Most people didn’t exactly jump for joy when math class rolled around back in school. Numbers, fractions, decimals, percentages—formulas twisted and turned on the chalkboard like secret codes designed to induce headaches rather than inspiration. For many, the phrase, “Take out your math books,” felt more like a warning than an invitation to learn.
Little Johnny was no exception. He wasn’t bad at everything—he was curious, energetic, and quick with a joke—but math seemed determined to evade him. Multiplication tables looked like hieroglyphics, and word problems might as well have been in another language. Still, Johnny tried his best… even if his “best” sometimes caused trouble.
One afternoon, he trudged home, backpack half-zipped, hair messy, and a familiar mix of guilt and frustration on his face. In the kitchen, his dad looked up from the newspaper.
“Dad, I got an F in math today,” Johnny announced.
“Oh no, what happened this time?” his dad asked, concerned.
“Well,” Johnny began, “the teacher asked me, ‘What’s three times two?’”
“And what did you say?”
“Six,” Johnny replied.
“That’s correct!” his dad said, raising an eyebrow. “So why the F?”
Johnny frowned. “Then she asked, ‘What’s two times three?’”
“That’s still six,” his dad said, confused. “What’s the problem?”
Johnny leaned back, grinning. “That’s exactly what I said too!”
Silence. Then his dad burst out laughing. Technically, Johnny was right—but in math class, attitude sometimes mattered more than answers!
Now, for a messier—but twice as funny—story.
A man had a rather unfortunate morning routine. Every dawn, without fail, he’d wake up, stretch, and release farts so loud and smelly that his wife could hardly bear it. She’d wave her hands, pull the covers over her head, and yell, “Will you stop before you blow your guts out one morning?”
He laughed it off. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. Everybody farts—it’s natural!”
Years of enduring his “morning symphony” wore on her patience. Thanksgiving arrived, and she hatched a plan. While preparing the turkey, she gathered the gizzards, liver, and other innards most people discard, and waited for her husband to fall asleep after the big meal. Then, carefully, she placed the cold, sticky turkey guts inside the back of his underwear.
Morning came, and he did what he always did. But this time, a second later, his eyes widened in horror. He reached behind him, felt something warm and wet, and screamed, “Oh no! It finally happened! I blew my guts out!”
For nearly half an hour, he locked himself in the bathroom, panicking, groaning, and grunting, while his wife stifled laughter in the kitchen.
Finally, he emerged, pale and shaken but somehow proud. “Honey… you were right,” he whispered. “I… I really did blow my guts out.”
His wife nearly fell off her chair laughing.
He wiped sweat from his brow, clutching his waistband. “Yeah… but with a little Vaseline and two fingers, I think I got them all back in.”
From that day on, he never laughed off her warnings again—and, miraculously, his morning routine became much quieter.