Here's my question: What's the deal with Jerry Seinfeld's most irritatingly entrenched legacy being this stupid "What's the deal with " catchphrase? The theme this week is begging us to write like bad stand-up comedians, which is probably fitting since that's how most of us like to write anyway. Or maybe (read: definitely) I'm just bitter because I hate April Fool's Day. I hate it. There is nothing I hate more than looking foolish, and whether you're the victim of the prank or the mastermind, you always end up looking foolish.
Let me give you a classic example. I have a brother who is 15 months older than I am. Growing up, AFD was our annual excuse to be total assholes to each other without the same repercussions that we would face on any other day. When I was in fourth grade, he took the chance to completely embarrass me by putting raw meat inside of my Trapper Keeper (never forget). Cut to first period math: I open the Trapper Keeper while sitting next to my first boyfriend (once we pecked on the lips, on the bus, on the way to a school field trip to Ruby Falls), hoping he will notice my new butterfly clips and slip me a note folded up like a cootie catcher telling me I looked pretty. Suddenly, a huge chunk of raw hamburger meat, stuck to the inside front of the Trapper Keeper, comes flying out and lands directly on his lap. I was completely mortified. It gets worse. I proceeded to gag uncontrollably and had to run from the classroom to avoid throwing up on top of the meat and ruining our tru luv forever, not to mention creating a chain reaction of nine-year-old vomit everywhere. Then I cried in the bathroom and didn't return to class until my teacher came and got me. Tell me in what world that is supposed to be "funny" or "awesome."
The next day, I tried to get my brother back. I was full of shame and vengeance, so I woke up early and emptied an entire bottle of Elmer's glue into his shoes. Apparently, since it was April 2 and no longer a fake holiday, this was "unacceptable" and "irresponsible" and "Kathleen, are you aware that these are Jack's dress shoes for cotillion?" instead of a harmless prank. For the second day in a row, I looked like an idiot. And it's all because we are engaged in an inexplicable universal consensus that there is one day and one day only on which we can treat people like our personal punching bags and laugh at them for looking stupid. On every other day, acting like a jerk makes you the outcast. Well, I call bullshit.
The fact is, mischief-making is not something that can be commercialized and canned into this one-day event where everyone is in on the joke. That's like those sad, bored couples that confine all of their half-assed attempts to revive their stale romance to Valentine's Day, buying each other CVS chocolates and holding hands at Canoe Club. Seriously, Canoe Club dates are the romantic equivalent of North Face jackets. They might fulfill their technical function, but they're what you end up with when you put zero effort into making decisions about being your own person. Pranks should be original and unexpected, and you shouldn't have to hide behind the excuse of a manufactured holiday in order to ensure that your friends aren't mad at you afterwards. If you're going to try to make your friend look like an idiot, at least own up to what you're doing. Go balls to the wall. No excuses.
Freshman year storytime. 08W: While coming back from my 2A, I get several text messages asking me if I'm on my way home. I say yes, getting excited because, hooray, I definitely am making friends at college! Look how much they care about my whereabouts! I reach the third floor landing of Bissell, about to turn the corner to go to my room, when one of my best friends approaches me in the hallway. "Kathleen, I have to talk to you about something," she says in a nervous voice. "I'm pregnant."
Oh God. I was not prepared for this. Never in my good Southern girl upbringing had I had to deal with such a conversation, and I didn't know how to handle it. I hugged her and told her I would go with her to Planned Parenthood (she said that's what she wanted), and I reassured her that the amount of alcohol she had been consuming lately ensured that having a baby would be a horrible decision anyway. I was a little confused about why she kept giggling, but I figured she was just nervous and embarrassed about confiding in me. I told her to come to my room so we could continue talking.
The moment I opened the door, I only had three words to say: "YOU. F*CKING. BITCHES." My desk was gone, with all of the objects that had been on top of it in the exact same arrangement as before, except on the floor.
This is how you pull a prank. No punches pulled, no excuses, no get-out-of-self-righteous-anger-free cards because you get to point at a calendar while patting yourself on the back. So I'm not going to trick you into thinking that Dartmouth has instituted a C median policy or that they're secretly building an indoor pool in the Class of 1953 Commons. Not today. But please blitz me for my brother's address if you'd like to join me in overnighting some boxes of raw meat to his apartment.
