A happily married couple had only one major issue in their relationship: the husband’s morning routine of farting like a foghorn.
Every day, his wife would wake up to the thunderous blasts, gasping for air as the noxious fumes made her eyes water.
“Please, for the love of all things holy, STOP!” she begged him daily.
“I can’t help it,” he’d say. “It’s totally natural!”
She warned him, “One day, you’re going to blow your guts out.”
The years rolled by, and so did his morning explosions. Then came Christmas morning. As the wife was preparing the turkey, she stared at the pile of innards—gizzard, liver, neck, and all—and a brilliantly wicked idea struck her.
She crept upstairs, where her husband was still snoozing, gently pulled back the covers, and ever so carefully tipped the entire bowl of turkey guts into his underwear before tucking him back in.
A while later, the house shook with his usual morning eruption—only this time, it was followed by a bloodcurdling scream. The sound of frantic footsteps pounded toward the bathroom.
The wife collapsed on the floor, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
Twenty minutes later, the husband emerged, pale as a ghost, in his now blood-streaked underwear. His face was a mask of horror.
Trying to keep a straight face, his wife asked, “What happened?”
He gulped. “Honey… you were right. All these years, you warned me, but I never listened.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, barely holding it together.
“Well… it finally happened. I farted my guts out.” He shuddered, then added, “But by the grace of God, some Vaseline, and two fingers… I think I got most of them back in.”
