When Pranksters Pay


My husband is an unapologetic prankster. An ice-down-the-back, unscrewed-salt-shaker, jump-out-at-you-in-the-dark prankster with a capital P. I swear he was the brains behind the show Punked. And I’ve learned over the years never to prank him back or else I get it tenfold. But apparently there is a God who sees his prankster ways, feels my pain, and decided it was time for justice. And boy is justice sweet…

One of my clearly-not-enough-chores-to-do hubby’s favorite pastimes is scaring the piss out of me. Literally. Try birthing four kids and see how solid your bladder control is. You see, we have this Mr. Coffee frappe maker that is loud as all get-out. It’s stealthy quiet while it brews the coffee, then CRUNCH–suddenly this jump-out-of-your-skin sound erupts, nearly shaking the house and sending my 9-month-old into tears. I’m not kidding about jarring the house, either. I think the mass of bodies bolting up at the sound and landing back down has damaged the foundation from when that machine crushes the ice.

Many a time dear hubby has called me into the kitchen to “come see this bird outside” or “help figure out what’s growing in the fridge,” only to time it perfectly for me to enter the kitchen when the frappe machine starts convulsing, and thus makes me pee my pants. (Maybe Mr. Coffee and Depends adult diapers are in kahoots together?)

But this time God intervened.

The prank was all set. Hubby prepped the frappe maker. But just before he planned his attack, he noticed something stuck in the garbage disposal in the sink. A spoon, perhaps? Now distracted and sticking his hand in the disposal to investigate, the frappe maker goes off, which Hubby thought was the garbage disposal abruptly starting–and removing his fingers wedged inside. A girlish shriek carries to where I’m watching this unfold: Hubby nearly having a heart attack from his imagination going wild as he pulls his hand out, expecting to see nubby, bloody remains of what used to be his fingers.

I couldn’t help but laugh for at least ten minutes as realization dawns on him that it was the frappe maker and not Final Destination coming after his limbs. And I’ll tell you what–I totally didn’t mind peeing my pants that day!


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