Funny parents can be a real pain

Press, 29 June 1985, Page 14

Funny parents can be a real pain

Helen Brown

Ron and Fran are practical jokers. Ron has been known to dress up in a nun’s outfit, just to scare the neighbours. Fran hands exploding cigarettes out to her friends — just for a laugh. Their kids, Sarah and Ben, had rebelled as children often do. It’s a cruel twist of fate that makes agnostics breed Children of God and socialists give birth to kids with views to the right of Reagan. Sadly for Ron and Fran, their kids had no sense of humour whatsoever. Maybe Sarah and Ben had found one plastic dog nasty too many on the hall carpet; one more foam rubber sandwich in their school lunches than they could handle. Ron and Fran couldn’t work out what had gone wrong. The fruit of their hilarious loins never laughed when Ron ate a banana, skin and all. They sighed wearily when Fran presented them with matchboxes containing gory plastic fingers. One day, Ron made a final bid to convert his kids. After hours at the joke shop

mulling over false eyes and stink bombs, he came up with the perfect solution. “Marvellous stuff!” the salesman said. “See?” With an operatic gesture, the salesman unscrewed the bottle of ink and threw copious quantities at Ron’s shirt. Ron smiled nervously at the indigo stain. But a few seconds later, it faed and disappeared. His shirt was left, as they say in the advertisements, spotless. Ron was profoundly impressed. He bought a bottle for each of the kids.

“Maybe there’s hope yet,” Fran said when she saw the kids taking an interest in the ink — even if it was to write out their times tables. Ben fixed his parents with a solemn eye and said, “Can we show Aunty Gladys?" “Of course,” said Ron. “No fear!” said Fran at the same time. Ron looked at her questioningly. “Aunty Gladys has furnished her entire house in white,” she said. “Even the goldfish are albino.” “But the stuff is harmless!” Ron grabbed Ben’s ink bottle and hurled half the contents at the wallpaper. The ink dribbled down the wall till it formed the shape of a giant cobra. “Just watch,” Ron said. “Any minute now it will disappear completely.” They waited. And waited. Scrubbing brushes, sprayon dry cleaner, and bad language had no effect on the navy blue stain. Ron studied the label on the bottle. “Invisible Ink.” Misleading advertising, if ever there was. But Consumers’ Institute would just

laugh at him. He thought about going back to the joke shop and throwing what was left in the bottle on the man’s shirt. But Ron suspected he was the victim of sophisticated trickery. The joke shop man would say he had no sense of humour. The family learned to live with the stain. After a while, they hardly noticed it. One morning, Ben edged into the kitchen. “Mummy, will you be angry if I tell you something?” Even Fran had to think twice when a kid asked her that question. “No,” she said without conviction. “Well, remember the ink?” “Yes.” “Mine got spilt when I opened it. Sarah wouldn’t give me any of hers, and I had a bottle of real ink in my drawer, so I . . .” Fran wasn’t laughing. When she saw the devilish glint in Ben’s eye, she understood for the first time how infuriating funny people can be.