As I stepped out of the shower, I heard someone in my kitchen downstairs. Knowing that my wife was out, I grabbed my 1903 heirloom rifle—which no longer works—and crept downstairs, forgetting the fact that I was in my birthday suit.
I came around the corner with the gun raised, only to find my wife loading the dishwasher.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I thought I heard an intruder.
I came down to scare him.”
Scanning the contours of my doughy, naked body, she mumbled, “You didn’t need the gun.”