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 and dropped into a chair. “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, clearly reliving the ordeal. “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, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

“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 in every possible sense. The staff were standing around, embarrassed, not knowing where to look, let alone what to do.”

“So what did you do?” she asked, half horrified, half amused.

“I did what had to be done,” Bob said with a weary shrug. “I put on my gloves, took a deep breath, and tried to solve the problem myself. I grabbed the situation with both hands and tried to bend it down so we could finally zip the bag.”

His wife’s eyes widened. “That must have been awful!”

Bob nodded solemnly. “It was. I closed my eyes, turned my head, and just focused on getting the job done as quickly as possible. I figured once it was out of the way, we could all pretend it never happened.”

She leaned closer. “But that still doesn’t explain the black eye.”

Bob groaned, rubbing the bruise tenderly. “That’s the part that really ruined my day.”

“Well?” she pressed.

“I had the wrong room,” he said. “The man I grabbed was very much alive.”