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Posts Tagged ‘schoolboy humour’

The other night we came home to find a very strange message on our answering machine.

“There is a naked man in my garden,” spoke a child-like, slightly-accented, other-worldly voice that sent shivers down my spine.

“Who the hell is that?” my husband asked.

I had no idea. So we listened to the message again. And again. And the more we listened to it, the eerier it became. Like the “Have you checked the children?” phone calls of slasher films past. 

Anyway, after a brief investigation, it turns out it was just a text message my mother had accidentally sent to my landline (instead of my mobile). And that the message was actually “There is an echidna in my garden” but the automated voice programmed to speak the text out loud had rendered it “a nekked na”, which sounded very much like “a naked man”. Trust me on this. 

Now, we are no strangers to such verbal confusion in this household. For a long time, a toddler Mr Justice maintained that the trains of Sodor were managed by the “Fucking Roller” (aka “The Fat Controller”). And Tiddles McGee has, on more than one occasion, run around the house shouting “Fucky Fuck!” but thanks to the accompanying internationally-recognised hand gesture for a duck, I’ve been able to tell shocked onlookers that of course he’s quacking and not pretending to be his mother, say, on the school run. 

And so it is little wonder that my mother’s spoken text message got me thinking and we all know how dangerous that is. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could have myself good old fashioned prank phonecall fun with that automated voice. You know, the Noughties Equivalent of ringing a random stranger to ask them “Is your fridge running, sir? Well, you’d better run after it!”. And yes, thirty years on, I can tell you I’m still laughing about that one. 

And so I thought I could start sending prank texts to people’s landlines. For example: “Suck my big one”. Which I could then claim was supposed to be “Sack the Bhagwan”, even though he’s been dead for almost twenty years and quite possibly beyond the reach of any existing labour laws. Or I could resort to texting my favourite misheard lyric of all time “You might as well face it you’re a dick with a glove” and say I was merely quoting Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love”.  Or I could pass “You Arse Clown!” off as “U.R.’s Crown!” or “Boobies!” as “Boo! Bees!” or “Bum Breath” as, er, “Bun Breadth”…  But still, imagine the possibilities, peoples. Imagine…

And in case you’re wondering, next time I see my  mother, I’m totally checking the SENT box on her mobile phone to see what she really texted me.  As if I’m not onto her and her little mind game. Ha! An echidna in my garden, my R’s…

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There was a time – B.C. (Before Children) – where the prospect of someone joining me in the shower might have seemed reasonably pleasant, perhaps even welcome. But not any more. Not any more. 

Just the other day, I was speed-showering when the curtain was pulled back by a hand unknown to reveal a sight arguably more terrifying than a man dressed up as his mother holding a large knife.

There, standing before me, was a small naked boy, who had just oh-so-casually tossed a nappy packed with shit to the side and was no doubt hoping to use the shower as one bloody big bidet. (Actually, I should give him some credit because he appeared to have wiped his bottom before he got in the shower. It’s just a shame that he chose to wipe it with the shit-filled nappy, is all. )

Anyway, I was telling this story to my husband in the car and about how I’d dealt with the situation (I’ll spare you further details) and my husband started laughing and telling me this story about how this guy he knew in highschool once shat in the shower and poked it through the plughole with his toe. 

Mr Justice, who had been conducting his normal surveillance of his parents’ car conversations in case the words “takeaway for dinner” were mentioned, burst out laughing, kind of like “ha-ha-HA-ha-HA-ha-HA!-HA!-HA!!” . And then my husband joined in like “ha-ha-HA-HA-ha-HA-HA-ha-ha-HA!!!“. And the two of them just laughed and laughed, louder and louder, spluttering things like “Down the plughole!” and “With his toe!” and “ha-HA-HA-ha-HA!!!!

And then all five of us were laughing because all that ha-HA-ing is so darn infectious – until I remembered what we were  laughing about and had this vision of Mr Justice telling the story to the rest of his first-grade class as part of Show And Tell, and I abruptly stopped my laughing and started making tutting noises. 

But to be honest, they were only the kind of tutting noises I make when I can see the children playing with something they shouldn’t but, after quickly weighing up the pros and cons of confiscating said item, decide that it’s easier just for me to say “Be careful not to break that!” before going back to whatever it was that I was doing, so that if it DOES get broken, my arse is at least legally covered and I am entirely within my rights to  say “Well, I told you so.” 

Anyway, when we got home, I found myself throwing in some eye-rolling action for good measure as I watched my husband and Mr Justice have a light-saber battle while simultaneously pretending to poke poo down a plughole with their big toes, both giggling like the school boys they both clearly are.  

At bed time, Mr Justice was still giggling.

“Use the toe, Luke,” he said, in his best Obe Wan Kenobe voice as my husband tucked him in, and they both started laughing “ha-HA-ha-HA-HA!-HA!-HA!!!” all over again.

By which time I was tutting and rolling my eyes so much that it would have been audible in the Children’s Courts some nine kilometres away because, really, if anyone is going down for this, it’s my husband because all *I* did, your honour, is try to have a freaking shower. Shuh!

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