Hilarious April Fools Pranks

Sex "Change"

Schedule a sex change operation. On the day of the operation, request that you are numbed rather than put under. About forty minutes into the operation, tell your doctor, "You know what? On second thought, I think I'm gonna stay the way I was. Could you just put everything back together?" Before he's able to find how to respond say, "Since nothing's gonna be different, I'd better not be charged for this either."

We Don't Need No Stinking Taxes

Send in your federal income tax report with nothing filled in. Attach a note that reads:

Dear American Tax Person,

I no pay taxes. No green card. Also am terrorist.

From,
[Your name]

(If the authorities are gullible enough to come to your house, see how long you can keep them fooled. Once they've put you in handcuffs, you can laugh.)

Emergencies Everywhere

Ask your family members if they want to be in on an April Fool's Prank, but do not tell them what it is. Then call your local fire department to tell them that the local police department building is on fire. Next, call the local police department and tell them that several men are firing shots at the fire department building. Openly admire the confusion you've caused. Laugh heartily. Wait for a family member to say, "What if someone needs help? The police and the firefighters are busy." Immediately stop laughing. Look very serious. Say, "Exactly," directly to the family member who just spoke. Pull the tarp off the pile of gas soaked rags and logs in the corner of the room. Laugh again - this time more evilly.

Robin Hoodwinked

Complete a successful bank robbery. Slip the feds and travel to the small town where previously you charmed the impoverished populous and promised the town's well-liked Catholic priest that you would see to it personally that the people of this desolate, underprivileged community would one day enjoy a better life. Find the priest, and tell him you have made good on the promise. When he asks what you mean, tip your cap and leave him with your duffel bag at his feet. Tell him not to worry about where the gift came from - what's most important is that the townspeople get help. Leave before the priest finds that the bag is filled with jelly beans. Return to wherever you robbed the bank to return the money. Make sure to have a good laugh at the bank employees and the police officers who got suckered into thinking you were really robbing the bank.

Monkey's Uncle

Find a quiet place at the zoo to dress yourself in a gorilla costume. In costume, find a way into the lion's den. The zoo employees will look quite foolish when zoo patrons see that a gorilla has gotten into the lion's den.

Family Reunion

Host a family reunion barbecue at your home. Invite every relative you can think of, regardless of how distant. Make sure the reunion runs smoothly for a good three hours. Gather everyone into your backyard to hear your special address. When everyone is present, begin barking. Bark as loudly and convincingly as you can. Then say, "Now for everyone who's not dog people, I will translate: I have a cabbage patch of untold worth." Pull down your trousers and underpants to expose your dyed-green pubic hair. Begin asking who wants some cabbage. Sprint to the oldest family member present and yell, "Good boys eat their vegetables!" over and over. Perform an inappropriate dance at this time. Now run to your grill where you had been cooking hamburgers all day and shout, "There's no more people meat! You all go home now!" After everyone's left, send out a mass e-mail to let them know they've been "cabbaged".

Observational Humor Stylings of Kirak - Ten Year-Old Feral Boy

Domestics are always talking about their fine TiVo machines as if these devices make them superior. Last time I checked, superiority is determined when one male humps the corpse of his male rival after having crushed his rival's head with a large rock. Don't let my age fool you: I will crush your head with the skill of an Elder. And then I will mark your precious TiVo as mine with my leavings!


By round of applause, has any one else out there ever had a crappy job? OK good: I'm not the only one! Sir, what's the worst job you had? [Unpleasant job of any kind] you say? That almost sounds as bad as when I got hired to be a chef at Benihana. Yeah, that was a great idea: "Let's give the ten year-old a knife. Oh, he's Feral? In that case let's give him the biggest fucking cleaver we have." Right? "Welcome to Benihana, Miss. Might I interest you in some Hibachi Chaeaubriand, or would you prefer that I skip to the part where I revert to my animalistic ways and chase you around the restaurant with a knife bigger than my ten year-old head? How does that sound, Lady?" You know?


And how is it that hospital food is still awful? It's like, I've suffered serious injuries from a construction site accident that resulted from my forgetting that bulldozers are in fact machinery and not potential predators and that I need not and should not do battle with them when what I think is their faces turn in my direction - think you could cook my Salisbury steak all the way through? Because that would be great.


My girlfriend is starting to drop these "I want to get married" hints all the time now. Man, I can't freaking stand that. Hey babe, I've got a hint for ya: As soon as I reach the age of sexual maturity, I'll be fertilizing as many females as I can out of a uncontrollable urge to populate the species as much as I can. Should these females bear me strong, healthy offspring, I will protect them from predators as well as other males looking to gain dominance over me and my pack. And if you're lucky enough to produce offspring strong enough to survive the winters, then maybe you can be ONE of the females for whom I provide protection!" Am I right guys? Huh? Yeah, the [Unpleasant job of any kind] guy knows what I'm talkin' about!

Miss Manners Knows Everything

Dear Miss Manners,

I love cocaine. The only thing I think I love more than cocaine is hosting a coke party: the guests, the music, the occasional impromptu orgy...I just love coke parties.

Of course, there comes a time at almost every coke party when the cocaine starts to run low. Now whenever I go to someone else's party, I always suggest that the host should be entitled to the last line of the evening. By now, I'm a little hurt that for all the coke parties I've thrown, no one's ever stood up and said, "Hey, how about -------- gets the last hit?" Am I asking for anything beyond common courtesy?

The preparations for hosting a cocaine party are certainly nothing to scoff at: getting a head count, managing food preferences, setting up good music...not to mention procuring the cocaine. Without a doubt, everyone at a good coke party should be thankful for the capable host.

Even so, as host your highest priority is the happiness of your guests. If you care more about one last line of coke than being generous to your guests, then why host these parties in the first place? Just keep your doors locked and the lights off, and then you can snort enough nose candy to paint your brains white.


Dear Miss Manners,

I can remember when I was about twelve years ago, my father gave my some sage advice: Avoid debates with friends and family over religion or politics - you'll be arguing until blue in the face and by the end, nothing in the world's changed except now you have a gripe with a loved one.

This pearl has kept me out of trouble for most of my life, until about three months ago. Since I proposed to my girlfriend, her mother has taken every opportunity she can to question and belittle Satanism whenever she is around me. I'll show up with my fiancée for a barbecue, and her mother will say, "Oh hi Devil Boy. Do you people eat hamburgers? Or should I find a tasty virgin for you to snack on?" She'll even make devil horns on her head with her fingers and shake her head with her tongue out when no one is looking. One time she whispered to me that she dreams of chopping my unholy alter to bits with an axe. How am I going to make this marriage work?

The first thing you should ask your (hopefully) future mother-in-law is how much does she really know about Satanism. As a Satanist, have you performed any charitable works or fundraising for people in need? Informing your fiancée's mother on how much Satanists give back to the community should give you just the leverage you need to speak with her confidently.

If she absolutely refuses to listen to anything you say, then you'll just have to live with the fact that she is unreachable. Religious intolerance is always ugly, and it gets uglier when it stands in the way of a(n) (un)holy union. But if you truly love your fiancée, then perhaps the best thing to do is to pray to the Lord of Darkness with all your heart and hope for the best.


Dear Miss Manners,

As a hitman, I have two rules: 1) No women, and 2) No children. But sometimes when I'm doing a job, it can't be helped that a family member or significant other will be there to see me "do my work" (i.e., murder their loved one.)

Throughout my long career as a hitman, I've never hurt a woman or a child. At the same time, I've had a number of children, wives, and girlfriends look on at a most inopportune time for them. Any advice on what to say when I'm caught "taking out the trash" (i.e., stuffing someone's recently deceased loved one into a trash bag)?

For touchy issues like these, it's always best to give the offended party some time. After seven days, it would be fitting for you to return to the scene of the unpleasant encounter. Probably a good idea to bring over flowers and a bottle of wine, but don't be too apologetic. After all, you were just doing your job.

If you're invited in, do your best to brighten anyone's mood with conversation. Remember: A little self-deprecating goes a long way. (e.g., "I know what you're thinking kids: Was this the best hitman that the Pucelli family could have sent? Haha. Believe me, I certainly am not. Just ask my wife - she'll be happy to tell you how lousy I am!)

Try not to overstay your welcome. If you are invited for dinner, kindly excuse yourself. Perhaps mention "another job" that has to be handled tonight. They will probably laugh at that.


Dear Miss Manners,

For many years I've employed the services of prostitutes, yet I have never had a clear idea how to handle tipping. What is the correct amount to tip, if at all?

Seventeen percent. No more. No less. Seventeen percent.


Dear Miss Manners,

Not too long ago, I used half-truths (and even some non-truths) to convince a country to enter into a war that this country had no adequate reason being involved in to begin with. Now, almost four years later, I can still feel the sneers and disapproving looks when I try to spend some time with the country. I know now that I was in the wrong. I want to apologize, but time has only aggravated the wounds I've created instead of healing them. What is there I can do?

This is nothing that a little baking cannot fix. Accrue 30,000 pounds of sugar, 40,000 pounds of flour, 8,000 eggs, 2,000 gallons of vanilla extract, and 5,000 pounds of chocolate chips. Once you have your supplies, you're almost ready to begin. To make a proper apology cake, you simply must use a gas oven. Electric simply will not do. Mix the sugar, the flour, the eggs, and the vanilla extract in an Olympic sized pool. Once adequatly mixed, let the mixture sit for half an hour. In the meantime, you will need to inspect your oven and make sure it is in pristine condition before you begin baking. Stick your head in your gas oven, and do not exit it until you have been in there for at least 25 minutes.

After that, everything should be much better. For everybody.

Happy Birthday Mom

Today is The Very Mathias's Mother's Birthday! I love her, and she loves Robert Redford. These are birthday cards she might like to receive from Robert Redford.

Berlin

The hostel website mentioned nothing about strippers.

I had read all about a great view of downtown Berlin. There was no literature to prepare me for a great view of ass in my face. In reality, it's unlikely my subject was a stripper by trade. Only in spirit. (That spirit being, "Hm. I'm in a room of total strangers. I will remove my clothes.")

I suppose to some this story makes me a voyeur. A gawker. A horndog. But really, let's save these terms for the guys who make the effort to go to where women strip. These clubs of stripping, or strip clubs as I'm known to call them, are incredibly unsexy. Some guys go there to get their kicks, because what's sexier than a stranger with a fake name pretending to be interested in you after you give her money? Some guys claim they go for a laugh, for a good night out. Hey, here's a fun game to play with you and your bros next time you're in a strip club: Try picking out the girls who'd rather being doing something else with their lives. (Hint: The girls who start crying halfway through giving you a lap dance almost definitely don't want to be there.) Get guessing!

(It's not just that what goes on in a strip club isn't sexy - it's anti-sexy. It destroys sexy. With a strip club, you've got women (sexy), revealing outfits (sexy), and Van Halen riffs (at least "arguably sexy") and still the whole thing comes out all wrong.)

ANYWAY, the point is that there are bigger pigs than me out there. I'll admit I was far from being a gentleman, but it's not like I asked for it. It was just there. And anyways, as you'll see, I was a victim.

Like I said, I was staying in a hostel. I was sharing a six-bed mixed room with two travel pals, one overaged* and oversized** Italian, and a pair of dames I wouldn't be acquainted with until later.

(*For hostel standards, that is. This guy probably wasn't over 35. Many hostels have rules against anyone over 29 taking board. Virtually all hostels, however, have this rule in principle. It's just odd to think that a respectable adult wants to crash in a room full of early twenty-somethings, most of whom - from what I've seen - behave like they're still in their first year of college.)

(**And he was fat, too!)

After a day packed with seeing the city and a night spent touring the bars, my companions and I called it a night and made it back to the hostel at a quarter to three. Papa Meatball was already sound asleep. By 3:30, I was the only one awake in the room. By 3:45, I was starting to drift. Starting, until interrupted by doors unlocking and Germans whispering. Two fraulines. None too interested in practicing my German listening skills, I closed my eyes and passed out.

Minutes later, I'm awoken by the sound of a locker shutting. The room is dark, but I notice that there is a German girl - the one who closed the locker - standing right beside my bottom bunk. "That's a short skirt!" I observed to myself. As I got my bearings, I realized her skirt wasn't exceptionally short - her legs were exceptionally long. This girl was a giant. She was so tall, that standing as close to my bottom bunk as she was blocked my view of her face. She was easily six foot.

But before she even gave me time to fully appreciate her Amazonian growth rate, she was getting out of her clothes faster than a backup NBA point guard coming off the bench. In about fifteen seconds, this German giant was in nothing but a bra and thong. And three seconds later, it was just the thong.

As great as this moment was, it's not the point of the story. In brief, I'll say that this was a good look for her. This was a very good look for her. At the time, I realize that my rave reviews of this girl are über-objectifying: I haven't even seen her face yet; all I'm evaluating her by is her legs, tits, and ass. This made me feel bad. Nowhere near bad enough to pull away from her legs, tits, and ass, but still, kind of bad.

Her friend must be in bed already. I can't see her anywhere. My new exhibitionist friend, though, still has some washing up to do. So she parades (still pajamaless) to the washroom. Minutes later she's bedside again. Oops! Someone forgot to fill up her water bottle. Back on that catwalk, you. Cover up? Why bother! What are the chances that a depraved American is studying you like the Periodic Table. (Especially if the Periodic Table had killer legs and loved thongs.)

Shortly, the dream is over. The Periodic Table is in bed, and although I didn't get a great look, I think with her long legs she was able to get on the top bunk without using the ladder.

After maybe a minute, I sit up in bed as quiet as I can. Looking to my travel companions, I start waving my arms frantically, trying to say in bastardized sign language, "Did anybody else SEE that???????" They take no notice. I even tried appealing to Signor Chest Hair, but the fat Italian bastard is completely out of it. Nobody else in the room saw what I saw. And this is what got me in trouble.

If I knew one of my friends was awake, I wouldn't have been left to myself to replay the scene over and over and over in my head. I probably also wouldn't have bothered trying to think of the German words I needed to compliment, flatter, and eventually woo this total stranger. And I certainly wouldn't have actual gotten up to use this routine on the girl if I knew I was being watched.

But everyone else in the room was asleep, and so I was doomed. For me, there was no other option in the situation. What I was doing was insane, I know - I knew it then too. But hell, what just happened was insane. I'm hardly ever in the same room as a girl who's in nothing but her underwear. And with this one, there wasn't any begging.

It had only been maybe five minutes since she got in bed. "Screw it," I thought, and I got up. I mussed up my hair, thanked God I brushed my teeth before I got in bed, and leaned in to put some German moves on this German knockout. She was on her side, with her back to me. Couldn't tell if she was asleep or not. Oh well, here goes nothing. "Entschuldigung," I said as obnoxiously cocky as possible. (Pardon me.) She didn't hear me the first time, so I said it again. When she rolled over, I was fairly certain she had been sleeping, and I was positive that she was upset. I could guess that she was sleeping from the chain of drool that followed her bottom lip from the other side of the pillow. And I could be positive she was angry with me from the way she mashed her kicked-over-tombstone-like teeth at me and the way she glared at me with her one eyebrow.

I tried to say something, but all I could hear was Bill Paxton crying, "Game over, man! Game over!" I stood there stupid and speechless, with my mouth as wide open as hers. This was not part of the plan. This was SO not part of the plan.

Sleeping Beauty was pissed. "Was!" she growled. (What!?) All knowledge of German vanished. All knowledge of women vanished. All knowledge of the '96-97 Chicago Bulls vanished, and hitherto that'd been a lock. I knew nothing. My mouth moved while my brain bailed:

"Hi. Well, hello! Say, do you know if there's a Kebab stand open in this area?"

"Was? Kebab?"

"Yeah, Kebab - I'm starving. Know of a place? I thought I heard you speaking German on your way in, and so I thought you might know the area."

"I'm not from here. If I was from here, why would I be in a hostel?"

"Ah, I did not consider that. That's an excellent point." It really was. "Ha, why didn't I think...Well in that case, I'll just leave you to your rest." I think at this point I saluted her. "I'll probably turn in too, then. There's always Kebab tomorrow, right?" She made no response to my fast-food philosophy. "OK, good night." Still nothing.

I slunk back into bed, defeated, embarrassed, and disappointed. But disappointed mostly in myself. In fifteen minutes, I went from loving her to despising her all on account of her looks. Surely, I'm better than that. I'm better than those jerkoffs who hang out in strip clubs. I respect women well enough to see the beauty in their character as well as their form. I know well enough that looks are fading, and who a person is on the inside can last a lifetime. That's what's really beautiful about someone. Who cares if this girl's got an exquisite body? That doesn't make her my soul mate. And who cares if she has a unibrow? Behind that unibrow might be the one person in the world who understands me more than anyone else. I had been an ass. And maybe I wasn't going to make any passes at this girl, and maybe I'd never do anything romantic for her - I still wanted to offer some kind of noble gesture.

"Say, I don't suppose you want a Kebab, do you?"

"Fich dich!"

Well fine, Frau Peter Gallagher. Why don't you and your ugly unibrow just go to ugly people hell? Lousy ugtard.

Reviews of Movies I Know By Title Only

Munich

If for some unthinkable reason you have it in your mind to see Beerfest, first of all, you know that your lobotomy operation was a rousing success. Secondly, you should know that the makers of Munich already made a movie about Oktoberfest hijinks, and that they did it best.

You might be the movie goer who from time to time inexplicably feels in the mood to see a movie with the bluest humor, and maybe somewhat lacking in the substance department. (If you are, then you and I have something in common.) Munich is full of beer chugging, fart jokes, sexcapades, and lederhosen. And if you've got a sensibility for cheap one-liners and a lot of physical humor, then you'll be begging for more beers, farts, tits, and traditional German garb.

If you don't mind being seen watching a movie that's unabashedly directed at frat boys, then pull yourself up a stool and help yourself to a foamy liter of Munich. You're bound to be drunk with laughter by the end.

28 Days Later

Hollywood seems to still be a long way off of getting over its agonizing habit of making sequels to movies that don't deserve an extension of any sort. The newest sequel stinker? Sandra Bullock's return as Gwen Cummings in the aggravatingly unnecessary 28 Days Later. Apparently Gwen didn't take long to forget all the life lessons she learned from her first twenty-eight days in rehab - she's back and drunker than ever.Twenty-eight days after the end of the original, Cummings - in what can only be described as an obvious ploy by the producers to draw from new demographics - undergoes some unexplained, alcohol withdrawl (maybe) breakdown, which leads her to murder a truck driver with a fork and steal his Budweiser semi.

Obvious product placement critiques aside, what's truly upsetting is the way the film trivializes drunkeness and driving under the influence in what's presented as Cummings' twenty-eight day long (Please) drunken roadtrip across America. Along the way, Bullock's character continues to drink and drink, yet the tone of the film gets lighter and lighter. (When a drunken Cummings' somehow foils a small-town bank robbery, all she asks for as a reward is, "Hic! Smum more beer. Hic!")

Twenty-eight days after seeing this gem and you'll still be wishing you had those 93 minutes back.

The Importance of Being Earnest

Every few years or so, a documentary emerges that shifts the cultural paradigm. This year, we are treated to The Importance of Being Earnest, a documentary that recalls and celebrates Jim Varney's portrayal of Earnest from 1986 to 1998. The documentary crew show how Jim Varney's creation (Whose name I thought was always spelled "Ernest". Oh well.) posseses a range of human emotion and subtle genius that most critics and film goers ignored from such pieces as Earnest Goes to Splash Mountain and Earnest Scared Stupid.

The filmmakers go on to argue that without Varney's Earnest, cultural staples such as The Simpsons, Harry Potter, and Radiohead, wouldn't have had the necessary creative inspiration to reach the status they and many other artworks and artists enjoyed since Earnest's debut. In fact, as the documentary points out, the decline of the movie and music industries and 9/11 all took place after Varney's passing in the year 2000. Truly, after this two hour documentary, you will understand the importance of being Earnest.

Boxing Helena

Filmed over ten years before Million Dollar Baby, Boxing Helena set the standard for female boxer movies. From the movie's openning bell, the film's intensity is as high as a Mike Tyson fight. Helena's opponents - both in and out of the ring - seem to make up a never-ending procession, yet the charismatic only child of a single mother keeps fighting. Helena finds that her street smart savvy helps her in the ring, but will her tough exterior prevent her from openning up her heart to a man who loves her? By a split decision, this movie reviewer decides it's best that you see for yourself.

Boxing Helena not only goes the distance - it proves to be a total knockout.

Mel Gibson's "Apocalypto"

Gratuitus violence. Um, probably a rousing speech. Then some more violence. And by the end, you wonder if the movie had any point to it besides getting as close as it can to snuff status without getting the film-makers in jail.