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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 dr-unk). 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 shit,’ cuckooed four more times, cleared its throat, cuckooed three more times, giggled, cuckooed two more times, tripped over the coffee table, and then farted.”
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An old man in Miami calls up his son in New York and says, “Listen, your mother and I are getting divorced. Forty-five years of misery is enough.”
“Dad, what are you talking about?” the son screams.
“We can’t stand the sight of each other any longer,” he says. “I’m sick of her face, and I’m sick of talking about this, so call your sister in Chicago and tell her,” and he hangs up.
Now, the son is worried. So he calls up his sister.
She says, “Like hell they’re getting divorced!” and calls her father immediately. "You’re not getting divorced! Don’t do another thing, the two of us are flying home tomorrow to talk about this. Until then, don’t call a lawyer, don’t file a paper, DO YOU HEAR ME?” and she hangs up.
The old man turns to his wife and says “Okay, they’re coming for Christmas and paying their own airfares.”
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