Pranks can be great fun and an excellent way to enhance a friendship. But there are instances when a prank can go too far. Such as the time back in high school ... on Homecoming night...

One of the homies had stolen a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from someone’s dad and snuck it into the school. This was pre-Columbine, pre-9/11. Smuggling contraband was easier in those days as security checks weren’t as stringent, often were non-existent...

It was Terry, Jim, and me. And we’d slipped out the back of the school gymnasium, where the homecoming dance was being held, and crept like bandits through the crisp fall evening, then set up shop out on the baseball diamond.

This was where and when Terry broke out the bottle.

We took turns swigging the potion, and Terry gagged. Then Jim made twisted faces, his arched eyebrows flying halfway up his forehead as he coughed, hissed and wheezed...

But when the bottle got to me, I don’t know, it just felt smooth going down my gullet. Wasn’t much different from soda. At least at first.

“Whoa, he’s like, chugging it like water,” I could hear Terry exclaim, his eyes narrowing but barely visible under his Oilers stocking cap. Both stood slack-jawed in amazement as I cleared the neck of the square-shaped bottle. And then some.

Strangely, I didn’t feel anything. Not instantly. And we proceeded to smoke Marlboro Reds, recount the latest episode of In Living Color.

It was around when Terry was doing his Homey D. Clown impression that nature came calling, and I excused myself to go piss on home plate.

As I unbuckled my belt and lowered my jeans (never been a zipper-only guy, way too many steel teeth, way too close to... ) I heard footsteps crunching over the stiff November grass.

“Push him!” Terry shouted, and with that, I spun around, cock in hand, and blasted a charging Jim with a steady stream of silver piss, thoroughly wetting the waist of his blue jeans and the hem of his Metallica “Ride the Lightning” T-shirt, and Jim froze in his tracks like he’d run into an invisible wall and threw his arms up in the air, his face contorted in terror.

Then Terry emerged from behind Jim, rumbling toward me, like a linebacker, with a look of venom in his barely visible eyes.

So I turned my piss-rifle on Terry. My stream strong as a showerhead. And I was suddenly feeling powerful and righteous, as if I were shooting holy water at a vampire.

But Terry had cat-quick reflexes and jumped back, eluded the silver stream, was almost like Keanu dodging bullets in The Matrix.

Terry, being clean, unhit, was able to laugh it off. Once I finished pissing, still aiming in Terry’s general direction, I slipped my member away, buckled up and lifted my acid-washed jeans, and started to guffaw.