Growing up with two sisters and no brothers was difficult for a boy with a vivid imagination and a penchant for pranks. Don’t get me wrong, I love my sisters. They’re two of my best friends. However, when I hit them, they would just cry.


All I wanted was for them to hit me back. A scuffle, a few kicks to the shin, a little give and take—is that too much to ask for? Something more inventive than a tittie-twister. How about a charlie horse? A sucker punch in the stomach?

Oh, okay, you running to tell on me to Mom and Dad again. Well, that’s original.

One year for Christmas, my parents bought me a remote control truck, a monster truck with knobby tires and admirable ground clearance and a bar of plastic lights above the windshield.

My truck bogged down in grass like any other vehicle in its class, but buddy, on concrete or asphalt, it could move. Great acceleration, nice handling. My truck could even land jumps from a modest height, which is better than the garbage you had.

My truck battery was recharging in my room. I went upstairs to get it, and as I was carrying it back downstairs, I saw my older sister sitting crosslegged on the floor, watching television. Her back was to me, and here I was with a monster truck and a battery full of juice.

I had an epiphany. I’d play a joke on my sister.

I sneaked up behind her and buried the rear wheels in her long, brown hair. I then pulled the trigger on my remote control. 

The tires made a whizzing sound as they accelerated, and I thought, “Uh-oh,” as her hair turned into a bird’s nest around each black tire.

When she started screaming, I panicked. I flipped a switch, putting the truck in reverse. Unfortunately, the truck cinched itself even tighter against her scalp.

Her volume went up another 50 decibels.

Fight-or-flight, fight-or-flight. I ran for it.

My truck had to be cut out of her hair.

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