As her husband snored upstairs, she tiptoed into the bedroom with the bowl. Carefully, she pulled back the blankets, lifted the elastic waistband of his boxers, and—suppressing her laughter—emptied the entire bowl of turkey guts into his underwear. Then she quietly slipped out of the room.
A few minutes later, the sound of the usual morning trumpet echoed through the house, followed by the loudest scream she had ever heard.
“OH MY GOD!”
She nearly dropped her coffee as the thuds of frantic footsteps shook the hallway. Her husband burst into the bathroom, yelling incoherently, and she could barely contain herself. She collapsed onto the kitchen floor, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed down her face as she imagined what he must be seeing in that mirror.
After twenty minutes of chaos, he finally came downstairs, pale and trembling, wearing blood-stained underwear and a look of pure horror.
She tried to compose herself, biting her lip to keep from laughing again. “What’s wrong, honey?” she asked, feigning concern.
He stared at her, wide-eyed. “You were right,” he whispered. “You warned me for years, and I didn’t believe you.”
“Warned you about what?” she asked, barely holding it together.
He took a deep breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You told me that one day I’d fart my guts out. And this morning… it finally happened.”
She turned away, hiding her laughter behind her hand. “Oh no,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face. “That sounds awful. What did you do?”
He leaned in, lowering his voice. “It was bad. But I think I got most of them back in.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
