6 Outrageous Family Stories That Are Guaranteed to Make You Laugh Out Loud
From Valentine’s Day faux pas to home repairs gone awry, you won’t believe these Canadians’ hilarious family stories.
A Good Bad Egg
By Gary Barwin
The police called us in the middle of the night. “Where is your son?” the officer asked. “In bed?” we said. “He’s with us,” came the reply. Our 10-year-old had unfortunately egged the local school with a friend. How was he caught? He was nabbed running back to the school with the empty cartons because, he told the cops, “There wasn’t anywhere else to recycle them.”
If you’re looking for more laughs, check out our collection of hilarious anecdotes and cute quotes from the mouths of kids.
By Cassie Stocks
The doorbell rang in the late afternoon. A bearded man, dressed in a dark blazer and pants, handed Mom a large garbage bag. “Your mister ordered these,” he said, then turned and left.
Mom dragged the sack into the kitchen of our home in suburban Sherwood Park, Alta. My 10-year-old brother came into the room: “What’s in there? It’s moving.”
I gave a piercing, seven-year-old-girl shriek. Something in the lumpy bag was struggling to escape. Mom spun around. “Oh, shi—shoot. Take it to the garage.”
My brother hauled the bag away. In the garage, Mom grabbed the axe from its spot on the wall. Dark-jacketed men, mysterious packages and now axes, I thought. It was turning out to be an interesting day.
Mom approached the bag like a bomb-squad member, opened the top and retreated a few feet. There was a rustle and then a chicken with a partially detached head blasted out. Dad was a thrifty man, unable to resist the Hutterite’s price for unplucked, freshly killed (or, in this case, mostly killed) poultry.
The chicken, delighted to be free of the cramped bag and its deceased kin, made several leaps around our garage, like a spasmodic ballerina. Mom’s former-farm-girl know-how abandoned her, and she looked a little sick. She handed my brother (whose closest experience with a live chicken was an undercooked nugget) the axe. “Chop its head off,” she said.
“Okay.” He took a half step forward, turned pale, then handed the axe back. “You chop it off.”
The hen ran in enthusiastic circles, letting out garbled squawks, more bothered by captivity than its neck problem. It darted toward us, wings flapping, feathers shedding. We all screamed and tried to hide behind one another. The bird darted away, terrified. Mom admitted defeat, herded us inside and called my father. Until he arrived, she eyed the door as though the chicken might grab the axe itself and hack its way through.
Hours later, I snuck out to the garage. No more chicken, and the axe was back on the wall. When I asked Dad what happened to the animal, he told me it had run away.
For months I watched in vain for a droopy-headed chicken lurking in the neighbourhood. To my dad’s credit, no more dark-suited men carrying bags ever arrived at our door again. And, many years later, my brother, still horrified, exclaims, “Mom handed me the axe.”
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By Ed Hill
Every generation responds to crisis differently. One time, during a dinner out, my mom and my aunt got into a huge fight over the latter’s spending habits. My mom, prone to dramatic displays, protested by leaving the restaurant and lying down in the middle of traffic. Everyone immediately rushed outside. My dad was convincing her to get off the road, I was redirecting cars and my two uncles were trying to calm the gathering crowd behind us.
After my aunt apologized and my mom agreed to get up, we suddenly realized that my younger brother, 20, was missing. Fifteen minutes later, we finally found him crouching behind a large garbage bin. When asked why he was hiding, he said, “I don’t want to end up on YouTube.”
Little Big Lie
By Megan Murphy
“Kerry, you’re seven, so it’s time you knew our family secret.” Kerry idolized my older sister, Kate, and me, so whatever we said was gospel.
“Mom isn’t really our mom,” I continued. “Our real mother was eaten by a lion while she and Dad were on safari. An agency sent this replacement lady. The good news is you don’t have to listen to her.”
She stared with huge, credulous eyes. “Does Dad know?”
“Yes,” Kate said. “Just ask him.”
Our sister spent the day ignoring Fake Mom’s requests, and when Dad got home from work, she implored him to tell her if it was true. Dad, full of Irish blarney, sighed, “Why, yes, it is. She was a lovely woman. You look like her.”
Finally, Fake Mom clued in and produced a photo of herself holding Kerry as a newborn. She added, “This real mom will deal with your sisters, and your father, later.”
It’s been 30 years since then, and Kerry is still charmingly gullible. I think it’s about time we finally told her the truth about how babies are made.
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Wanna Get Lucky?
By Judy Millar
I’ve become something of a legend in my family for regularly landing myself in awkward situations.
Take Valentine’s Day last year, for instance. My husband and I had agreed not to spend much—it’s the thought that counts. After more than three decades of marriage, I thought it was time to spice things up. At the store, I spotted a greeting card called “The Wheel of Love.” Perfect! My man would get to spin it and try his luck. Maybe he’d score a “Romantic Candlelight Dinner.” Maybe he’d land on “A Big Wet Smooch.” Or just maybe he’d hit the jackpot: “Cupid’s Choice: Meet me in the Bedroom NOW!”
To add to the thrills, music played when the wheel spun. Not the clinkety-clink of a slot machine, but more like a dramatic game-show melody—followed by the pièce de résistance: a taped message from me! In my best sultry voice, I recorded: “Hey babe, wanna get lucky?” The card was a hit on Valentine’s Day, and a few days more. After a while, though, having a spinner card on the bedside table gets exhausting. I needed to pitch it.
Problem is, I’m a pack rat. I have every card and letter my husband and I have ever exchanged stashed in bags on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. There are other bags up there, too, filled with Halloween costumes and Christmas stuff. I tossed “The Wheel of Love” in their general direction and promptly forgot about it.
A few months later, we had to call the gas company to install a new line. Enter Gus, the gas guy. He told me he needed to access the crawl space through the floor of our bedroom closet.
Gus is not a small gas guy. There was considerable bumping around as he jammed himself in there and lowered into the hole. As he touched down, the game-show music sounded, followed by my own come-hither voice: “Hey babe, wanna get lucky?”
I froze in horror, hoping by some miracle he hadn’t heard it. But the top of his head was still visible, with both ears attached. He too was frozen, possibly weighing what his wife would make of this unexpected invitation. Then, ever so slowly, he disappeared into the darkness below.
What to do?! Get a stool and search for the card? But I’d need to replace the closet floor in order to properly position that stool. Gus would be trapped below! You hear about these perverts who trap people in their basements—you just never think you’re going to be one.
All I could do was pray it wouldn’t go off again. Mercifully, when Gus finally emerged, the card stayed silent. And so did Gus.
After he left, I pulled the bags down and found the card—but the sound mechanism had fallen off! I couldn’t find it anywhere.
The next night, around 2:30 a.m., the music played. “Hey, babe, wanna get lucky?” (There is no one in our house feeling lucky at that hour.)
I have combed through the closet to find it. No luck—and it has gone off randomly five more times. Talk about the gift that keeps on giving. Fortunately, the music plays slower each time, clearly running out of juice.
I just hope it wears out before I do.
Make your sweetheart giggle on February 14 with these hilarious Valentine’s Day stories.
By Jennifer McAuliffe
To save some money, I asked my brother, who is deathly afraid of heights, to patch my roof. He has tools and a convenient reluctance to say no to his hapless sister. I couldn’t seem to get my balance to assist him, so I was instructed to hand over water when needed—and to stop requesting he take photos of me pretending to use a hammer.
After six hours, as he was finishing up, our radio played a tornado-warning siren. The next day, shingles were strewn all over the road. I think I did him a favour, though, by imploring him to patch it again, because falling is no longer his greatest fear. Now it’s receiving a text from me.
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