In the kitchen, on the top shelf of the freezer, in the ice cube container is a fake, plastic ice cube with a fly embedded inside.
It’s a cheap gag my son brought home from Big Fun on Coventry a couple years ago, when he was going through his practical joke phase – which I’m beginning to suspect may not be a phase at all.
The fly-in-the-ice-cube is a stupid gag. Real ice cubes float, but the fake one sinks so while it may elicit a double-take I’m not sure it has ever surprised anyone.
After its initial unsuccessful uses, it sat around on the kitchen counter for several months, until som
eone dropped it into the ice cube bin. And there it stays. Even when we clean out the crust from the bottom of the bin, the fly-in-the-ice-cube finds its way back in and occasionally manages to surface at the front.
From that moment, the clock is ticking until someone slips it into somebody’s drink. It showed up in my mother’s glass when she was over last weekend. She never even mentioned it.
We’ve gotten our money’s worth from the fly-in-the-ice-cube.
Which reminds me: Ask me sometime about the remote-control fart machine.
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