Impractical Jokes Read Online Free PDF

Suzie, and the other girls to talk about girl stuff, at the age of nine it never felt right. It was like an American playing cricket or a white person trying to crump.
    That isn’t to say that girl talk was never of interest to me. Far from it. As I grew older and began to take an interest in girls, time spent with my sister and her friends would prove an invaluable resource. I would crash Suzie’s sleepovers, birthday parties, study groups and phone calls, desperately hoping to hear confidential information that would help me crack the code of women. My sister, to her credit, was enormously patient. Despite the fact that I was cramping her style in the most inconsiderate way, she didn’t get angry, tell me to ‘rack off’ or any similar vulgarity popular at the time. She included me. When I had a crush on a girl, she would give me advice, when I had a question about birds, bees or, more importantly, intercourse, that I could never ask Mum and Dad, she would do her best to answer it. On one occasion when, at the age of twelve, I was worried I might never kiss a girl, she was good enough to ask around her friends if any of them would give me a sympathy pash. I owe my sister enormously for many, many things. Not the least of which that thanks to her I never saw girls as an alien species, but rather a prettier version of my own species that, with hard work and good advice, I would still never fully understand.
    But at that barbecue in 1986, thoughts of researching girls, dates and romance were still a few years off my radar. Instead, my usual barbecue activities revolved around trying to get in on the conversation of the grownups, and in doing so hopefully hear some jokes I wasn’t supposed to. When such pearls became too few and far between I would generally get bored, go exploring, hurt myself and get rushed to a hospital needing stitches. This was pretty much accepted as a fait accompli and was the only salient reason why one of my parents was always the designated driver. Over time, hospital-worthy emergencies became so regular for all of us that the only exciting part was guessing just how I would hurt myself and which hospital I would need to be taken to. Which was in turn dependent on whose house we were at, how much red cordial I’d had and if they had a trampoline.
    On this particular afternoon I was still in phase one and things were going quite well. I had heard a joke about an Englishman, an Irishman and a Jew placing bets on the unlikely death of the pope. In hindsight it was a breathtaking barrage of clearly racist stereotypes, but as a child I didn’t know what racist stereotypes were and therefore just thought it was funny. I also heard a joke about a blonde woman having a football team back to her place for a sleep-over. I didn’t really understand that one. Apparently my knowledge of bigoted but humorous stereotypes was largely nationality-based and had not yet covered the mythical sexual appetites and stupidity of blonde women.
    Around this time, Richard decided that the event was moving a little too slowly for his liking. Perhaps he’d been expecting a swingers’ barbecue after all; perhaps he wanted to try one of the hip new wine coolers but wasn’t willing to endure the teasing; or perhaps he was offended by the portrayal of his fellow Englishmen in a recent joke. Such details have been lost to history, but clearly he was a little bored, and chose to remedy that by pushing my dad, fully clothed, into the pool.
    Needless to say his actions brought the house down. There were cheers and applause, Richard took a bow and Dad obliged everyone by splashing around violently, floundering in shock and fury. The rest of the Pickerings loved it. As a child, seeing my fully-clothed father pushed into a pool by another adult was a beautiful moment. It will stay with me for life.
    Admittedly, pushing my dad in the pool wasn’t one of Richard’s smarter jokes. I mean,