The girls’ night out
The other night I was invited out for a night with “the girls.”
I told my husband that I would be home by midnight, “I promise!” Well, the hours passed and the champagne was going down way too easy. Around 3 a.m., drunk as a skunk, I headed for home. Just as I got in the door, the cuckoo clock in the hall started up and cuckooed 3 times. Quickly, realizing he’d probably wake up, I cuckooed another 9 times. I was really proud of myself for coming up with such a quick-witted solution 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! 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 4 more times, cleared its throat, cuckooed another 3 times, giggled, cuckooed twice more, and then tripped over the cat and farte
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