The world is of course full of notorious examples of fraud, scam and humbug. Some are fictitious: “The Sting” (an old movie starring Robert Redford) and Mark Twain's classic short story “The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg” come to mind. And some, such as the Cardiff Giant, are historical. But this column will be about small and/or humorous transgressions that range from simple practical jokes to minor scams whose damage is the price of admission for a good laugh or at least a story worth retelling.

My father spent most of his years from preteen to early 20s at the family's hotel and dairy farm near Fleischmanns, in Delaware County. The Mountain View was a small summer resort which they owned from 1914 till they lost it to the bank in '27. He told us about a few of the parlor games with which the family entertained guests. One involved claiming they could pass a whole egg through the narrow vertical slit between the hinges of an open door. One of them would stand on one side of the door with an egg and ask for a volunteer to insert the tips of his thumb and forefinger through the crack and hold onto it until the family member could come around the door and take the egg from the volunteer and pull it through the crack. Until rescued, the unsuspecting guest would then be stuck holding onto the egg, with no way to gain his freedom without allowing a raw egg to go splattering onto the floor.

Another trick involved claiming that one could cause a bucket half full of water to stick to the ceiling. The family member would step up on a chair and press the bucket against the ceiling and call for a volunteer to momentarily hold the bucket in place with a broomstick pressed up against the center of the bucket's underside, while the family member stepped down from the chair to perform his trick. Of course the perp would step down, remove the chair, and the shlimazel would be stuck holding up the bucket at the risk of getting drenched if he let go before everyone present had had a chance to enjoy a good laugh at his or her expense.

Years ago, when nearly every village in the valley had a coal and lumber company, someone who had worked at one in Walden told me about a customer who had his own dump truck and would come in a couple of times a year for a load of anthracite. The truck would pull onto a scale, which would weigh the empty truck, and then coal would be sent down an opened chute into the truck bed. If the empty truck with driver weighed in at 10,000 pounds, for instance, and the customer wanted three tons of coal, the chute would remain open until the scale showed a weight of exactly 16,000 pounds. Anyway, this particular customer always showed up with a big dog next to him in the front seat of the truck. And as soon as the dog heard the sound of coal pouring into the back of the vehicle, he would jump out of the open window on the passenger side, to be reunited with his master as soon as the truck exited. The man who told me this story had seen it happen more than once and was certain the dog had been trained. If the dog weighed 60 pounds, it meant the owner drove away with 60 pounds of free coal on top of his order.

About the 1970s, I once had occasion to stop by at a local automobile junkyard for a used side view mirror. Back in those days, such an item was a simple affair that could be fastened to the front fender with four sheet metal screws. I knocked on the door and was greeted by a boy no older than about eight or nine. His father wasn't home, but he assured me he was authorized to handle the transaction himself, and proceeded to accompany me into the yard. It occurred to me that he seemed quite self-assured and motivated for a kid that age. I found the item I wanted and asked him the price, figuring on four or five dollars. But the boy insisted that I be the one to set the price, and finally I gave in and told him five dollars, wanting to err on the side of not appearing to take advantage of a young kid. As soon as I said “five dollars,” the kid said, “No, six,” and could not be persuaded to budge. Finally, I had to give in. Talking later to my mechanic, who knew the owner and his son, we both agreed that the boy had been instructed in this scenario, that the extra buck was the boy's commission. (And that the customer, not the father, was the one who got stuck paying the commission!)

Down in Key West, Florida, among the street entertainers who would perform for tips at Mallory Square was a man who always dressed like Uncle Sam and whose entire performance was a spiel concocted around the number 22. He was a fixture of Key West for many years during the 1980s and '90s. I found his rap rather contrived and tedious, but I did end up with a couple of his souvenir $22 bills, featuring a picture of him in the center, but otherwise, aside from the denomination, looking superficially like real currency if you didn't look too close. On a whim, I once put one of these bills into my wallet one afternoon when I went into New Paltz for a get-together at Bacchus with several friends. I figured it might be good for a laugh.

The occasion was the homecoming of a fellow who was arguably the central figure in our social circle. Ed had been away at school or working out of state, and most of us hadn't seen him for a couple of years. Plans had been made for him to join the old gang at Bacchus for beers. While awaiting his arrival, I handed the $22 bill to one of the other boys and told him the first pitcher was on me. It took him only a couple of seconds to hand the phony bill back to me with a chuckle and roll of his eyes. We all got engaged in lively conversing, and then, not long afterward, the guest of honor arrived.

Ed began a spirited monologue without yet taking a seat, and then, after a minute, I interrupted him with, “Ed, as long as you're still up, can you stop talking long enough to get a pitcher of beer?” And I handed him the $22 bill. He took it and began making his way through the crowd on his way to the bar. The rest of us immediately resumed conversation, and several minutes went by, during which the recent transaction was forgotten.

Forgotten, that is, till Ed returned with a pitcher of beer and several dollars' change, which he handed to me.

There was a moment of shocked silence, a big laugh, and then a quick errand to the bartender with a real $20 bill in my hand. I told him he'd better have a look at that last twenty he'd put in the cash register. Ed had no idea what was going on till I returned and showed him the phony bill he'd used. Fortunately, the bartender had found it funny!