, just revving my murder-engine.

The Car (Shawn): Did you know I consider murder an erotic activity?

The Car (Shawn): After I kill you, I’m going to undress you.

The Car (Shawn): Ooooooooooh yeeeeeeaaahhh.

The Car (Shawn): I believe in miracles… since you came along, you sexy thing
(sexy thing you)…

After that, Katie took a brief, mortified holiday from texting, now afraid that Grant, who still had no idea that there were three “The Car” entries in his phone, would think that she was murder-sexting him. But Shawn was not to be discouraged:

The Car (Shawn): Beep beep. Hey there. Do you want kids?

Grant: Having boy trouble car?

The Car (Shawn): Well, I’m late. For an oil change. Also, I’m pregnant.

Grant: Are those two events related?

The Car (Shawn): The mechanic had such supple hands…

Grant: Dont they always

The Car (Shawn): Still, it might be yours.

Grant: Bitch please you know i always put covers on the seats

The Car (Shawn): I told you, a bead cover isn’t safe!

Grant: Well just go back and get the mechanic to take care of it. Its cool

The Car (Shawn): So you expect me to get rid of it. Is that it?

Grant: Youre still young — youve only got 24000 miles on you. Other
chances will come your way. So to speak

The Car (Shawn): I guess you have a point. He’d have to grow up without a father.

The Car (Shawn): Because I’m going to kill you.

The texts continued for at least an entire month.

We even made a Facebook for it and sent Grant a friend request. Unsurprisingly, this request was promptly ignored.

Now, a month after The Car’s reign of terror has finally abated, he still doesn’t know the identity of The Car, or maybe even that there were three separate The Cars.

This blog post is how he’s finding out.

The good news, babe, is that it’s finally over.

OR IS IT?

Prank #1: “There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no way to stop… THE CAR”

By Ann

Two months ago, my boyfriend stole my phone. He came over to my house, put my phone in his pocket, and carried it off into the night. I didn’t even notice until he sent me a Facebook message the next day informing me of his dastardly deed. True, I got the phone back later that day, but here’s the thing: if you start a prank war with me, it’s on, bucko. Because an elephant never forgets. Or FORGIVES.

Since that fateful night, I’d been looking for my opportunity to seize revenge. And then, the year 1977, along with director Elliot Silverstein, conspired to give me the beautiful gift of….

THE CAR.

For anyone who doesn’t know, THE CAR, is a horror film in which a demon-possessed car drives around and runs people over for absolutely no reason. In case you were wondering, the title is not in all caps. I’m writing it in all caps to express my awestruck respect and adulation.

Here’s the tagline: “There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no way to stop… THE CAR.”

If you want to be more impressed than you have ever been, watch this perfect trailer*:

You might think it’s starting to drag a little, but at 1:33, a sequence begins which culminates with the car crazily driving through a woman’s house in order to kill the shit out of her.

Anyway. Grant and I were bored one night and stumbled across this gem on Netflix. Needless to say, it was the best night of our young lives. It’s needless to say, because it totally wasn’t. But it was mildly entertaining. More importantly, it was exactly what I had been looking for.

I waited for days until he was foolish enough to leave me alone with his unguarded phone. Then I looked up my friend, Katie, in his contacts list and changed her ID to “The Car.”

And then the texts began to come in…

The Car (Katie): Beep beeeeep.

Grant: Well this is a confusing message

The Car (Katie): Comin’ to kill you!

Grant: So i know ann is involved but who is the phone – katie?

The Car (Katie): …? No, but seriously I’m gonna kill the shit out of you and everyone you love.

Grant: Well im outside so nows the time to strike

The Car (Katie): No, no. I’lll wait until you least expect it. And then you won’t even know it happened. Because you’ll be dead.

Grant: Makes sense. However im now in my car and ive played enough Mario kart to know you havent a chance

The Car (Katie): We shall see.

Grant: You still haven’t explained how you can text. I would think your tire fingers would make that impossible

The Car (Katie): I’m a fucking demon, Grant. I can do whatever the hell I want.

Grant: Oh you are a demon? That was unclear at the end. Your P.R. group is kinda lacking

The Car (Katie): Ugh, tell me about it. Don’t worry, I already drove them all off cliffs.

Grant: See that was your mistake. If you kill them they cant pimp you out

The only problem was that Grant was 90% sure that Katie was The Car. When I saw him that night, he attempted to get the truth out of me.

Grant: It has to be Katie.

Ann: Maybe.

Grant: It has to be. It’s not Shawn, is it?

Ann: Maybe.

Grant: It’s not Shawn. I guess it could be Maia. It is Maia?

Ann: Maybe.

Grant: It’s Katie.

Obviously this situation could not stand. So I did what any reasonable person what do. I stole his phone again, and added every person he guessed into his contact list as “The Car.” How did I know that they would all go along with it? Because I thank heaven every day that everyone I know and love is a maniac.

And then there were three.

Stayed tuned for Part 2 of Prank 1: THE CAR.