From: R.C.
A Good-Ole-Boy 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, he sprung up, pulled down his pants and
examined his lacerated and bleeding cheeks in the mirror of a nearby
darkened hallway, then managed to find a large full box of band aids before
proceeding 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, he awoke with screaming pain in head and butt to find his
wife staring at him from across the room, and heard her say: "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, "there is the front door left open, the broken glass at
the bottom of the stairs, the drops of blood trailing through the house, and
your bloodshot eyes, but mostly...it's all those band aids stuck on the
downstairs mirror!"
----- Tamara P Duvall Lexington, Virginia, USA Formerly of Warsaw, Poland http://lorien.emufarm.org/~tpd/
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