The Kids Are In Bed Podcast – Hosted by Tim & Jenni Severson
April Fools’ Day may not be a national holiday, but it is a global tradition—and in this episode, we explore the wonderfully weird ways people have chosen to fool each other throughout history. Along the way, we ask the most important question of all: Is Jenni actually fool proof? Or has Tim just gotten sneakier over the years?
We kick things off with a real-life insurance snafu that somehow spiraled into one of the most wholesome and pun-filled email exchanges you’ll hear this year. From there, Tim takes us back to college for the greatest prank he’s ever pulled—one so good his mom cried and then reused it on his dad. It’s a story with suspense, drama, betrayal… and Bush Light.
We also dive into:
The mysterious and messy history of April Fools’ Day
Wild international traditions, including paper fish, flour bombs, and prank-free zones after noon
The most legendary pop culture hoaxes, from spaghetti trees to left-handed Whoppers
A prank-themed trivia game, where Jenni tries to separate fact from fiction (with surprising results)
How our own kids are starting to get in on the April Fools action—some better than others
This episode blends humor, nostalgia, relationship dynamics, and just a bit of chaos—aka, it’s exactly what you expect from The Kids Are In Bed.
Whether you’re a fan of clever April Fools pranks, global traditions, or just hearing stories about people getting emotionally wrecked by their own children, this one’s worth a listen.
I sit down for breakfast with most of my ten roommates at the Boston Market on University Avenue near the University of Minnesota campus. We leave the gray drizzle and get a table big enough to seat our group of college undergrads, all nursing hangovers.
No hangover cure works like a cheap, greasy breakfast—at least, not one I know of. A Greek yogurt parfait, half a grapefruit, and a green smoothie may also do the trick. Still, I prefer a breakfast skillet with questionable hollandaise dumped on the top, which pushes me toward the line of bowel incontinence.
Looking back through my mind’s eye, it’s hard to believe any of the guys seated at that table have become successful and fathers.
This was not a lazy breakfast. We had business that needed our attention.
The weekend before the final exams for the spring semester has been special on the U of M campus since 1942. However, it wasn’t until the early otts that the University began to book bands and reserve a place for them to perform. The names of the artists booked have historically been underwhelming, but I wouldn’t know, as parties are held all over campus to celebrate spring jam for the bargain price of five dollars per solo cup.
For my roommates and me, the coup de gras of parties was held in the parking lot behind the houses at what some people called “11th & Uni” (11th Street and University Avenue) while others called it “10th & 4th” (10th Avenue SE and SE 4th Street). Neither was better than the other as it got you to the same place. On Spring Jam weekend, that parking lot would host the keg race.
If you’re unfamiliar with a keg race, I’ll explain the rules, but first, what is drinking responsibly like?
The rules of a keg race are simple:
1. Assemble a team of seasoned binge drinkers.
2. Buy a keg and tap (*Note: The tap can be rented, but you should be aware you may forfeit a pretty hefty security deposit if you don’t return it to the liquor store in working order).
3. Drink until the keg is empty. If you are the first to complete this task, you are rewarded with nothing but pride(?).
Our business at breakfast was the keg race—specifically, how to win it. We had been talking through strategies over the week, but nothing had piqued our interest.
“What will really slow us down is having to piss all the time,” someone said.
“Well, there is no getting around the fact that drinking beer makes you have to pee,” another of my roommates countered.
Do you ever have an idea that is equal parts genius and stupidity? An idea whose mixture is such that voicing it is a no-lose proposition because you will either be lauded as a forward thinker or everyone thinks you are telling a hilarious joke?
“We could pee and drink simultaneously if we wore diapers,” I said.
Everyone looked at me, processing what I had just said. Then, the discussion started with an even split between pro and anti-diaper people, and that is how it remained until we realized we could turn it into a theme with nothing more than a handful of white t-shirts and a black permanent marker.
“The front could say, ‘Boxers or Briefs,’ and on the back, we could each have a letter of Depends.”
Bringing the shirts into the mix transformed the idea from strategy to costume. The group unanimously agreed we had found the plan that would win us the event. Some of our mathematically inclined roommates even calculated how much time it would save our team by remaining within pouring distance of the keg. Needless to say, the data strongly suggested we had uncovered something revolutionary. I remember thinking, this is what the Wright Brothers must have felt like when they designed their first successful glider.
The day of the keg race arrived with warm weather and clear skies. We put on our, er, uniforms and made our way to the battlefield. We placed our keg in the first open space and readied for battle. One of the benefits of a keg race is that the only requirement of the playing surface is to be level enough to allow the keg to stand upright.
As we walked between a couple of houses into the rear parking lot, it was clear the keg race would not be the sole event of the day. A wrestling ring stood lazily in the center of the parking lot. The ropes dangled like forgotten Christmas lights hanging from a deck in July.
Our plan was to drink beer slightly faster than a typical Saturday afternoon while relying on the time-saving secret weapons hugging our loins to save us the trouble of walking away in search of a bathroom. Other teams decided speed was the only solution, so they brought beer bongs to speed up consumption.
Race officials positioned a large packing barrel in the center of the racing teams. This barrel was specifically designed to catch and hold at least fifty gallons of vomit, and it was used. I witnessed people vomit and immediately chug another beer. Countless college students threw up the foamy cold beer that had only made it halfway down their esophagus.
So immature, I thought as I tipped my red solo cup upward, finishing my beer in my adult diaper.
Shortly into the race, it was time to test the strategy. The warmth of my urine saturated the absorbent core of the diaper, and I’d be lying if I claimed it didn’t feel pleasant, like easing into a warm bath.
A short time later, a teammate approached me looking anxious, “I don’t think I can do it.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Use the diaper.”
“It’s what they’re made for. I’ve already used mine, and,” I paused waiting for the flow of urination, “I’m using it again right now as we speak, you’ll be fine.“
“Fine,” he paused momentarily, “I’m going.”
“See, it’s kind of nice isn..”
“Goddammit,” my teammate said, looking down at his shoes.
I followed his gaze downward as a small amount of pee trickled down his right leg.
“I didn’t think it was possible to use a diaper wrong,” I gasped with laughter.
The race went on, and, as in so many sports, speed killed. Our strategy had failed, and we were not victorious that day.
My Own Worst Enemy by Lit played as I allowed myself to take in the sights of the field of play while I stood in an adult diaper sagging from repeated use. To my left, another person was using the vomit barrel. Behind him, the backyard wrestling continued, with one wrestler bleeding from his forehead. Behind me, a girl sobbed about her boyfriend talking to another girl. A light breeze carried on the warm May air blew through the parking lot, reminding me that the urine in my diaper was now cold and uncomfortable.
I made my way to change out of my racing uniform when I came across another of my roommates. This was the roommate who was the physical manifestation of my worst impulses.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to change. My diaper is about to fall off,” I said.
“We should probably change into another one of these, right?” He asked, holding up the box of diapers with two more diapers left.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
We went inside the house to use the bathroom for the first time that day. The bathroom was on the second floor, and we waited in a short line until it was my roommate’s turn. He walked through the doorway and turned to me, “You’re not going to change me?”
“Change you?”
“Well, yeah. I thought you were going to change my diaper,” he said, looking at me as though I was his father breaking my promise to play catch in the backyard.
A smile formed on my face as I said, “Yeah, I’ll change your diaper.”
We entered the cramped bathroom. My roommate lay lazily on the floor, put his feet straight in the air, and said, “Change me.”
“You need to lift up your butt,” I instructed through laughter as I crouched down, attempting to pull the diaper over his hips and up off his legs. As the diaper went past his knees, the heavy inside of the diaper inverted. It must’ve weighed three pounds.
“How many times did you go?” I asked.
“Oh, I lost track, but you are definitely going to need to wipe me.”
“Wipe you?”
“Yeah, haven’t you ever changed a diaper before?”
As I leaned to grab the toilet paper roll sitting on the toilet tank, I heard a light knock on the door, followed by the click of the latch. I turned to look over my left shoulder as three girls opened the bathroom door, eyes wide and jaws hanging slack as they tried to understand what they were witnessing.
My roommate propped himself on his right elbow to glimpse the girls who had walked in and said, “We’ll be out in just a minute.”
The girls slammed the door quickly, and laughter erupted on the other side of the door.
The embarrassment was too great, and I needed to explain. I left the bathroom, but the girls who walked in were nowhere to be found. I never got a chance to explain what was going on. I think about those girls often and wonder what the scene looked like from their perspective.
My roommate left the bathroom after a moment. “Thanks for your help,” he said, adjusting his fresh diaper while handing me mine.
I went back into the bathroom, locking the door this time. I changed into my new diaper and left the bathroom. As I walked out, my roommate stood beside an open window overlooking the back parking lot. I saw the party, and the wrestling was still in full swing.
As I walked toward the stairs, my roommate said, “Should we go out there?”
“Where do you think I’m going?”
“No,” he said, gesturing to the open window, “out there.”
The window opened out onto the roof without a screen. My roommate wanted to go on the roof. It’s tough to say how many beers I consumed at that point in the day, so it isn’t shocking that I made a responsible decision and said, “Yes.”
I’m unsure if it was because we went on the roof or just a song added to a long playlist, but it wasn’t long before we were doing the “Macarena” on the roof in our diapers.
I wore my diaper for the rest of that day, though I didn’t use it until the night’s end.
Many people will roll their eyes at this behavior, which they find immature and reckless. I will not argue that point. I am well aware of the dangers of binge drinking and climbing out onto roofs. I understand that wearing a diaper for the sole purpose of drinking more beer is concerning behavior.
However, that day played out like a scene from a stereotypical college movie. It is a scene you would see and think there is no way that would happen at a real college, but it did.
People ask, “Wouldn’t you be concerned if this was one of your children’s stories?”
This week on The Kids Are In Bed, Tim and Jenni discuss Taco Tuesday, boating on Lake Minnetonka, and attending Chalk Fest in Maple Grove, MN. They reminisce about 2005, including working at Gadzooks, watching movies like Wedding Crashers and Star Wars, and their love for the Oscars. The conversation is filled with humor and personal anecdotes. In this conversation, the hosts discuss various topics, including JC Penney’s jingle, Christmas cards, TV shows like The Office and Lost, and their experiences in 2005. They reminisce about their favorite moments and share funny anecdotes.
Join Tim and Jenni this week on The Kids Are In Bed as they delve into a hilarious and insightful conversation spanning a variety of topics! From reminiscing about the Friends-themed dinner at Travail to debating the nuances of tipping etiquette, Tim and Jenni cover it all with humor and wit. Tune in as they discuss the iconic movies and music of 2004, sharing their personal favorites and reflecting on their cultural impact. They share their memories of the music festival everyone wanted to be at in the summer of 2004, “Us Fest.” Tim explains how it came to be.
But that’s not all! They also explore the milestone of turning 40, sharing their reflections on life, friendships, and personal growth. They’ll keep you entertained with anecdotes and humorous incidents from the past while offering thought-provoking insights into their own.
Read one of Tim’s first essays, Punch Drunk, for a little more detail on the story told in the podcast.
Thank you so much for being here, if you have a moment, please go subscribe on YouTube!
One night, during my Sophomore year of college, I was talking with a couple of roommates about “blacking out.”
That is, drinking so much alcohol you cannot remember a portion of the evening despite walking around like a semi-functional human.
As a twenty-year-old from rural Minnesota, I had done my fair share of drinking. I had been around people claiming not to remember things from the night before. Still, I had been with them and consumed roughly the same amount of alcohol, yet I could remember the night’s details clearly.
This led me to feel as though there were two options:
I am not capable of blacking out due to a superhuman liver.
People claim to blackout because they can’t own the embarrassment of their actions.
I gladly played devil’s advocate against my roommates in this discussion as they crafted theories opposing my viewpoints on blackouts.
Heated debates were taking place in other houses and apartments around the University of Minnesota campus. However, those debates covered high-brow academic hypotheses. Future brilliant minds were discussing philosophy, politics, or mathematic proofs.
All the while, I had split my roommates on the question of whether or not a blackout could happen by drinking beer alone since I almost exclusively drank beer at the time.
Our debate was as vigorous as the others throughout campus, but our subject matter was sophomoric.
When the dust settled, it was agreed that blackouts are real. We decided to conduct an experiment to determine whether or not I could achieve a blackout, an investigation for which I was happy to be a guinea pig.
Our group of scholars determined Red Bull mixed with vodka would be the best catalyst for a blackout if it were going to happen.
Since I was only twenty, I gave money to one of my roommates, who was of legal age, to purchase a liter of Karkov vodka.
I went to retrieve the Red Bull.
My sophomore year of college was the first year I had my car on campus. My parents gave me a Mobil credit card to ensure I always had a full gas tank.
Having a Mobil credit card meant I bought gas exclusively at Mobil gas stations. Fortunately for me, Bobby & Steve’s Auto World was a short, 7-minute drive away. It was the sole Mobil station in the immediate area and the best gas station in the area. If they gave awards for gas station cuisine, this gas station would be highly decorated.
While filling up my gas tank one day, someone came walking out with a slice of pizza that caught my eye. I decided to treat myself to a slice as a twenty-year-old with little impulse control.
When I approached the register and reached for my wallet, I realized I had come without it. Massive panic took over my body.
“I, uh, I forgot my wallet, so I’ll just take this back where I found it,” I said, holding my Mobil credit card in my hand.
“You can use the card in your hand to pay for the pizza,” the employee behind the counter said flatly.
“I thought this was only for gas?” I said.
“Umm, no,” he said. The look on his face showed he was trying to figure out if I was messing with him or just a run-of-the-mill half-wit. He quickly realized I was a half-wit by looking at my face, so he slowed his cadence down when he continued, “You can use your credit card to buy anything in this store.” He gestured to the store floor in case I needed help understanding what constituted a store.
The cashier had no idea what he had set in motion. I looked at the store floor through the lens of unlimited possibilities. Frozen pizza, ice cream, sandwiches, chips, cigarettes, and beer were now at my fingertips. At that moment, I promised myself I would not abuse this newfound power, a promise I would quickly break.
“In that case, I’ll be right back,” I said, turning on my heel to walk back through the store for a little extra grocery shopping.
Mom wouldn’t want me to go without Coke this week, I thought, as I reached into the cooler for a twelve-pack.
Fortunately, my diet in college didn’t require anything I couldn’t buy from a gas station.
Every convenience store on campus (including the convenience store down the street) also sold Red Bull, but it was expensive. I went to Bobby & Steve’s to buy a four-pack of Red Bull. Not wanting to waste a trip, I also got some “essentials. ”
I got home, put my frozen pizza and a pint of Phish Food Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (see: essentials) in the freezer, and grabbed a giant cup from the kitchen.
I poured my first stiff Red Bull vodka of the night and drank it in short order, grimacing after every gulp. If you’ve never had Red Bull vodka, it tastes like a sweet, tart lollipop dipped in hand sanitizer.
Before long, a half liter of vodka was gone, along with two Red Bulls.
The plan for the evening was to go to a Gopher men’s hockey game. Before going anywhere, our tradition was playing a few foosball rounds in the living room at a foosball table surrounded by old student newspaper pages that had been used to clean up previous spills.
The last thing I remember is taking the final gulp of my third Red Bull vodka and everyone agreeing to play one more game before we left to go to the hockey game.
I open my eyes to find myself lying in my bed, on top of a mostly broken bed frame from Ikea due to a scuffle between two of my roommates spilling into my bedroom a couple of weeks into the school year.
Where am I? Is the first thought that runs through my head.
What happened? Is a very close second.
I remember playing foosball, then… what happened? I must have passed out before we went to the hockey game.
After I got my sorry ass out of bed, I went to find my roommates to find out what happened the night before.
I did make it to the hockey game. The conversation could have ended there. Blackouts are real, and I did not have a superhuman liver.
The conversation did not end there, however. My roommates insisted on filling me in on the details, as we all like to do when talking to the person who over-indulged the night before.
Allegedly, I asked Goldy if he was interested in my girlfriend… sexually.
As it turned out, he was not interested. It’s a good thing, too, because I married that girl, and Gopher games would be mighty awkward these days if he had taken me up on the offer.
The season ticket holders in the seats in front of us had a tradition of wearing firefighter helmets to the game. Allegedly, I decided to test their effectiveness by treating the tops of their helmets as drums at various times during the game.
This picture is not from the night featured, but it gives the right idea.
Outside of making an indecent proposal to a mascot and annoying the people in front of us at the game, my roommates filled me in on what else happened the remainder of the night. Luckily, there wasn’t much else to be embarrassed about.
My consciousness traveled through time, leaving my vacant, meat puppet of a body behind to walk around unsupervised. Few feelings are worse than the first moments after waking after a blackout.
It was the last time I drank a Red Bull vodka.
I wish I could tell you it was the first and final time that I experienced a blackout, but it would be a lie.
Viewing this story as another binge-drinking college story is short-sighted.
I took full advantage of the resources college afforded me. I made an observation, asked a question based on that observation, formulated a hypothesis, developed a method, and recorded my results while allowing my peers to review those results.
In academia, they call that the scientific method.
