Read Online Impractical Jokes by Charlie Pickering - Free Book Online

didn’t. That, he surmised, would be too easy. All Richard had done was make a few phone calls. That was hardly sufficient punishment for a heavily-armed assault on a dinner party and the destruction of a perfectly good window. Divine inspiration may have begun this poodle fiasco, but the finish would be pure Pickering.
    â€˜Maybe you’re right, Richard. Maybe a puppy would help. I tell you what. You can pick Pammy up at eight o’clock on Saturday morning and take her out to Jamieson. I’ll have a talk to her and make sure it’s ok.’
    â€˜Thank you, Ron. You won’t regret it.’
    â€˜You know, Richard, something tells me I won’t.’

    On the Saturday morning at eight o’clock Richard arrived to collect Mum. Few pleasantries were exchanged as Mum got into Richard’s car and they headed off—for four hours my mum sat in stony silence, never once looking at Richard.
    This was impressive. Imagine for a moment having to go on a four-hour car trip with a dear friend in utter silence, maintaining an outer veneer of personal devastation and animosity, while internally wanting to shout for joy. This takes more than just attendance. This takes fortitude, dedication, focus and monumental acting skills. For four hours Richard tried to make small talk and my mum gave him nothing. The weather, football, recent television programs and politics all failed to raise her curiosity. When Richard changed tack and asked about how my sister and I were going at school, she was silent, coming across as genuinely disinterested in the lives of her children. When they stopped for petrol, Richard asked Mum if she wanted anything to eat. She uttered the only words she spoke for the morning which were: ‘I don’t really have an appetite, Richard.’ Oh, yes. Pamela Pickering was a professional accomplice.
    Around midday, they arrived at the home of Jamieson’s most prestigious poodle breeder. Richard was no doubt ecstatic to simply be out of the car in which he had suffered a slow death. Mum would have been relieved that she had not once given Richard any inkling that she was anything other than a grieving dog lover.
    They were greeted by a roly-poly woman who can best be described as looking exactly as you would expect a poodle breeder to look.
    â€˜Pammy. Richard. Please come around into the back garden. I think we have the perfect dog for you.’
    They wandered around the back of the house to find Dad standing in the back garden. Bundled up in his arms was Hudar, our poodle, very much alive with a smile on his face that indicated even he was in on the prank and found it hilarious.
    â€˜G’day, Richard!’ said my dad with a cheeky smile and faux innocent tone. He looked for all the world like a middle-aged Dennis the Menace. Richard, doing his best impression of a young Mr Wilson went decidedly ape-shit.
    â€˜Bastard!’
    â€˜Come on, Richard. At least the dog’s alive.’
    â€˜Bastard!’
    â€˜What? You’re angry that the dog’s alive? That’s not very nice.’
    â€˜Bastard! Bloody! Bastard!’
    â€˜You have to admit it’s pretty funny.’
    â€˜Bastard.’
    â€˜By the way, if it’s any consolation, Pammy thinks this is all hilarious.’ Dad gestured towards my mother who was standing behind Richard, laughing so hard as to cause severe physical discomfort and respiratory difficulty. Richard himself had turned an alarming shade of purple and appeared to be vibrating. Dad continued, ‘So that should make you feel a bit better.’
    â€˜Bastard! This is an act of cowardice. Of temerity. Indicative of a lack of character.’
    He was so angry he had become Winston Churchill.
    â€˜This is not over, Pickering. Not by a long shot. It has not even begun to be over. And I say, that by the time that this is over, it shall be finished.’
    Richard pivoted, stormed past my mother and one fairly confused