Butt plugs and bows

I’ve a buddy, who unlike myself, has so far failed to renounce Satan.
When it comes to being a Merry Prankster.
A certified deviant.
Not that it’s such a bad thing.
(Yes, I still think up the nastiest of pranks; I just stopped putting them into play.)

He was such a nice young man. Until he met the likes of ThomG.
He is a chemical engineer by profession. Cool, calculating. Successful, family man.
Back when, he was one of 14 in his high school graduation class. I remember the day we had our formal pictures taken for the fraternity picture. He looked like he was wearing his dad’s dress shirt, the collar was so big. Ugly striped tie and a tan, cowboy cut suit. Of course, he wore cowboy boots.
He was quiet, bookish. I was good for him. I kept him from choking on his own studious vomit during a too-stressful freshman year for anyone.
I’d burst into the room – his brother, the same age as me, wanted the kid to chill out so it was decided we’d put him with the crazy writer – and ask for $1.69.
The price of a cold sixer of Carling Black Label. At the liquor store around the corner.
“Study break,” I’d say. “All work and no play…”
He did as he was told.
And turned out to be my greatest pupil ever.
Fucking deviant.
He may or may not have helped in several legendary shenanigans during the early- to mid-80s at our large Midwestern university.
He may or may not have helped change a movie marquee from “St. Elmo’s Fire” to “Feel Elmo’s Tit.”
He may or may not have helped set fire to a neighboring fraternity’s new landscaping.
He may or may not have helped attach a blowup “doll” to the top of the student union fountain – and drop a box of Tide into the water for added confusion (and sudsiness).
He may or may not have “borrowed” a two-ton frontloader for an innocent joyride.
He may or may not have started a food fight at the Elks Lodge during an awards banquet (Spaghetti dinner + Halloween + Costumes + Pre-banquet drinking = Police Action).
And so far as I know, he’s never stopped pushing the envelope.
Things I know, but will not reveal (I’m no squealer).
(Besides, statue of limitations and all.)
He called me a couple of weeks back. Out of the blue.
“I’ve got it.”
“The greatest office prank ever.”
“Better than ‘Poof Said the Fairy Man?’”
“Even better.”
He’s still in the chemical engineering bidness. But to move up the ol’ ladder of success, he took a transfer last year to another department. Where he found his immediate supervisor – a real mico-manager wonk – was seven years his junior.
“A real dick,” my buddy said. “He deserves anything he gets.”
Which gets us to the telephone call.
“So you know what Oct. 16 is, don’t you?”
I did not.
“National Bosses Day. Like those fuckers need their own day.”
(He, like me, has a wee bit of a problem with authority.)
“Yeah, so?”
“So, I’m going to get the biggest butt plug I can find, with a big bottle of anal lube, and I’m going to wrap it up nice – with a bow and everything – and have it delivered to the office by courier.
“With a card that asks that he open the present so the whole department can share in the celebration.”
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. There’s like 20 people in this guy’s sector – and from what I understand, everyone shares their distain for this asshole.
“I know. (Wife’s name) said it was completely juvenile. (Brother) thinks I’m nuts. But (another college prankster) said the same thing as you.”
“Hey, what’s the first rule of Fight Club?” I asked.
“Don’t talk about Fight Club.”
“What’s the second rule of Fight Club?”
“Don’t talk about Fight Club.”
When in a mood to commit deviant acts, you cannot – must not – tell anyone. Not one soul.
Not for months. Years.
This is the one absolute truth for pranksters.
“You realize that you can’t go through with it,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, dejected. “But it would have been great, huh?”
“The best.”
“It’s not like I’ve lost my edge or anything.”
“Nawww, I understand. Maybe my little protégé is growing up. Getting all mature and shit.”
“Yeah, fuck you,” he said. “I still owe you one. Don’t stop looking over your shoulder.”
Twenty-two years ago next month, I shaved his eyebrows off.
The week before he went to meet his wife’s parents for the first time.
At Thanksgiving.
Having renounced my own demons, I can tell you this.