The other night, I was invited out for a girls’ night. I promised Jerry I’d be home by midnight. “I swear!” I said confidently.

But as the night wore on and the Bacardis flowed a little too freely, time slipped away. Around 3 a.m., I stumbled into the house, slightly tipsy.

As I shut the door, the cuckoo clock in the hallway sprang to life, letting out three loud cuckoos. Realizing Jerry might wake up and catch me, I quickly added nine more cuckoos myself.

“Brilliant!” I thought. Even in my inebriated state, I’d managed to make it sound like I got home at midnight. Crisis averted!

The next morning, Jerry casually asked, “What time did you get in last night?”

“Midnight!” I replied, feigning innocence.

He didn’t seem upset, and I silently congratulated myself on my cleverness.

Then he said, “We need a new cuckoo clock.”

Confused, I asked, “Why?”

He replied, “Well, last night, the clock cuckooed three times, said ‘Oh shit,’ cuckooed four more times, cleared its throat, cuckooed another three times, giggled, cuckooed twice more, and then tripped over the coffee table and farted.”