Interior Monologue
Funny Can

Is it wrong of me to relish pulling a swift one on the help? I recall distributing Funny Cans one Christmas at the annual party for the domestics. Or, more precisely, Russell the chauffeur distributed them, as he had been crowned Lord of Misrule. "Well, open them!" I roared in my best "Ghost of Christmas Present" basso profundo. Out leaped all manner of hideous, spring-loaded phalli. Russell dropped to the floor in the throes of cardiac arrest. If such escapades are wrong, I don't wish to be right.
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Some sounds last a lifetime
Whoopee Cushion

As a youth, summer mornings began with breakfast on the porch at our cottage in Maine. I remember the call of the woodhatch, the splashing of the ducks and the tart, impertinent honk of Father's whoopee cushion. How we'd laugh and laugh until the steel cut oats Mother had cooked "went down the wrong pipe" and our orange juice poured through our nostrils. I miss you, Father.
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Cowboys, Indians, Cupid, Psyche
Trick Arrow Through Head

I'm no Ph.D. (not in history anyway), but I say the romance of the West lives so long as plastic can be cunningly molded so as to simulate a shaft from the brave Apache sent through the melon of a would-be cowboy. Is the West lost forever? Give a youth a Trick Arrow Through the Head, a broom for his mount, a culture full of stereotypes and wait ten minutes before you answer.
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With this prank...
Squirt Ring

Nora knew my reputation. Weeks later, she knew it was all true. "I think, Mr. Preston, that I shall have to civilize you before you can meet Father." I replied that the process would take so long, we'd be retired before we were even engaged. "Then perhaps elopement is our only option," she said with a trill like some nightingale after eight glasses of champagne. Perhaps indeed, I said, offering her the ring. The stream of water reached its mark: the left eye. Her slap was lightning fast, as I knew it would be. The weeks we were married were among the best of my life.
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