An old golfer staggered home late after a day on the course and 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, he sprung up, pulled down his pants and examined his lacerated and bleeding cheeks in a mirror of a nearby darkened hallway, then managed to find a large full box of
Band-Aids before proceeding 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.
Morning, he woke with screaming pain in head and butt to find his wife staring at him from across the room and heard her say, ‘You were drunk again last night!’
Forcing himself to ignore his agony, he looked meekly at her and replied, ‘Now, honey, why would you say such a mean thing?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘There is the front door left open, the glass at the bottom of the stairs, the drops of blood trailing through the house and your bloodshot eyes.
‘But, mostly … it’s all those Band-Aids stuck on the downstairs mirror!’