As much as I hate to admit
it, I am like my father in a couple of ways. Probably more than a couple, BUT
LET’S LEAVE THAT TO MY THERAPIST, SHALL WE?! My father, a.k.a. “Professor
Pops,” is the Ace of Antics, the Sultan of ‘Splosions, and the Friar of Fire.
So it should come as no surprise that I’ve taken a few pages from his syllabus
when it comes to having fun.
I love pranks. They get me
giddy, they do. To paint you a quick picture, think maniacal laughter,
twiddling fingers, and a few seconds of panic when I wonder if the fart that
slipped out during the height of the maniacal laughter gifted my shorts with
something of substance.
Poop. I’m trying to say I
poop myself when I’m prank plotting.
I’ve known Roommate since
kindergarten, though I’ll never admit to hanging out with him back then,
fucking loser. We’ve been through the highest of highs and the lowest of lows
and I’m extremely grateful he’s my best friend. It’s also why he’s one of my
favorite targets. Except, he does a piss poor job at acknowledging my
shenanigans.
“Really,” he asks while I
attempt to explain the genius of it. “You did that? Huh. Didn’t even notice.”
The prank was the most
extravagant and intensive prank I have ever concocted. And he gives me a “Huh”?
Fucker.
He was on the cusp of
finishing his Masters in Oregon and whined to me of not having any new music. I
had some, so I told him I’d send him a few CDs. The plotting began as soon as
the words left my mouth. After getting Rocky Mountain High (which is just plain
better and cheaper, by the way), I laughed maniacally, twiddled my fingers,
changed my shorts, and began implementation. I would send him 4 discs, labeled
1, 2, 3, and 5, implying number 4 had gotten lost in the mail. I had hoped it
would worry him, the strife drilling into his skull like maggots claiming a dead
raccoon. (Whoa, that turned dark.) Discs 1, 3, and 5 would be new music mixed with some of our golden
oldies: pop punk circa 2000.
Disc 2 was my masterpiece. I
pulled songs from albums I would never listen to and changed the names of those
songs, the artists, and even the albums. I pulled inspiration from my
main brain and the bookshelf to my right. Disc 2 opened with a 46-second clip
that was actually from a punk album, but I changed its name to a scene from the
Godfather Part II; the trilogy had been a topic of a recent conversation.
Here’s the complete list of fake songs, artists, and albums:
I’d like to point out a few
that I’m particularly proud of – and let’s be honest, this entire blahg entry
is me pointing out what I’m proud of, ‘cause I’m an attention slut, cuz! The Fist Pumps (14), Zesty Tones (11), The Shotty Apostles (13),
Fetch the Letch (20), and The Wet Chords (12) are all quality band names. The In Patients (10) belt their hit “Right Yourself Off” on their debut album, “Visiting Time Is
Over.” Of course it is. “King Leary” (5) was spawned the moment I looked at the
Shakespeare collection to my right.
Three months later, much to
my disappointment, I sit explaining my prank to Roommate because he hadn’t even
given Disc 2 a glance or a listen. Bastard. OHHHHH, TOO BUSY WITH YOUR MASTERS
PROGRAM TO HONOR A GREAT PRANK! BLAH! BLAH! BLAHG!
Bastard, right?
Thank you for your enthusiastic support of me in this matter.
Prank 2 also involves CDs of
the burned variety. Roommate went back to Minnesota for Christmas to celebrate
with his family. I opted for a more stress-free holiday at home, and while at
home, and while high (weird), it dawned on me. I drove him to the airport
in his vehicle, right? Which just so happens to have a 6-disc CD changer, right? He had
recently created a mix for his hour-long commute to and from work, RIGHT?! My plan was
simple: create 6 new CDs with songs he hated.
But that wasn’t enough. As I
giggled to the thought of him having to endure High School Musical, Backstreet
Boys, and Korn, another thought bubble bubbled into m' brain: throw in a
few songs he’ll actually enjoy, increasing the likelihood he’ll trudge through
each terrible song of each disc looking for the keepers.
To top it all off, I
took the first two songs on his new mix and put that on the first CD, to lull
him into a sense of security before pouncing with the prank. I title them all, “Haha! Fucker.” with subtitles like, "I Totally Fucking Got You" and "You Thought This Was Your CD, Didn't You? You Fucking Moron!" I swap all his CDs with the new ones, turn it to the first song of
“his” mix, and crank the volume, because he knows I listen to my music loud and he'll think, "Oh, Brad just so happened to come across my new mix." All part of the sell.
Yes, even children can look like tools.
“Funny guy.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, listened to those CDs
you made. You’re a funny guy.”
I laugh. “Why, thank you!”
“You have a lot of shitty
music.”
I laugh more, the volume and
pitch increasing.
“The books on tape were
pretty funny. I sat there for a while trying to figure out which book they were
from.”
“Did you figure it out?”
“No.”
