set and the pot plant sitting on top of it, with this huge grin on his face.’
Ben was too busy laughing at the stupid joke to be very sympathetic. ‘Poor you,’ is all he said.
When we got to Ben’s place we sat in his bedroom for ages, trying to think of at least onegood idea for how to cure the dads. We stared at the floor, we stared at the walls, we stared at each other. We went to the kitchen for muesli bars. Then we went and annoyed Ben’s little sister, Hattie, who was out the back playing with my little sister, Mattie. (Hattie and Mattie are best friends, just like Ben and me.) When we got bored of that we had a go on Ben’s old trampoline.
After a long, long while we started coming up with ideas. I just don’t know that they were very practical.
‘I know,’ I finally said, ‘we’ll get some lipstick and write the correct words of all the songs on the inside of your dad’s windscreen, so then whenever he puts on a CD all he has to do is look up at the windscreen and he’ll be set.’
Ben shook his head. ‘Nah, he gets so many songs wrong, the words would end up covering the whole windscreen and he wouldn’t be able to see out. There’d only be room for two little eye holes, the rest of it would be solid song lyrics.’
We were silent for a little while.
‘I know,’ Ben eventually said, ‘why don’t we get buckets of water and connect them to pulleys all over your house and then every time your dad makes a lame joke, we’ll pull a rope and water will pour all over him. That’ll stop him making jokes.’
It was my turn to shake my head. ‘He makes so many stupid jokes, the whole house would end up flooded. Besides, the worst ones are always in the car and we couldn’t put a bucket of water above his seat — not unless we cut a hole in the top of the car, and even I think that’s a bit extreme.’
After a bit more floor gazing we decided to go for a walk. Our suburb was having acouncil clean-up so there was heaps of junk out on the street, ready to be picked up.
We walked slowly, hoping something would inspire us. We tried to turn every bit of junk into a solution to our problem. There was an old sack, so I suggested we could stuff it over my dad’s head so he couldn’t see anything to make jokes about.
Then we found an old football scarf and Ben thought we could wrap it around his dad’s mouth so he couldn’t sing. Finally Ben spotted a rusty old electric train set with the battery still connected, and came up with his biggest idea so far. ‘We could connect the electrical wires to your fruit bowl. Then every time your dad picked up a pear to do the Pear Joke, he’d get this tiny electric shock.’
I made Ben put the train back. ‘I don’t think pears are very good conductors of electricity. Besides, Dad’d probably just invent another bad joke to cover the situation.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Ben, seeing exactly what I meant, ‘he’d say, “I bought this pear on credit — that’s why they decided to charge it”.’
‘Or,’ I said, inwardly groaning, ‘he’d say, “this fruit should be wearing long pants — I’m sick of these shorts”.’
‘Or,’ said Ben, “I’m sick of the state of this fruit — it’s just shocking”.’
By this time we were rolling around laughing like really little kids. I’d cracked up at all our jokes so far, but I knew I could go one better.
‘Or,’ I said, ‘he’d say, “If I wanted to conduct something, I’d have chosen a banana”. And then he’d hum a bit of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony — “Ba – Na – Na – Na - Na”.’
It was Ben’s turn to shout for mercy. ‘You’d better watch it, you’re getting good at Dad Jokes. It might be contagious.’
Suddenly we both stopped laughing. I felt sick in the stomach. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was genetic. I had to do something to stop my father, or I would end up spouting lame jokes whether I liked it or not.
And, who knows, Ben might start muddling up
Ben was too busy laughing at the stupid joke to be very sympathetic. ‘Poor you,’ is all he said.
When we got to Ben’s place we sat in his bedroom for ages, trying to think of at least onegood idea for how to cure the dads. We stared at the floor, we stared at the walls, we stared at each other. We went to the kitchen for muesli bars. Then we went and annoyed Ben’s little sister, Hattie, who was out the back playing with my little sister, Mattie. (Hattie and Mattie are best friends, just like Ben and me.) When we got bored of that we had a go on Ben’s old trampoline.
After a long, long while we started coming up with ideas. I just don’t know that they were very practical.
‘I know,’ I finally said, ‘we’ll get some lipstick and write the correct words of all the songs on the inside of your dad’s windscreen, so then whenever he puts on a CD all he has to do is look up at the windscreen and he’ll be set.’
Ben shook his head. ‘Nah, he gets so many songs wrong, the words would end up covering the whole windscreen and he wouldn’t be able to see out. There’d only be room for two little eye holes, the rest of it would be solid song lyrics.’
We were silent for a little while.
‘I know,’ Ben eventually said, ‘why don’t we get buckets of water and connect them to pulleys all over your house and then every time your dad makes a lame joke, we’ll pull a rope and water will pour all over him. That’ll stop him making jokes.’
It was my turn to shake my head. ‘He makes so many stupid jokes, the whole house would end up flooded. Besides, the worst ones are always in the car and we couldn’t put a bucket of water above his seat — not unless we cut a hole in the top of the car, and even I think that’s a bit extreme.’
After a bit more floor gazing we decided to go for a walk. Our suburb was having acouncil clean-up so there was heaps of junk out on the street, ready to be picked up.
We walked slowly, hoping something would inspire us. We tried to turn every bit of junk into a solution to our problem. There was an old sack, so I suggested we could stuff it over my dad’s head so he couldn’t see anything to make jokes about.
Then we found an old football scarf and Ben thought we could wrap it around his dad’s mouth so he couldn’t sing. Finally Ben spotted a rusty old electric train set with the battery still connected, and came up with his biggest idea so far. ‘We could connect the electrical wires to your fruit bowl. Then every time your dad picked up a pear to do the Pear Joke, he’d get this tiny electric shock.’
I made Ben put the train back. ‘I don’t think pears are very good conductors of electricity. Besides, Dad’d probably just invent another bad joke to cover the situation.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Ben, seeing exactly what I meant, ‘he’d say, “I bought this pear on credit — that’s why they decided to charge it”.’
‘Or,’ I said, inwardly groaning, ‘he’d say, “this fruit should be wearing long pants — I’m sick of these shorts”.’
‘Or,’ said Ben, “I’m sick of the state of this fruit — it’s just shocking”.’
By this time we were rolling around laughing like really little kids. I’d cracked up at all our jokes so far, but I knew I could go one better.
‘Or,’ I said, ‘he’d say, “If I wanted to conduct something, I’d have chosen a banana”. And then he’d hum a bit of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony — “Ba – Na – Na – Na - Na”.’
It was Ben’s turn to shout for mercy. ‘You’d better watch it, you’re getting good at Dad Jokes. It might be contagious.’
Suddenly we both stopped laughing. I felt sick in the stomach. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was genetic. I had to do something to stop my father, or I would end up spouting lame jokes whether I liked it or not.
And, who knows, Ben might start muddling up
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