As much as I’d like to take credit for the idea to troll the hell out of husbands around the world, I cannot. The thought came to me after about the billionth time the man I married did it to me. And not the good kind of did it. The kind where he frickin’ messed with me. Wait, that didn’t come out right either.
LOOK, THE MAN LIKES TO PLAY JOKES ON ME. There! Gah!
He started small. Hiding behind doors, corners, beds. I stopped watching scary movies as often because I am a jumper and I HATE jumping. I’m fuckin’ old, y’all. I don’t want to jump out of my skin and pull something. From there it progressed. He would tell me he was stopping at the store on the way home (awwwwww, a man who grocery shops! Yeah. No.) and ask if I needed anything. When do you NOT need something at the grocery store? I’d rattle off a thing or two, and when he walked in the door carrying an arm full of bags- I’d grab them and start putting them away. Like clockwork, about a minute in, he’d say “Oh shit, I forgot to get (insert the one fucking thing you asked for here)!”
WHAT? But you specifically asked me what I needed! It’s ONE thing! How did you forget the ONE thing I asked for?!
Then I’d hear “JUUUUST KIDDIIINNNGGGGG” only to look over at Thomas, who had a huge smile on his face, holding the thing he’d told me he’d forgotten. Ass. One time was fine; maybe even two or three times- but he does this EVERY SINGLE DAMN TIME. I’m not the gullible type, but for a split second every time, I think “Crap!”- and there that turd is, once again, smiling because he was kidding. Shouldn’t he be tired of it by now? NO. No he isn’t! I think he does it now because although he knows it doesn’t trick me, it DOES annoy me- and maybe to a husband, that is even better.
That wasn’t the last straw. The LAST straw was when he put a motion activated little Halloween pumpkin that screams bloody murder in the freezer for me to find. What a caring, loving husband I have. A caring loving husband that now deserved an overflowing dose of his own medicine.
If you have a pranking significant other, get out some paper and start taking notes.
You see, Thomas didn’t use our biggest weapon to pull off his pranks. Perhaps he is “too good” to sink to this level, but I am not: I used the kids.
MUAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAA *chokes* AHEM.
Evil? Genius? Evil genius? All I know for sure is that he did not see it coming. I am far sneakier than him. I don’t jump out at him, or make a big spectacle of things. I work on a psychological level; slowly driving the man insane.
I started by tainting his food. Don’t worry, no poison! Just child spit. We are a sharing family. We don’t even think twice about it most of the time. I’m betting after getting 15 slobbered on snacks passed to him by kids that he didn’t realize had already been in their mouths, he might start making that second thought. Little does he know, it is never by accident.
After that, it was time to dig a little deeper. One day, while the boys were asking typical random ass questions about random ass shit, they began wondering what moles are. They don’t have moles, what with their porcelain obnoxiously soft skin, but their daddy sure does! What was a mom to do? I told them that their Daddy’s moles were really pimples filled with poop. I then watched as they looked at him in horror, inspected him like monkeys, and then spent the next 10 or so hours avoiding him until they figured out that what I’d told them couldn’t possibly be true.
I wasn’t done with him yet, ohhhh no I wasn’t! The man was gonna pay for his pranks, oh yes he was!
While he was at work one day, I came up with the most brilliant payback plan EVER. What is the most annoying thing you can think of? Dora? A leaky faucet? Nope! It is the sound of a child saying your name over and over and over and over and OVER again. Many a parent has lost their shit after a string of Mommy/Daddy!s. Knowing this fact, I told the kids that their Daddy had money for them in his pockets, but he would not give it to them UNTIL they said his name 100 times. Each.
At the promise of a monetary reward, their eyes lit the fuck up.
As soon as the man walked in the door, the kids swarmed him and for the next 5 minutes the sound of DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY DADDY! echoed through the house. I had to slap my hand over my mouth to keep from guffawing. His head looked like it was about to explode. He was SO confused, he just stood there, all dressed up in his work clothes, with two kids screaming his name as loud as possible, with no damn idea what to do or why this was happening to him. It was the single greatest thing I have ever witnessed.
After nearly peeing myself, I finally told him what I’d done. He instantly pulled out his wallet and gave them each a dollar bill. Money well spent, if ya ask me. And money well earned!
What is marriage without a little mutual torture?
Troll’em, and troll’em good… before they troll you!
Dear people writing articles on ways to get siblings to get along, I'll save you the time. The answer is "Don't let them play together"
Please stop Complimenting my kids’ “Good” Behavior goo.gl/fb/rwfojS
Hard pass from me pic.twitter.com/VayvW1eopK
I've gotten to the point where I'd let my kids summon a demon with a Ouija board before I'd let them play Monopoly together again.
Parenthood is when you start counting the minutes to bed time before 11am.