Do you f*rt in bed?
If this story doesn’t make you laugh until you cry, let me know—I’ll pray for you.
This is the story of a happily married couple whose only problem was the husband’s legendary morning f*rts. Every single day, he’d wake up, let one rip, and the noise alone would jolt his wife awake. The smell? Eye-watering. Breath-stealing.
Every morning she begged him to stop.
Every morning he said it was “natural” and he “couldn’t help it.”
She warned him for years. Told him to see a doctor. Even joked that one day he’d f*rt his guts out.
He laughed. The f*rting continued.
Then came Christmas morning.
As she was preparing the turkey, staring at the bowl of neck, liver, gizzard, and assorted innards, a brilliantly evil idea struck her.
She carried the bowl upstairs.
Her husband was sound asleep.
She gently pulled back the covers, stretched the waistband of his underwear… and dumped the turkey guts inside.
A while later, she heard the familiar morning trumpet—
followed by a blood-curdling scream and frantic footsteps racing to the bathroom.
She collapsed laughing. Years of torture finally repaid.
About twenty minutes later, her husband came downstairs wearing blood-stained underwear, pale as a ghost.
Trying not to laugh, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
He said,
“Honey… you were right. You warned me for years.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well,” he said,
“Today I finally f*rted my guts out… but by the grace of God, some Vaseline, and two fingers—
I think I got most of them back in.”