A married woman was enjoying a very risky afternoon with her lover when she suddenly froze.
She had heard it—the unmistakable sound of her husband’s key scraping in the front door lock.
Her lover panicked instantly, scrambling for his clothes and whispering, “I’m dead. I’m absolutely dead.”
“Relax,” she hissed, grabbing his arm. “Don’t move. He’s completely plastered. He won’t notice a thing.”
Moments later, the bedroom door swung open and her husband staggered in, smelling of alcohol and bad decisions. He collapsed onto the bed without even turning on the light and was snoring within seconds.
Everything seemed fine… until a few minutes later.
Through his drunken fog, the husband squinted toward the foot of the bed and frowned. Something didn’t look right.
He nudged his wife.
“Hey… something’s wrong here.”
“What?” she mumbled innocently.
“There are six feet in this bed,” he said slowly. “I’m pretty sure there are only supposed to be four.”
His wife rolled her eyes. “Oh please. You’re drunk out of your mind. You probably counted wrong.”
“No, I didn’t,” he insisted.
“Fine,” she said sweetly. “Get out of bed and count again. You’ll see better from over there.”
Grumbling, the husband slid off the bed, stood at the foot, and began counting carefully.
“One… two… three… four.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Huh. You’re right.”
Then he climbed back into bed and promptly passed out again.
A drunk ice fisherman stumbled out onto a frozen lake, dragging his equipment behind him. He picked a spot, drilled a hole through the ice, and leaned over to peer inside.
Suddenly, a loud, clear voice boomed from above:
“There are no fish down there.”
Startled, the fisherman looked around, shrugged, and staggered about ten yards away. He drilled another hole and looked inside.
Again the voice echoed:
“There are no fish down there.”
Now annoyed, the fisherman trudged nearly twenty yards away, drilled yet another hole, and peered in.
Once again, the voice rang out:
“There are no fish down there.”
The fisherman slowly looked up toward the sky, squinting through the snow.
“God?” he asked reverently. “Is that you?”
“No, you idiot,” the voice replied. “It’s the rink manager.”
A police officer pulls over a man who had been swerving wildly from lane to lane.
The officer approaches the window and says calmly,
“Sir, I need you to blow into this breathalyzer tube.”
The man shakes his head. “Sorry, officer, I can’t do that. I’m asthmatic. If I blow into that, I’ll have a severe asthma attack.”
The officer sighs. “Alright then. We’ll do this another way. Step out of the car and come with me to the station. We’ll take a blood sample.”
“Oh, I can’t do that either,” the man says quickly. “I’m a hemophiliac. One needle and I’ll bleed to death.”
The officer rubs his temples. “Fine. Then we’ll need a urine sample.”
“I’m afraid that won’t work either,” the man replies. “I’m diabetic. That could cause my blood sugar to drop dangerously low.”
Now clearly frustrated, the officer says, “Alright. Then just step out of the car and walk this white line.”
“I can’t do that, officer.”
“Why not?” the officer asks.
The man looks at him honestly and says,
“Because I’m too drunk.”