The other night, I was invited to hang out with the “girls,” and I told my husband I’d be home by midnight. “I promise!” I said. As the night went on, the hours passed quickly and the margaritas disappeared even faster. By around 3 a.m., a little tipsy, I headed home.
As soon as I walked in the door, the cuckoo clock in the hallway started ringing, and it cuckooed three times. I quickly realized that my husband might wake up and hear it, so I decided to quickly “help” by cuckooing 9 more times. I was pretty proud of myself for thinking of such a clever way to avoid trouble (even when a bit drunk). After all, 3 cuckoos plus 9 cuckoos equals 12—midnight, right?
The next morning, my husband asked me what time I came in, and I confidently told him, “Midnight.” He didn’t seem mad at all, which was a relief. But then he said, “We need a new cuckoo clock.”
I asked him why, and he said, “Well, last night, our clock cuckooed three times, then said ‘oh s**t,’ cuckooed four more times, cleared its throat, cuckooed three more times, giggled, cuckooed two more times, tripped over the coffee table, and then farted.”