Harold and Edna had been married for over sixty years. In all that time, they had shared everything: joys, sorrows, secrets, and the kind of quiet routines that only decades of marriage could produce. But there were a few habits Harold had—one in particular—that Edna never failed to comment on.
Every morning, without fail, Harold would get out of bed and produce a massive, room-shaking fart. Then, as though it were the funniest thing in the world, he would laugh like a madman, clutching the sheets and doubling over with glee.
“Harold!” Edna would scold, shaking her head. “One of these days, you’re going to fart your guts out!”
He’d just grin, eyes twinkling, and continue his morning ritual as if nothing could possibly go wrong.
It was Thanksgiving morning, and this year, Edna decided she might get a little payback. Harold was sleeping in, snoring gently, while she went about the initial steps of preparing the turkey. As she held a handful of turkey innards—delicate, slimy, and suspiciously perfect—an idea struck her.
Quietly, she tiptoed upstairs to the bedroom, her heart racing with mischievous glee. Carefully, she pulled back the waistband of Harold’s jockey shorts and… stuffed him with the warm turkey guts.
Back in the kitchen, she tried to contain her laughter. An hour later, she heard the familiar creak of the floorboards as Harold stirred. His feet hit the ground, and the usual fart-laugh sequence began…
Then it stopped.
A strangled scream pierced the air, followed by ten minutes of complete, terrifying silence. Edna sat on the couch, wide-eyed, half in panic, half in awe at the chaos she had unleashed.
Finally, Harold emerged, looking pale but oddly triumphant. He raised two soiled fingers and said, “Honey… I owe you an apology. For years, you’ve been telling me I’d fart my guts out. Well, today it finally happened. But by the grace of God—and these two fingers—I got ’em all back in. I… I think I’m going to be okay.”
Edna could only laugh, tears streaming down her face as Harold gingerly sat beside her. “You… you’re unbelievable,” she said.
Years later, as they grew older and the farts became less frequent but the laughter never did, Harold discovered yet another secret of Edna’s—one that filled him with wonder, love, and a few more tears.
Edna had a shoebox in her closet, one she had told Harold never to open. For decades, he had respected her wishes. But one day, Edna fell gravely ill, and the doctor told Harold time was short. Sitting by her bedside, heart heavy, he whispered, “Edna… I love you. We’ve been through everything together. Before you go… can I finally know what’s inside that shoebox?”
She smiled weakly and nodded. “Go ahead, dear.”
Harold opened the box, expecting old letters or trinkets. Instead, he found two crocheted dolls and a neat stack of money totaling $95,000. Confused, he asked, “Edna… what is all this?”
Taking his hand, she explained gently, “Before we married, my grandmother gave me a piece of advice. She said every time I got angry with you, instead of arguing, I should crochet a doll.”
Harold’s eyes widened. Only two dolls? In sixty years, Edna had only been truly angry with him twice. Tears welled up. “Edna… that’s incredible,” he whispered. “Two dolls… sixty years… you barely ever got mad at me!”
Edna’s eyes twinkled. “And the money?” Harold asked, still amazed.
“Oh,” she said, patting his hand with a wink. “That’s from selling all the other dolls.”
Harold laughed, shook his head in disbelief, and hugged her tightly. After a lifetime together—through laughter, chaos, and a few unforgettable farts—they had truly mastered the art of love, patience, and finding joy in the strangest places.