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A man staggered home late after another evening with his drinking buddies.
Shoes in left hand to avoid waking his wife, he tiptoed as quietly as he
could toward the stairs leading to their upstairs bedroom, but misjudged the
bottom step in the darkened entryway.
As he caught himself by grabbing the banister, his body swung around and he
landed heavily on his rump. A whiskey bottle in each back pocket broke and
made the landing especially painful. Managing to suppress a yelp, the man
sprung up, pulled down his pants, and examined his lacerated and bleeding
cheeks in the mirror of the nearby darkened hallway. He managed to find a
large full box of Band-Aids and proceeded to place a patch as best he could
on each place he saw blood.
After hiding the now almost empty box, he managed to shuffle and stumble his
way to bed. In the morning, the man awoke with searing pain in his head and
butt and his wife staring at him from across the room. She said, "You were
drunk again last night." Forcing himself to ignore his agony, he looked
meekly at her and replied, "Now, hon, why would you say such a mean thing?"
Well," she said, "it could be the open front door, it could be the glass and
whiskey at the bottom of the stairs, it could be the drops of blood trailing
through the house, it could be your bloodshot eyes, but, mostly....it's all
those Band-Aids stuck on the downstairs mirror!"
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