When my godmother was young, in the 1970s, she lived on a rural road not far outside a small coastal town in California. Her family had a small farm with horses and chickens and multiple dogs. One of the neighbors had a pair of dogs who were allowed to wander and who often wandered to my godmother’s house. The dogs were a Chow Chow and a short-haired white dog whose breed my godmother did not know.

The dogs weren’t really a problem. They were friendly and well-behaved — they just liked to come visiting — but my godmother and her family worried about them getting hit on the road, or running into a bear or a mountain lion. Her parents called their neighbors several times and asked them to keep their dogs home before something bad happened to them. The neighbors always blew them off saying the dogs were fine, and they weren’t doing any damage so they didn’t need to keep them home.

One summer day, when the kids were home from school, my godmother’s mother had an idea. The dogs had come down the road to visit again, and this time, instead of trying to chase them off and tell them to go home, my godmother and her family lured them into the yard with treats. Then, they shaved the Chow and dyed the white dog orange with Kool-Aid.

By all accounts, the dogs did not object to this at all and were very happy with the attention and the treats. At the end of the day, the dogs went home as usual.

The owners of the dogs were quite upset, but my godmother’s family never admitted to any of it. The dogs were kept home after that incident.

I worked at a small company with approximately thirty-five employees. We had a good-sized kitchen with a fridge that several employees used, though most brought a lunch bag they just kept by their desk. The fridge was usually used for stuff that people wanted to keep really cold or for drinks.

People often would go to the fridge to find either their whole lunch missing, an item from it gone, or, in my case, my can of Cherry Coke gone. I usually kept it in my lunch bag, but on occasion when I would order out, I would get two — one for lunch and one for later — so I didn’t have my lunch bag.

We suspected who was stealing but could never prove it. This particular day, I was in the mood and I figured I would try and prove it.

It was [Thief]’s break time. I headed down to the kitchen about five minutes ahead and gave my Coke a really, really hard shake — so hard I feared it may actually pop in my hands — and placed it back in the fridge. Then, I ducked into the storage closet in the kitchen and peeked out the crack.

BINGO! [Thief] took the Coke. I waited, hand over my mouth, for her to open it, but she took it with her and left.

Oh, s***. I thought she was gonna open it in the hall. Nope.

As I left, the kitchen I heard her yell, “WHAT THE F***?!”

I passed her office, and Coke was everywhere: the walls, the floor, the ceiling, all over her desk, computer, and her work, all over her — everywhere!

The previous week, we had all been given these “sippy”-type cups that were spillproof. We were supposed to use them at our desks when drinking because we all got new computers.

Well, food never went missing again because [Thief] got fired.

The story comes courtesy of my mom. After her prom in the 1970s, she and her date and a bunch of friends went out to a local diner to get some food. They weren’t being terribly loud or troublesome, but an old man in the corner still decided to grumble about noisy kids and disrespectful youth and all that sort of thing. 

Mom, being the mature and responsible teenager that she was, made a suggestion to her friends. Her idea was to pool all the change they had with them, load it into the jukebox, and queue up Amazing Grace. On the bagpipes. Seventeen times. 

They did it.

She’s not sorry.

I am known to purchase the giant jar of JellyBellies from a warehouse chain. It’s a very reasonable price. I take them to work with me. I don’t mind people coming in and shaking out a handful. But I have a coworker who badmouths me behind my back, always wants in on lunch runs, and always promises to get us next time and therefore never actually pays. She regularly comes in and takes a whole mug full of JellyBellies without asking permission — or even saying hi — and makes it clear that she hates me but loves the JellyBelly supply. I had to take action.

We are both early morning people, so there is usually an hour or so with nobody but the two of us in the office, so I knew there would be no innocent victims.

You can buy a box of the JellyBelly game, which contains an assortment of beans that come in identical pairs. One has a good flavor and one flavor is horrible: is that bean coconut or rotten eggs? Will you get soap, earthworm, dishwater, or booger? In the game, you spin a spinner and eat whatever color it tells you to eat, and you have a fifty-fifty chance of getting a good flavor or a nasty one. It’s actually a fun game — among friends.

However, this did not involve a friend, so I happily bought a box of the nasty mix and dumped it into the jar. There were only one or two inches of beans left in the bottom, so this was a sacrifice I was willing to make. And then I waited.

I left my office for a bit, came back, and saw that there were significantly fewer beans left. Perfect.

About ten minutes later, I heard a wonderful cacophony of gagging, retching, and utterances of disgust, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like something being spit into the trash can down the hall. With said trash can having a hint of a whiff of rotten egg. With a cup of uneaten JellyBelly added to the top of the trash.

The remainder of the jug went into my own trash can. A new stash was purchased, and for the past two weeks, I have noticed that it is not draining as quickly as it used to.

That particular coworker hasn’t said a word to me since — not that she was actually talking to me before, but at least now she isn’t mooching off of somebody she hates.

I work in a hotel. Naturally, professionalism comes first, so when I received a call from a guest saying that she had rats in her room, I did not believe a word she said but still tried to resolve the issue. The woman was persistent and sounded very angry, requesting a comped room for the night. I was in disbelief.

Me: “I’ll speak to my manager and see what I can do for you.”

I went to grab my supervisor, who picked up the phone.

Supervisor: *Sassily* “Can I help you?”

I gasped and gave her eyes like, “What manager answers the phone like that?!”

She proceeded to try and help the woman, with my coworker and me trying to listen through the phone.

Guest: “I found rats in my room, and I want a free room tonight!”

Supervisor: “That’s f****** ridiculous.”

My jaw hit the floor. I was dumbfounded (but also laughing as I was impressed by her courage).

My supervisor started cracking up, said, “Thanks, [Guest]!” and then hung up. Between her laughter, I realized she had pranked us.

All in all, it was a good April Fool’s Day prank that I should have seen coming.