A man staggered home late after another evening at the pub 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 entry way.
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 a nearby darkened hallway, 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.
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 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 darn Band-aids stuck on the downstairs mirror.
