02/26/2026 from Daily Jokes
#21854
A man decided one Friday afternoon that he had worked hard enough for the week and deserved a little reward. Instead of finishing the rest of his shift, he slipped out early and headed straight to his favorite bar. One drink turned into several, and several turned into far too many. He laughed louder as the night went on, bought a few rounds he didn’t need to, and by the time the bartender called last orders at 2 a.m., he was thoroughly and unmistakably drunk.
Stumbling out into the night, he somehow managed to make it home. When he reached his front door, he realized just how late it was and decided he’d better try to sneak in quietly. The last thing he wanted was to wake his wife and have to explain why he smelled like a brewery.
He carefully eased the door open, wincing at every tiny creak. Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and began the slow, delicate process of tiptoeing up the stairs. He clung to the railing, concentrating hard on each step as if he were crossing a tightrope.
About halfway up, disaster struck. His foot slipped, and he toppled backward, landing hard on his backside with a heavy thud that echoed through the stairwell. Normally that would have been painful enough, but unfortunately he had stuffed a couple of empty pint bottles into his back pockets before leaving the bar. When he hit the steps, the bottles shattered.
The broken glass cut into him badly. It sliced through his trousers and carved up his backside in several places. Amazingly, in his drunken state, he barely felt a thing. He lay there for a moment, dazed, then slowly pulled himself up and continued upstairs as if nothing had happened.
Once in the bedroom, he began undressing in the dark. That’s when he noticed something wasn’t quite right. There were spots of blood on his clothing. Squinting at his reflection in the mirror, he turned around to inspect the damage and was shocked to see several nasty cuts. They looked far worse than he’d imagined.
Doing the best he could under the circumstances, he cleaned himself up and carefully applied bandages to the wounded area. It wasn’t easy—especially given his condition—but eventually he managed to stick several band-aids over the cuts. Satisfied with his makeshift medical work, he crawled into bed and passed out almost immediately.
The next morning, reality hit hard. His head was pounding like a drum, and his backside felt like he’d sat on a cactus. He pulled the covers up over himself, trying to piece together the previous night and come up with a believable explanation.
Just then, his wife walked into the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed.
“Well,” she said coolly, “you really overdid it last night. Where were you?”
He cleared his throat. “I had to work late,” he mumbled. “Stopped for a couple of beers afterward. Nothing major.”
“A couple of beers?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s funny. You were completely plastered. Where did you really go?”
He tried to sound indignant. “What makes you so sure I was drunk?”
She gave him a long look. “Because,” she replied calmly, “when I went into the bathroom this morning, I found a whole bunch of band-aids stuck all over the mirror.”
