An elderly couple, Bert and Edna, are sitting on the porch swing one quiet Sunday evening. They’ve been married 55 years. The sun is setting, birds are chirping, and they’re sipping lukewarm tea while watching squirrels fight over a Cheeto in the yard.
Out of the blue, Edna sighs.
“Bert, let’s talk about our bucket lists.”
Bert raises an eyebrow.
“Bucket lists? Edna, I’m 87. My list is down to ‘wake up tomorrow and remember where I left my pants.’”
Edna chuckles. “I’m serious. Before we go, we should each do one thing we’ve always wanted to do.”
Bert thinks. “Alright. I’ve always wanted to go skydiving.”
Edna’s eyes widen. “Skydiving?! The last time you tied your shoe, you passed out for three minutes!”
Bert shrugs. “If I die mid-air, just make sure I land in the neighbor’s yard. I’ve always wanted to haunt him.”
They laugh, and Edna nods.
“Fine. You skydive. I’ll do mine.”
Bert squints. “And what’s yours?”
A familiar mischievous sparkle flashes in Edna’s eyes — the same one from 1965 when she “accidentally” launched his bowling trophy out the car window.
“I want to confess something,” she says.
Bert gulps. “Confess what?”
She leans in. “Remember how your recliner leaned left for 20 years?”
“Yeah, blamed the dog. Poor guy limped for weeks.”
Edna smiles. “It was me. I jammed a spatula under it after you spilled grape soda on my new curtains in ’89.”
Bert gasps. “You monster!”
Edna giggles. “And the remote that only played the Hallmark Channel?”
“You said it was haunted!”
“Nope. Glued a penny in the battery slot. You watched five years of Christmas romance movies—every. single. one.”
Bert stares, horrified. “Why would you do that?!”
She sips her tea, calm as ever. “Because revenge is best served with mistletoe and slow-motion snowball fights.”
After a long pause, Bert leans back and grins.
“Well, Edna… I’ve got a confession too. Those Saturday fishing trips? Bowling league. I won four trophies.”
Edna’s jaw drops. “I threw one out the window!”
They burst into laughter, their tea forgotten.
Weeks later, Bert went skydiving. Edna bought a new recliner. And every Saturday, they bowled side by side—not for strikes, but to keep each other honest.
Years later, they died peacefully in a car accident and found themselves at the Pearly Gates.
St. Peter greeted them with a smile.
“Welcome. Here, you’ve got a dream kitchen, championship golf, and a buffet that never ends. No costs. No calories. No cholesterol.”
Bert blinked. “Wait… no bran muffins? No paleo chicken?”
St. Peter laughed. “Nope. Eat anything you like.”
Bert turned to Edna, eyes wide.
“Woman! If it weren’t for your healthy cooking, we could’ve been here ten years ago!”
