Time to confess, y’all: I do. I fork yards.
Once upon a time, my family woke up to our front
yard stabbed with hundreds (I may be exaggerating here) of little, plastic
forks. As my brother and I pulled them out that day, I continuously broke into
laughter at the image of someone sneakily shoving forks into the dirt repeatedly, and there vowed to become a forker ever since.
Finally, on the eve of my 19th birthday,
the stars aligned.
At midnight one of my best friends turned to me and
said, “I’m feeling strangely awake!” She is one of those people who went to
sleep at 11:00 during her freshman year at college. Over Christmas break, I was
forced to throw ice cubes at her to prod her into staying up past 1. Her exclamation
got me so excited that I proposed pranking someone, and hurriedly roused my
other best friend who had passed out on a couch during a movie. As we discussed
the possibilities, my excitement at finally reaching my goal became manic, and
soon we were out the door with two boxes of assorted cutlery, a plate of peeps
ripped off of my birthday cake, a flash light, and a bug spray fan clipped onto
the waist of my oh so attractive
matching purple cloud jammies.
Roomies—picture St. Patrick’s day times 3.
The whole drive down to our unsuspecting victim (a
lovely woman who is a “kindred spirit" as Anne of Green Gables would say) my 11:00 bedtime best friend was
panicking, driving far below the speed limit, while me and my now fully alert
and hyper amiga were in hysterics.
On reaching the destination, the whole situation got
real.
The idea that someone would catch us clutching eating utensils and frosting
covered peeps in our pajamas terrified us. We plotted, and decided that I would
fork and my hyper amiga would throw the peeps while my 11:00 bedtime friend
acted as look out and our escape ride.
Forking proved to be more difficult than I imagined.
In the pitch black, I had grabbed two handfuls of mixed cutlery, and not many
were forks. There is a reason it’s called forking: the fork stabs easier into
the ground. And frankly spooning and knifing a yard just sound wrong and
violent
After a brief scare, we decided to cut our prank
short due to further paranoia and lack of supplies. We drove away a little less
exhilarated, definitely more embarrassed, and very self-conscious about the
poor pranking job done.
The next day I logged into Facebook, blushed, then preceded
to laugh for hours. The son of the woman we pranked (also a friend) had posted
an outraged and rather colorful response to our late night activities, complete
with a picture (not shown).
Edited
for language it read:
Some dumb-bleep
attempted to fork my yard. Lemme tell you why you did the bleepist forking job I've ever seen in my life.
1. There were maybe 30 plastic utensils in my yard, you're supposed to do the whole yard bleepnut.
2. You didnt just use forks, you used spoons and knives too. You didn't even bother sticking them in the ground either.
3. There were about 7 peeps in my yard. What was the purpose of that?!
4. You tried to fork a yard. What is this, 1999?
1. There were maybe 30 plastic utensils in my yard, you're supposed to do the whole yard bleepnut.
2. You didnt just use forks, you used spoons and knives too. You didn't even bother sticking them in the ground either.
3. There were about 7 peeps in my yard. What was the purpose of that?!
4. You tried to fork a yard. What is this, 1999?
It took less than 3 minutes to clean this up, I hope you feel like a jack-bleep because you are.
Thirty-Six people liked his post, and many people commented—all
people I am acquainted with. I see the author of the post at least once a week
at work, and have plans to get together with his mother later this summer. I
plan on never telling them.
Hopefully they don’t read this blog.
The
Moral(s) of the Story
-For a prank to be sufficiently humorous—there is no middle
ground. Either it has to be fantastic or embarrassingly horrible.
-Wear appropriate sneaky gear. Not your bright purple cloud
pjs and little brother’s church shoes.
-Fulfilling one’s vows, while potentially mortifying, is
incredibly self-gratifying.
-Everyone needs best friends like mine: One to flow right
alongside your crazy, and another to hang onto sanity and stop you from making
too much of a fool of yourself.
-ANNALEE
