Let’s be honest—math can feel like an entirely different language, especially for kids who are just trying to make sense of all those numbers, symbols, and rules that never seem to play fair. It’s like wandering into a parallel universe where 3 × 2 and 2 × 3 somehow feel different, even though they aren’t. But every now and then, a kid comes along who doesn’t just struggle through math—he discovers its comedic potential.
Take this little guy, for instance. He came home from school looking a bit defeated and said to his dad:
"I got an F in math today."
His father, clearly concerned, asked, "What happened?"
The boy replied, "Well, the teacher asked me, 'What’s 3 times 2?' and I said '6'."
The dad nodded, "Well, that’s right."
The boy continued, "Then she asked me, 'What’s 2 times 3?'"
The father, a bit confused now, asked, "What the heck is the difference?"
And the boy grinned, "That’s what I said!"
Classic. Sometimes, the only thing funnier than the answer is the logic behind it.
BONUS STORY: Do You Fart in Bed?
Now, if the last one made you smile, this next tale might just have you in tears—from laughter, not sorrow.
This is the story of a long-married couple who loved each other dearly but had one major issue: every morning, like clockwork, the husband would let out an enormous fart that sounded like a brass band warming up. The noise jolted his wife awake, and the stench? Let's just say it could’ve peeled paint off the walls. She begged him to see a doctor, swearing that one day he was going to literally blow his guts out.
He always laughed it off, saying, "It’s natural, honey. Can’t stop nature."
Fast forward a few years. It’s Christmas morning. She’s in the kitchen preparing the turkey, and as she handles the giblets—neck, liver, heart, and other unmentionables—an idea hits her. A truly devious, glorious, wife-of-the-year kind of idea.
With the mischievous glee of someone finally about to settle a long-standing score, she tiptoed upstairs where her husband was still snoozing. Gently, she pulled back the covers, reached into the waistband of his underwear, and dumped the entire bowl of turkey guts right down his shorts.
Then she waited.
Moments later, the usual morning blast rang out—only this time, it was followed by an unholy scream and the sound of frantic footsteps barreling into the bathroom.
She collapsed on the floor in laughter, tears streaming down her face. Victory had never smelled so... fowl.
About twenty minutes later, the husband emerged—pale, shaky, and wearing blood-streaked underwear. His eyes were wide with panic.
His wife, doing her best to hold in her laughter, asked, "What’s wrong?"
He whispered, "You were right. You always told me one day I’d fart my guts out... and this morning it finally happened. But thank God—between some Vaseline and two fingers—I think I managed to stuff most of them back in."
