Arriving Home Late
The other night I was invited out for a night with “the girls.” I promised my husband that I would be home by midnight.
The hours passed and the champagne was going down way too easily. Around 3 a.m., drunk to the gills, I headed for home. Just as I got in the door, the cuckoo clock in the hall started up and cuckooed three times. Quickly realizing he’d probably wake up, I cuckooed another nine times. I was really proud of myself for coming up with such a quick-witted solution (even when smashed), in order to escape a possible conflict with him.
The next morning my husband asked me what time I got in, and I told him 12:00. He didn’t seem disturbed at all. “Whew,” I thought, “got away with that one!”
Then he said, “We need a new cuckoo clock.” When I asked him why, he said, “Well, last night our clock cuckooed three times, then said, “Oh shit!” cuckooed four more times, cleared its throat, cuckooed another three times, giggled, cuckooed twice more, and then tripped over the cat and farted.