Bob, an undertaker, came home one evening sporting a nasty black eye.
His wife gasped when she saw him.
“Good heavens, Bob! What on earth happened to you?”
Bob sighed heavily. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. It started with a call from a hotel — one of their guests had passed away in his sleep. The manager sounded panicked, said they couldn’t get him into a body bag.”
His wife frowned. “Why not?”
Bob rubbed his temples. “Because the poor fellow had… well, let’s just say, he had a very persistent condition. A huge erection! They said it made closing the bag impossible.”
“Oh dear,” his wife muttered, trying not to laugh.
“Anyway,” Bob continued, “I went up to the room, and sure enough — there he was. Big man, completely naked, lying there stiff as a board — and I mean stiff. So I did what had to be done. I grabbed the problem with both hands and tried to bend it down.”
His wife’s eyes widened. “That must have been horrible!”
Bob nodded solemnly. “It was. But that’s not the worst part.”
She leaned in. “Then how did you get the black eye?”
Bob groaned. “Wrong room.”
