09/13/2026 from Daily Jokes
#22656
Arthur and Martha had been happily married for over twenty years, sharing a beautiful home, a deep love, and exactly one major point of friction: Arthur’s morning “biological alarm clock.”
Every single day, without fail, Arthur would wake up and release a thunderous, room-shaking fart. The noise alone was enough to rattle the windows, but the accompanying smell was a toxic event that made Martha’s eyes water and left her gasping for fresh air.
For two decades, Martha had pleaded with him. “Arthur, please, you have to stop! It’s making me sick!”
But Arthur would just shrug, completely unfazed. “I can’t help it, darling. It’s perfectly natural.
Just the way the engine starts.”
Martha even begged him to see a doctor, genuinely concerned that one day the sheer pressure would cause him to blow his own guts out. But Arthur stubbornly refused to change his ways.
Then came Christmas morning. Arthur was upstairs, fast asleep and snoring peacefully.
Downstairs, Martha was in the kitchen, preparing the magnificent holiday turkey. As she reached into the cavity to pull out the packet of innards—the neck, the gizzard, the liver, and all the slimy, cold spare parts—a deeply mischievous, slightly evil thought suddenly crossed her mind.
A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. She grabbed a mixing bowl, scooped up the entire bowl of turkey guts, and crept silently up the stairs like a ninja on a stealth mission.
Reaching the bedroom, she gently pulled back the duvet, carefully lifted the elastic waistband of
Arthur’s sleeping shorts, and quietly emptied the entire bowl of cold, slimy turkey innards directly into his underwear. She then pulled the covers back over him, tiptoed out of the room, and waited.
About twenty minutes later, she heard it. The familiar, deep morning rumble. The mighty trumpet sounded.
And then, a split second later, a blood-curdling, house-shaking scream echoed through the hallway, followed by the sound of frantic, panicked footsteps as Arthur sprinted for the bathroom at top speed.
Martha collapsed onto the hallway carpet, rolling on the floor, crying with uncontrollable, belly-aching laughter. After twenty years of morning torture, she reckoned she had finally gotten him back in the most spectacular way possible.
About twenty minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open. Arthur emerged, pale as a ghost, sweating profusely, and wearing a pair of heavily stained boxer shorts. He had a look of absolute, shell-shocked horror on his face.
Martha bit her lip, trying desperately to suppress a fresh wave of giggles, and asked innocently,
“Good heavens, Arthur, what on earth is the matter?”
Arthur stared at her, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and sheer terror.
“Honey… you were right,” he whispered. “All these years you warned me, and I didn’t listen to you.”
“What do you mean?” Martha asked, feigning confusion.
“Well,” Arthur replied, his eyes wide with disbelief, “you always told me that one day I would end up farting my guts out. And today… it finally happened. But by the grace of God, some Vaseline, and two fingers… I think I got most of them back in.”
