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 backside in the
mirror of a nearby darkened hallway. He then 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 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 that?"
"Well," she said, "it could be the open front door, it could be
the broken glass 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