From: glen mccready 
  To: Dead Beef <0xdeadbeef@substance.abuse.blackdown.org>,
        wendy mccready 
Date: Tue, 18 Jul 1995 15:56:21 -0400

---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Tue, 18 Jul 1995 14:05:02 -0400
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@CS.Berkeley.EDU>
To: /dev/null@python.bostic.com
Subject: JOTD

Forwarded-by: spaf@cs.purdue.edu (Gene "Chief Yuckster" Spafford)
Forwarded-by: mtburke@ix.netcom.com (Mike Burke)

So, it seems that this fellow decides to take off after work and go
drinking.  After closing down two or three bars he staggers home.  When
he enters his house, he doesn't want to wake his wife, so he pulls off
his shoes and starts tip-toeing up the stairs.  Halfway up, he loses his
footing, falls over backwards and lands flat on his rear end.  That
wouldn't have been so bad, except that he an empty pint in his back
pocket, and it broke, and cut up his buttocks something awful.  As he's
undressing, he notices the blood, so he checked himself out in the mirror.
He pulls out the glass splinters and repairs the damage as best as he can,
under the circumstances, and goes to bed.
	The next morning, his head was hurting, his rear was hurting, and
he was hunkering under the covers trying to think up some good story, when
his wife came into the bedroom.
	"Well, you really tied one on last night," she said.  "Where'd
you go?"
	"I worked late," he said, "and I stopped for a couple of beers."
	"A couple of beers?  That's a laugh," she replied.  "You got
plastered last night.  Where the heck did you go?"
	"What makes you so sure I got drunk last night, anyway?"
"Well," she replied, "my first big clue was when I got up this morning
and found a bunch of band-aids stuck to the mirror."