Last night I went out with the girls. I promised my husband I’d be home at exactly midnight.
The night got a bit… enthusiastic. Drinks, dancing, more drinks. Next thing I know I get home just before 3 a.m. and I’m absolutely hammered.
I stagger through the front door and the bloody cuckoo clock goes “Cuckoo!” three times.
In a flash of pure drunk genius I bellow “CUCKOO!” nine more times so it totals twelve.
I am a legend. I tiptoe to bed feeling like a criminal mastermind.
Next morning at breakfast my husband casually asks what time I got in.
“Midnight, just like I promised,” I say, all innocent.
He nods. Sips his coffee. Then says:
“By the way… we need a new cuckoo clock.”
My heart stops.
“Oh? Why my love?”
He looks me dead in the eye.
“Well, last night at about 3 in the morning, it cuckooed three times… then suddenly screamed ‘FUCK!’…
cuckooed four more times… threw up in the hallway…
cuckooed three more times… started laughing like a maniac…
stepped on the cat… smashed the side table…
crawled into bed next to me… gave one last pathetic ‘cuckoo’…
ripped the loudest fart I’ve ever heard…
and then whispered,
‘Don’t worry baby… the cuckoo clock said it’s midnight.’
