My sister decided to race me to answer the door - in my defense I was four and really liked opening the door. She was nine and well aware of the rug in the hall that tended to slip…
I stepped on the rug at full speed and slid into the wall, breaking my nose.
Then there was the time when she decided that she owned the swingset and I wasn’t allowed to use it. She sat in front of the swing, I walked to the back and pushed a swing out of anger…clunk
My mother says the ER doctors gave her some funny looks.
My oldest sister and her friend got tired of my middle sister following them around so they asked her if she wanted to learn to climb a tree. They got a ladder to help her get high into the tree and then they took the ladder down and left her in the tree.
It was quite a while before my mother heard my sister yelling from the tree and came to investigate. My oldest sister’s explanation that “the ladder just fell down” might have worked if they had not been “good girls” and put the ladder back where they found it.
My brother and I work at my mom’s restaurant during the holidays and breaks. We verbally insult each other and keep tabs of who owes who (he insults me, I get a point, I insult him back, the balance goes back to zero). The better ones, we write down so we can laugh at them later. It’s a very structured bullying system.
I’m the eldest of four. For some reason, my ten-years-younger brother and I singled out one another for terrorism very early, completely ignoring the sister between us and the youngest brother.
When he refused to eat the macaroni dinner I’d made, I told him “you’ll eat it or you’ll wear it.” Foolish boy. Mom came home to find him picking noodles out of his ears. He became attached to a Cabbage Patch doll for a short while, so naturally I tortured it: it was kidnapped and later found in the crisper drawer of the fridge (“cabbage” - get it?); it got stuffed into the blender while I poised one finger ominously over “frappe” until he agreed to… well, I can’t remember what I made him agree to, but he did; the doll was duct-taped across the mouth, bound by its wrists and ankles, hung by its neck and dangled from the roof just where he’d see it when he opened his bedroom curtains. When he got a bit older and went out drinking one night, I stuck a metal folding chair between his waterbed mattress and his bedspread. I’ve crazy-glued his loose change to his dresser. I stuck a homemade bumper sticker on his car that said, “I pee my pants” (he drove around with that for almost a week before someone pointed it out to him!) and I replaced his toothpaste once with Desitin.
For his part, he tracked my car one day to my office, and called on a friend who owned a construction company. I came out of work to find one of those giant cement pipe liner thngs blocking my car in.
My parents house is a big, old, rambling affair with a door to the attic in what was my oldest brother’s room. As a kid I was terribly afraid of the attic. You can figure out where I often ended up, wrapped in several blankets, in the dark, with my brothers holding the door closed. There usual line was “The monster that eats little boys for breakfast lives in our attic, and we heard he was hungry.”
Once, we decided that we wanted to play baseball, but we didn’t have a baseball. That’s OK, we had a tetherball without a rope, so we used that. My oldest brother is at bat, my next oldest brother is pitcher. A nice slow one, over the middle of the plate. BAM. Line drive right back to the pitcher, hitting him square in the nose. Result - broken nose and glasses that broke on the bridge and went flying.
An iceball that was thrown through the storm door (glass, of course), and travelled roughly 35 feet down the hall and into the bathroom intact. My next oldest brother was standing by the stormdoor at the time. He picked glass out of his face for a day or two.
Football in the living room, complete with field goals. It was always 2 on 2 and there was no referee so fouls were flagrant. Roughing the passer. HA! I laugh at your “roughing the passer” rule.
Remember those plastic guns that shot darts that would stick to the 'fridge. My parents, who are wonderful people, were always getting us those damn things. My brothers and I became expert with them, only we tended to shoot each other and not the 'fridge.
Just last week we were playing Scrabble and I told my sister (in an exaggerated English accent) that she “fucking sucks the chubby.” We’re still laughing. My dad thought it was hilarious, too.
I’m the youngest of three sisters and when I think back as this thread is forcing me to do, I am quite surprised that I am still here.
My older sisters would let me join in their games but there was always this qualifier that if I got hurt or if mother found out I got hurt all fun on earth would cease.
When I was about eight they needed an extra on the pick-up softball game going on in our yard. So they made me the catcher. No problem there, except no one told me to duck. The first strike was a hard swing which connected with my forehead. Smack on target. I was woozly to say the least, saw stars and was just laid out on the sideline for the remainder of the game to groove on the stars. I’m sure I had at least a minor concussion. Which explains a lot.
A year or so later I was riding my older sister’s bike which was much too large for me and crashed into a telephone pole. We all decided that I had broken my arm but definitely could not tell mother. We were set to all get new bikes for Christmas and this horrible arm breaking would certainly put the kabosh on that. So I was taken to my room and put to bed for my arm to heal. Made sense at the time plus as long as was lying abed with a broken arm I was out of their hair. This one I finally confessed to because my mother kept asking me why I was in bed and since we had determined I would be there for weeks I figured I had better tell her.
My brother loves those Snap-n-Pop thingies (little tissue papers twisted with some powder in them that explodes with a bang when you throw them?).
He used to booby-trap our older sister’s room.
He’d put them in the door frames, dresser drawers, anywhere they’d get smacked and explode.
The funniest one (and the one I think he got in trouble for) was when he put them under the toilet seat.
Scared the piss out of her!