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When I was about 9 years old, I had what was simultaneously the best and the worst April Fool’s Day. The night before, I emptied every old-fashioned oat from a Sam’s Club-sized container of Quaker Oatmeal into my sister’s shampoo bottle. I distinctly remember feeling like a criminal mastermind — a combination of Shredder and Dr. Claw — and counting the seconds until she took her morning shower.

Fast forward to April Fool’s morning, when she squirted a gelatinous blob of floral-scented oatmeal onto her head, ran out of hot water trying to de-oat herself, and I was promptly grounded for wasting both bath products and breakfast foods.

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