The Christmas Prank

 

I used to think I was the funniest person I know. Not anymore. Pranks are funny, but only in context. Like, hitting someone in the face with a water balloon on their wedding day because they sprayed you with a squirt gun when you were twelve. Not funny. That's easy to see. Careless words are equally harmful, even in jest, but sometimes it's more difficult to understand the harm they may have caused.

I once asked a very wise person how to make amends for careless words and they told me that it was hard and they were like a 'thousand little paper cuts'. Ouch. 

So here I sit, at 1:30am doing my best because I can't sleep until I get this one out of me.

2if you have been trapped by the words of your lips, 

ensnared by the words of your mouth,

3then do this, my son, to free yourself, 

for you have fallen into your neighbor’s hands: 

Go, humble yourself,a

and press your plea with your neighbor.

4Allow no sleep to your eyes 

or slumber to your eyelids.

8 years ago, I was on a motorcycle trip with my riding group. We stopped at Lake Chelan in Washington State for the night on our way to British Columbia. One of the guys in our group lived there as a kid and told us the last thing he remembered about the place. It happened the night before he left. He took a girl out on a rowboat on a little date, left the next day and never saw her again. 

The next morning, he was the last one to the breakfast table. The best prankster in the group, who also happens to be the real Santa, stepped up. He paid our young waitress (after she told us she wanted to be an actress), a large bill to greet our latecomer and during the conversation, claim to have never known her father. Furthermore, to say that the only thing she knew about her dad was that he and her mom went out on a little rowboat and that he moved away the next day and she never saw him again. 

She delivered it perfectly.

There was about 5 seconds of stunned silence before he caught on and we all laughed hysterically. It was the perfect prank.

About six weeks ago, the prankster and I were talking about past lives and he told me about the last girl he dated before he met the love of his life. I scribbled notes furiously. I began planning a prank with a co-worker who lives in Portland. She would connect with him on his Santa Facebook page and tell him she thought they had a mutual friend, but no more. Then, she'd visit Santa on Peacock Lane, the Christmas Street.

A script was written in similar fashion, but this time it would be her mom who never knew her dad. She would say that the only thing she could get out of her grandmother, was a name and that she thought he was a minister. Then, she'd mention the grandmother by her maiden name. Linda Jane.

It was all set to unfold but just as time and chance would have it, the cold Portland rain, got the best of us. Just as she was walking down the street to find Santa, he wrapped it up for the night, cold and wet and went inside and took off his Santa suit. Then, he checked his email and found that a very generous donor had made a special Christmas gift to our charity. It's one that feeds school kids. In his excitement, he called me. Now, I thought I was being pranked.

During all of this confusion, I was texting my friend who was now also soaked and could not find Santa. I even had her and her boyfriend knock on his door. It was going to be filmed and perfect, but it was not to be. He never heard the knock. 

The jokes on me, but it gets better. And by better, I mean 'worse'. I started thinking that maybe there was some divine intervention here. He is a minister after all. What if Clarence the angel had just stepped in and prevented me from jumping off the bridge into that icy river in Bedford Falls?

As I pondered this, holding my phone, I started going through texts that I'd sent to friends and family over the last few weeks. Clarence was nowhere to be found. One thread was to the same motorcycle group from this past summer. On that trip, one of the guys climbed off of a bunk bed in the middle of the night and got whacked in the noggin with the fan blade. It caused a massive welt. 

We helped him out and by the very next morning the jokes started. On and on and on for weeks, months. I just realized tonight, that each one was likely another little paper cut. Ouch.

Then, I went tthrough family text thread. Every year at the family Christmas party, we play a wicked game of Yankee Trader, which is a gift swap where we lie, cheat and steal to get useless gifts and try to prevent anyone from getting something they like. Nothing like the old Christmas spirit, huh?

The thread the next day were comprised mostly of gratitude and appreciation for our hosts and one another. If you asked me yesterday, I'd say I was right there with 'em. But going back and reading them, one in particular to my brother-in-law, was like reading something someone else wrote. They didn't come from the person who loved and appreciated his family and friends. They came from the opposite of the George Bailey side of me. They came from the Jack Campbell side, and not the one who living in the little house with his wife and kids. Not the one who 'got a glimpse' and became a changed man in the process. Ouch.

So, I'm no longer the funniest person I know and I'm sorry. But the good news is that I'm not waiting until New Years Day to try to fulfill some goal I can't keep. For 2025 and onward, all you'll hear from me is encouragement. No snark, no witty comebacks, no sarcasm. No more paper cuts. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Hold me to it.

Hey Burt! My lip's bleeding! My Lip's bleeding, Burt!