MFM Minisode 429

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Hello.

And welcome to My Favorite Murder.

The mini-sode.

It's mini.

We email.

Nope.

We email?

You email.

You email.

We read email.

We read them.

Hey, and guess what?

It's almost April Fool's Day.

Yeah.

Do you have a prank story to kick us off with?

Yeah, I'll kick us off with a prank story.

Okay.

This is called Prank on Very, Very Right.

Dear Karen Georgia, still Stephen, even though I know you aren't involved right now, and all the other fantastic folks involved in the show. Still Steven.
Still Steven. That's very sweet.
After all these years. You asked for stories about pranks, and I immediately put down my quilting to type this up, as otherwise I would have forgot.
Finally, I thought, it's my time to shine. April Fool's Day is one of my favorite holidays.
It was the only day we were allowed to play practical jokes in my household, and this was a big deal. There were the classics, my mom taping the lid of the toilet down so my sleepy brother would slap himself trying to open it, my brother dyeing his water red so my mom would think he was drinking blood.
It says not a great prank, but he was five. And my dad waking my brother and I up for school, getting us all ready into the bus stop, then informing us it was Saturday.
However, I want to tell you my best prank, as I am quite proud and it required some careful planning. Firstly, you need to know that my dad is neat and orderly and did almost all of the cooking.
I grew up with strict rules about how the dishwasher was loaded, that spices need to be placed with their labels facing out, and that everything had a place which was never changed, including each item in the pantry based on how often it is used and who uses it. It's intense.
Yeah. How's your anxiety doing? It's pretty ratcheted up right now.
Yeah. This need for order is likely why there was a scheduled day for practical jokes.
Dad. It was dad in the army.
So at about 11 p.m. on March 31st, when I was 15, my parents were asleep as I could hear them snoring.
I go into the kitchen with a plan. Wreak orderly havoc.
I switched all caps, everything. Now, I don't mean I put the plates where the cookbooks were and the cookbooks were the plates.
That would be too easy to fix. I took out the plates and put the cookbooks there and then put the cups where the cookbooks were and the spices where the cups were and then the non-perishables where the spices were, etc., etc.
In order to not wake my parents, I had to do this slowly, setting down towels and tiptoeing. It took me until nearly 4 a.m.
Can you imagine being 15? 15. Yeah, that's dedication.
Yeah. Until my work was complete.
Finally satisfied with a job well done, I went to bed. I awoke gleefully to an all caps, what the hell? I don't know.
I'm doing home gyms impression. That's a dad sound.
That's what dad sound like. What the hell? Around 6.30 a.m.
And remember falling back to sleep to my parents muttering about, oh, my God, it's all the drawers, too. By the time I got up around 8.30 a.m.
and remember falling back to sleep to my parents muttering about, oh my God, it's all the drawers too. By the time I got up around 8.30, it was as if nothing had ever happened in the kitchen and I got a gritted teeth smile about how this was a great joke.
But next time, tone it down a little. Had I done this to my dad's workshop outside, I would likely have been out of the will regardless of the rules.
April Fool's is still an important day to me

and now my target is my partner

who has had to eat cookies

made with Skittles instead of M&Ms

and other little harmless pranks

that somehow he still falls for

without suspicion

for the last nearly seven years.

They married the perfect person.

I know, it's sweet.

A dupe.

Yeah.

Stay sexy and prank those you love. Asia, she, her.
Asia, those are good pranks. Yeah.
I want to go back to the five-year-old's blood drinking prank. You like that one.
Well, they're five. Yeah.
That's really good. It is.
Just like, ma, I'm drinking blood. Okay.
The subject line of this email is Groucho Marx, comedian, satirist, bank robber, question mark, exclamation point. Hello, everyone from the fuck word murder mystery show.
Long time listener, second time writer, hopefully first time on the pod. Did I make it? There is simply no way to know.
in 2009 i was a supervisor at my local safeway in my town a lot of the stores had a branch of

the local credit union built into the store makes sense need money for your eggs there's a credit

union I was a supervisor at my local Safeway. In my town, a lot of the stores had a branch of the local credit union built into the store.
Makes sense. Need money for your eggs? There's a credit union for you in store.
One afternoon in August, the manager of the credit union came running up to me and shouted, we were just robbed. Me being 20 years old and possibly stoned, timidly said, is everyone okay? She went on to tell me that everyone was fine, but that someone came to the teller desk wearing a Groucho Marx mask.
Think the glasses, fake nose and mustache. He handed the teller notes telling her to hand him all the money in her till and that he was armed.
Once he had the money, he took off running out the door. Money and mustache blowing in the summer wind.
Surely this is the craziest. It can be right, wrong.
Three weeks later, the same man came back to the branch and robbed them again. Same note, gun in pocket, and of course, the signature disguise.
However, this time there was a United States Marine in line behind him who noticed something was up and interrupted him. Groucho took off running with the Marine in hot pursuit on the phone with the police.
Groucho was cornered by the police and probably the hero Marine in a casino parking lot where he drew his fake gun on police and was promptly shot and killed. Oh my God.
And I just want to say a bank's money is not worth risking your life for. A till's till no money is not worth running that person down innocent bystanders could have been hurt anything could have happened but that idea of why would you pull a fake gun it's horrible okay so imagine my continued surprise to learn that we were not the only place this guy had robbed in the recent months apparently the f FBI was involved in this case and had dubbed the man the fashion faux pas bandit due to its unusual form of disguise.
Side note, I vote the FBI is now in charge of naming things from now on. I disagree.
Stay sexy and don't impersonate vaudevillian icons when committing felonies. Brayden, he, him.
Wow. Isn't that incredible? That wasn't a prank.
That was awful. It was not a prank, but I'm really trying to support the true crime theme.
So, you know. I appreciate that.
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Okay, my next one's called Catfishing, Blackmail and Family, Chicken Soup for the Murderino Soul. Hello.
In 2008, I worked with a recently widowed woman who was venturing into online dating for the first time. We'd often chat about her experiences during our breaks.
One day, she excitedly told me about a new man named, quote, Mike. He was showering her with flowers, fancy dinners, and personalized, rather suggestive poetry.
Gross. I know.
Can you not? No one wants regular poetry. No, right.
No one wants to hear poetry about your underwear or whatever. Dirty poetry.
Dirty poetry. Get out of here.
What are you, a fucking skunk? A French skunk? Okay. He also claimed to be a wealthy inventor, having made his fortune from the zip tie.
Oh, shit. We're already calling bullshit on this guy, right? I mean, that would be a great lie.
I'm the heir to the zip tie fortune. It's me.
Hey, it's me. I was immediately skeptical.
Not only was he not listed as the zip tie inventor online, but there were other red flags. He claimed to be divorced, but still lived with his ex-wife, whom he described as sometimes bedridden, sometimes mentally unwell.
He was also secretive about his cell phone when they were together, always seemed to be on it, but never wanting her to see what he was doing. Despite my concerns, it's hard to dissuade someone in the throes of infatuation, so I simply urged her to be cautious.
Like, she's recently widowed, she's trying dating again, let's assume it's been 20 years and she's dated. Like that's just, you fall for some shit, I feel like.
You forget what dating is like. And you want to be kind of blind.
You just want to assume the best. And a friend that says don't do that, you will just walk away from.
Totally. Like you don't.
It's too, that drug is so strong. It's so strong.
Around this time, my recently divorced aunt moved in with my parents to get back on her feet. While visiting, I learned she was out on a date with someone she'd just met, a man named Mike.
He was sending her flowers, taking her to fancy dinners, and writing her steamy poems. It's his fucking M.O.
Mike's a slut. It's fucking creepy.
And of course, he claimed to be the zip tie inventor. The coincidence was too much.
I immediately shared everything my coworker told me, including the unsettling details about Mike's living situation and questionable behavior.

He was not only a two-timer, but potentially a far more dangerous predator.

Like, don't bring up zip ties immediately.

If you're going to make something up, zip ties are the creepiest thing you can make up.

That's really interesting.

You know what I was thinking of was Ziploc bags.

Yeah.

So I was like, wow, that's kind of, that's a lot of money, but it's like, no, that's really disturbing. It is.
My parents, upon hearing this, told my aunt that Mike was not welcome around them or in their home because the aunt lived with them. The next day I received a call from my aunt.
She demanded I retract everything I'd said about Mike or she'd reveal a secret of mine to my parents. What? Yeah.
Jesus, Aunt Judy, take it easy. You don't know him that well.
It's really weird. She's thrown over a family.
She's like immediately don't get between me and my man. Yeah.
This secret wasn't something I was ashamed of, but it was a deeply personal choice I'd kept from them, knowing it could be particularly hurtful. I had never planned on them finding out, but I'd rather face their disappointment than allow a predator near my family.
Like, what an awful position to put this person in. So shitty.
So shitty. my aunt underestimated me instead of giving in i called my parents and told them everything including my aunt blackmail attempt.
They stood firmly by my side and asked my aunt to leave their home. I haven't spoken to her since.
I also had to break the news to my coworker about Mike's double dealing. It was painful for her, but I believe it ultimately helped her become more discerning in her dating life.
Looking back, the whole situation feels bizarre. I'm just glad to have been in a position to protect my family from a suspicious character.
My parents' unwavering support solidified at our bond, and I'm grateful for them every day. Welp, this is where I leave you.
Bye. Bye.
Jess. Wow, that was fascinating.
I know, like family dynamics are so fucked. I just didn't expect an aunt story to be like, and then my aunt was like, fuck you.
I'll blackmail you with a secret you just told me because I'm your aunt that you trust and like, you can tell anything to. But guess what? You can't.
She really broke an aunt bond right there. That's bullshit.
As aunts ourselves, you just crossed the line. Yeah.
George and I are both deeply, deeply offended. Okay.
Again, this is a variation on the theme, but I just thought it was really funny. It says email typos and other uh-ohs.
Karen and Georgia, I love you so much. That was all in caps.
Now let's lock in. You were discussing embarrassing mistakes from childhood we grow up with and are known for basically forever.
As a repeat, mom, I mean, insert elementary teacher's name here, offender. A repeat.
Oh, no. Called the teacher mom multiple times.
Multiple times. God, you can't let that down.
I have a more recent story of this for you. During COVID, while working from home, emails were everything.
As an anxious but eager communications intern with FedEx at the time, I was regularly communicating with senior leadership as a ghost writer of sorts. On two yes-to occasions, my childhood mistakes got the best of me.
Exhibit A, while responding to an email from the CEO of the company, I sent yes mama, meaning to write yes ma'am. Yes mama.
Yes mama, slay. Oh my God.
Slay mama. Exhibit B.
While responding to an email from the senior VP of sales, I sent Ho, H-O-E, how are you? Meaning to say hello. How are you? Ho, how are you? Ho, how are you? Having survived those emails and looking back on how far I've come as a communications professional, I'm thankful to know now that no matter how much experience you have, we are all still humans and make mistakes every goddamn day.
Since listening to one of your early episodes in my college podcasting class. We could have gone to college after all.
I guess we did. I guess so.
We could. They took us to college.
That is that's crazy. I apologize.
I cannot express how thankful I am for you both. You've gotten me through many miles of half marathon training, multiple road trips, and filled my Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays with much joy.
Not to mention, Karen, I was also in 4-H and still currently are as an advisor. And I love hearing you reflect on it.
So stay sexy and proofread your emails, Kelsey K. Wow.
It is nice to know like a professional who actually does that for a living has fucked up. Yeah.
Ho, how are you? Ho, how are you? Hey, it's Amy Brown. Join me in supporting St.
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Okay, this is my last one. Okay.
And actually, this one is kind of like a precursor to next week's episode.

Because next week is actually National Pet Day.

So we're going to do pet stories.

Hero pet stories.

Hero pet stories.

Okay.

This is called Hero Cat.

Hello, ladies, pets, researchers, and the memory of Stephen's mustache.

Stephen got two call outs in this fucking episode.

The people miss Stephen.

I know.

I'm writing in about my own personal defender, my cat, Phillip. A little background.
I live with my cousin, Angie, and four pets, two dogs, Dewey and Chandler Bing, and two cats, Phillip and Princess. Late one night, probably after midnight, my cousin was coming home after going out.
Oh, yeah, I picked this one because it sounds like something my cat Mo would do. I was already in bed with the dogs.
Being a smart murderino, I had locked up the house prior to going to sleep, thinking my cousin had her key. I forgot she had broken it off in the lock earlier that week.
So I slept in blissful ignorance while she fought with the door, called my phone. It was on Do Not Disturb.
And finally resorted to seeing if she could break it. I want to remind you, I have two dogs.
Neither alerted me to her assaulting

the back door. She gets our front porch rocker, hauls it to the side of the house, and proceeds to climb into the window in our living room.
As she's halfway through, the dog's still unconcerned. My cat, Phillip, decides to take matters into his own hands.
She says out of nowhere, he flies straight at her face,

claws out.

Good boy.

He begins hitting her in the face as hard as his little toe beans could. Oh, Mo would totally fucking do this.
Yeah, I could see that. Even if he knew who it was, he might do it anyways.
He'll hit a bitch. Sure.
She grabbed him and told him to stop. He was undeterred.
He continued to bat at her, this time with claws in, as we think he realized it was her and was now just pissed she was coming through the window. So no claws the second time.
Okay. But now it's just a fun game.
But fuck you. Yeah.
I still did not wake up, nor did the dogs. Thank God it was only Angie and Philip was there to defend the house.
Stay sexy and maybe be a smarter murderino and lock the windows, too. Cho, she, her.
That's a really good point. You lock yourself out of the front door.
And it's that easy to break into. Everything.
Just go right in this door. Smaller.
Harder to get into. Okay, here's my last one.
The subject line is how my dad traumatized me with the Jaws ride at Universal Studios. Because there's a fine line between pranking and lifelong trauma from a parent.
Hi hotties, long time listener, first time emailer. Love you, blah, blah, blah.
Let's get into it. I'm not sure if you specifically asked for childhood humiliation or parent prank stories, but here's mine.
The year is 2006. I'm seven years old on vacation in Florida with my dad, brother and stepmom.
We're staying at the Nickelodeon Hotel. And then in parentheses, it says peak childhood luxury.
Richie Rich. I want to know details about the Nickelodeon Hotel.
Yeah. What is that? I have no idea.
Little cars that you can drive around in the hallways. That was fun.
Bowls of candy. And on this particular day, we're heading to Universal Studios.
Life is good. That afternoon, my dad has planned a boat ride for us all.
As an amateur marine biologist, read avid SpongeBob watcher and mermaid enthusiast, I am thrilled. Getting on the boat, my brother offers me the seat closest to the water.
This should have been a red flag as my brother was never this nice. But I took the seat without hesitation.
The boat tour starts taking us through a town I've never

heard of. But I, being seven, am not really paying attention to what the guide is saying.

I just remember thinking, wow, I love Florida. The wind in my hair, the sun on my face,

a perfect moment. And then suddenly the energy shifts.
Our tour guide gets a radio call,

something about an accident with another boat. Up ahead, we see the wreckage, a boat capsized with a massive, jagged bite taken out of it.
The guide is panicking. My first grade brain is desperately trying to process what I'm seeing.
And then I see it, a shark fin, a massive shark fin slicing through the water toward us. Our boat speeds away.
I grip my seat, my heart pounding as we narrowly escape, taking shelter in a dark flickering boathouse. And just when I think we might be safe, bam, the shark lunges out of the water at the boat.
And that's when I lose my mind. I start screaming.
I mean, blood-curdling, guttural, survival mode screaming.

The shark attacks again, this time coming right for me. This is it, I think.
We are all going to die. If you haven't figured it out by now, the boat ride my dad so thoughtfully planned was in fact the Jaws ride.
I'd never seen Jaws, yet my father, my protector, my hero, thought it'd be hilarious to prank me with a life-or or death encounter with a giant animatronic shark. I don't remember after that.
I probably blacked out from sheer terror. At some point, the shark died and we made it back to shore where I finally realized it had all been a setup.
As an absolute daddy's girl, the betrayal cut deep. I refused to acknowledge my father for the rest of the day.
A small price to pay in his eyes. In the years that followed, he never apologized for this manufactured trauma.
His only regret that he didn't bring a video camera to capture my screams, red face, and now legendary forehead vein that made its first and most dramatic appearance. Then it just says, what an asshole.
Oh, my God. I lost my dad, Bruce, in 2019 to brain cancer, and my life has never been the same.
He was my best friend and truly the best parent my brother and I could have asked for, though this story does not paint him in the best light. And then it says, LOL.
He didn't listen to MFN, but I know he would have loved it. He's definitely the reason I'm a murderino.
Anyway, I'm not sure what the lesson here is. Stay sexy and don't trust your dad.
Good enough. Love, Emily.
Oh, Emily, that was sweet. Isn't that so good? Yeah.
I love that one. That's a good prank.
And I want to be like, parents, don't prank your kid. But like, I'm not a parent, so I don't know how fucking stressful kids are all the time.
And there's once in a while, you just got to fucking prank those little shits. I think there's also the piece of it where it's like real life is really hard and you will get the shit surprised out of you at times.
You won't be expecting it and don't never be ready. Right.
Is that it? I don't know, but the forehead vein is hilarious. A seven-year-old blood curdling guttural screaming.
So good. Well, happy April Fool's Day.
Thanks, for writing in. Write in anything you want.
Do you have a prank

story you just thought of now? You don't have to wait till next

April Fool's Day. You can send it in now at

myfavoritemurder at Gmail because we accept

any fucking story at this point. We want

it all. Yeah.
Stay sexy. And don't get

murdered. Goodbye.

Elvis, do you want a cookie?

Ah! show on Instagram at My Favorite Murder. Listen to My Favorite Murder on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your

podcasts. And now you can watch us on Exactly

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