I’m a doctor at a private practice, looking over a young woman who made an appointment this morning because she doesn’t feel well. Unfortunately, due to other circumstances, we’re actually running quite late today, so she’s been waiting for more than an hour. In that time, her symptoms have progressed enough that I’m confident she needs an intravenous antibacterial, rather than waiting for the few days it’ll take for oral medicine to work.

That means that she needs to go to the hospital’s emergency wait room. That’s an instruction that’s terrifying under any circumstance, and in this case, while she’s still lucid; her symptoms have progressed enough that I’ve been able to observe her having more and more trouble focusing through our appointment.

Me: “You can drive yourself to the hospital, but I really think it would be better to have someone with you. Do you want me to explain all that to your parents or a partner, as well? You can call them if you like.”

Patient: “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.”

She gets out her mobile phone and calls. After a minute, I hear the tell-tale voice of an automatic answering machine.

Patient: “Mum, Mum, it’s [Patient]. Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone. I know you’re listening. I know you’re home today, and I know you always just let the phone go to voicemail, but this is important.” *Pause* “All right, fine. Mum, the doctor is sending me to the hospital emergency room. I bet now you feel guilty.”

She did successfully call her father after that.

I have a three-year-old daughter who is obsessed with “Moana,” specifically the song “You’re Welcome.” At any given moment she is likely to be belting it out. Unfortunately, she has also picked up a line from the film where Maui says, “What can I say except, ‘You’re dead soon.’”

After an uneventful shop, punctuated by out-of-tune verses from “Moana,” we are being checked out by an older woman who is trying to get my daughter to talk to her.

She hands a chocolate to my daughter.

Cashier: “And what do we say now?”

Without missing a beat, my daughter takes the treat and says:

Daughter: “You’re dead soon!” 

The cashier looked terrified and mortified, and I prayed for the ground to swallow me! Thankfully, the cashier saw the funny side, and now when we see her, she waves and says, “I’m still here!”

One day, I’m driving around, trying to decide where to eat.

Daughter: “I want [Fast Food Place #1].”

Me: “No, I think [Fast Food Place #2].”

Daughter: “But I want [Fast Food Place #1].”

Me: “You don’t count.”

Daughter: “Yes, I do! One, two, three.”

Me: “Really?”

Me: “Did I give you your allowance this month?”

My son thinks for a second.

Son: “Yes, you did.”

Me: “You are a very honest child. “

Son: “I don’t scam poor people.”

This story is part of our Best Of April 2021 roundup!

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This happened back in the 1980s, when I was a young teen. My friend had told me of a great April Fool’s joke which involved soaking an egg in vinegar for about a day, to the point that the shell would go soft. Handling the egg, I was told, was really weird. As we always had boiled eggs for breakfast, I thought that would be a brilliant gag to play on Mum.

I shelled out for some vinegar — it didn’t seem right to waste Mum’s supply — and put it in a sealed box in my bedroom. The night before, I took it out, and my friend was absolutely right; it really did go squishy without cracking! So, I snuck it downstairs and put it with the eggs ready for the morning.

And what happened? Mum managed to avoid picking up that egg! In retrospegged, I should have made sure there were only enough eggs for breakfast and no spares, something which Mum did also say when I pointed out the egg she didn’t use.

But I really did want to do that gag, so I filed it away for future use, to maybe hatch this plot another day.

Several years later, I decided it was time to have another go. Whilst I could remember most of the details, what I couldn’t remember was the length of time required for soaking. As the Internet was not yet available, I had to go by memory. But as it transpired, my memory was not all it was cracked up to be. Instead of doing it for about a day, I soaked the egg for about three. 

When I came to take it out of the box, the shell had completely dissolved. The egg was held together by the membrane, and osmosis must have caused the egg to swell to the point of nearly bursting. No point in doing the joke now. But the egg looked so amazing, I had to show it!

You’d eggspect me to carry the egg down in the box to show my parents, but that would be far too sensible. Instead, I lifted it out of the box and placed it on the lid, and used it like a tray. And I did manage to carry it down the stairs and into the lounge without any trouble.

At this point, I’d like to introduce you to the lid. My parents always bought margarine in catering-sized plastic containers and always kept them as they were of good sturdy quality. The lids were also good quality and could withstand being pulled off the box repeatedly. This meant that they could flex. Also, as they were moulded plastic, they had the remnants of a small sprue, where the plastic was injected into the mould during manufacture. 

As I carried this makeshift tray and fragile load into the lounge, my grip must have changed slightly, as the lid flexed. This caused the egg to roll onto this oh-so-small but oh-so-significant sprue, where the egg promptly burst. And as to where the remnants of this hen grenade went? They flowed off the lid and straight down the armchair where my dad was sat!

I apologised profusely and helped dad clean up the mess I’d made. Fortunately, the cleaning was thorough enough, as there were no lingering odours.

Did I try this prank ever again? No way; I’d had un oeuf!

This story is part of the International Joke Day roundup! This is the last story in the roundup, but we have plenty of others you might enjoy!

14 Stories About Puns That Are So Bad They’re Good

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