We have Walkie Talkies

(Author's note: another something I wrote in Lynda Barry's Writing the Unthinkable Class. )
I'm at Frankie's house. So is my little brother. The T.V.'s on but it's a non-cartoon so nobody's watching.
We're on the floor, leaning against the blue floral couch. We have walkie talkies.
I'd concluded, recently, that since we could hear truckers on the walkie talkies that truckers could hear us,and wouldn't it be funny if we messed with them!
Franky puts his Smurf Singsong Record on his phonograph, sets the needle and cranks the volume. He shoves the walkie talkie up to the speaker as "Won't you come home, Smurf Baily?" blasts through.
Frankie's mom yells from the kitchen to turn it down. He ignores her. My brother and I tune in on the other walkie talkie. Above the hiss and static we hear a trucker blurt "Someone's playin' bull$#!*!"
This is funny because:
1. He heard us.
2. He said a bad word!
We crack up laughing. Frankie turns off the record and improvises into the speaker.
"Do your balls hang low/Do they dangle in the snow?" he sings, giggling at his bravado.
The trucker isn't amused. Soon he's threatening to find out where Frankie lives so he can "come over 'n' kick [his] ass."
This is really funny because:
1. He heard us
2. More bad words!
3. Frankie got a grownup really, really mad!
Foolishly, my brother and I boast of Frankie's antics to my mom and dad.
Our walkie talkies go away for awhile.