Joyous Guffaws
by Brad MacDonald
I remember in junior high, when some girls would have a sleepover party, a bunch of us would wait til late at night and then bang on their windows, just to give them a little scare. Recently, however, my friend Greg and I learned that this little trick shouldn’t be done on just any party of women.
Case in point, a few months ago, my mother was having a tea n’ snacks get-together with her close friends. The ladies were enjoying the usual spread: danishes, scones, cucumber sandwiches and heavenly peanut butter squares while washing it all down in dainty tea cups filled with lemon scented earl grey. The evening so far had been a great success; in fact Marg, in particular, had already eaten three scones and her story about the difficulties she and her husband endured during the renovations of their basement had been well received despite its open ended, cliff-hanger ending.
Suddenly, from outside, I tapped lightly on the window to get their attention, then I opened the front door and walked in as the ladies turned to see me in a silly clown mask. Promptly taking off my nefarious disguise, I said “Boo! Don’t be afraid, it’s just me Brad. Marg, how are the renovations going on your basement?” Needless to say, they all had a good chuckle, pronouncing my jest to be a hoot and a half and, as Marg reached for a record fourth scone to fuel the retelling of her tale of home improvement, our giggles only increased.
Sitting down to join the group for a moment, I turned round just in time to see Greg scratching the word “Death” upon the living room window with a large machete. He was wearing a 15th century dragoon lancer tunic and had used pigs blood to spread satanic pentagrams on his forehead, cheeks and jowls. They looked especially good on his jowls. They really brought out his jowls. In his non-machete hand, he held a novelty shrunken head which he had purchased at Ripley’s Believe it or Not when his family vacationed in Niagra Falls. It too was soaked in pigs blood, much of it dripping from its eyes thus giving the illusion that the severed head was crying red tears of infinite sadness. As we all stared in fear and awe, Greg ripped open his tunic to reveal the phrase “Learn to suffer” shaved into his chest hair.
Luckily, as Greg finished scrawling on the window, the word “Death” appeared backwards to the ladies. This, however, did not temper their frightened screams. As Marg whispered “htaed?” through the remains of her scone, Greg let out an epic war cry, shattered the window with one kick, and charged through the broken glass into the living window. Thinking quickly, I yelled, “It’s just my friend Greg! Don’t be afraid! Greg, if you hurt my Mother, so help me God. Jesus, you have a lot of chest hair.” Though the other women heard me in time, Marg had already taken flight for the backyard. Greg, sensing that the weakest gazelle had been separated from the pack, gave chase. As he did so, he tossed aside his shrunken head, saying that he would acquire “another.” All of us ran outside just in time to see Greg tackle Marg to the ground; scones went everywhere (apparently she had hidden some in her blouse).
After the curfluffle, we all sat in the living room and joked about our adventure. Greg had agreed to sell his machete to pay for the shattered window and insisted on having the carpet professionally cleaned due to the abundance of pigs blood that had cascaded throughout the room, both of which, we all agreed, were noble gestures. There was just so much pigs blood. Of course, for the time being, the large window was still broken wide open and, by chance, the shrunken head that Greg dropped before he tore off after Marg was laying on the cusp of the living room, facing all of us with its sad eyes. I turned to everyone and said, “Looks like someone wants to come in!” The room erupted in joyous guffaws. Everyone was in stitches except for Marg who quietly said that her ankles were bleeding and that she wanted to go home. Geez Marg, learn to take a joke.
