Aw . . ya gotta love the Irish - say this in your best Irish brogue...

Paddy staggered home very late after an evening with his drinking buddy,
Mick.

He took off his shoes to avoid waking his wife, Bridget. He tiptoed as
quietly as he could toward the stairs leading to their upstairs bedroom,
but misjudged the bottom step. As he caught himself by grabbing the
banister, his body swung around and he landed heavily on his rump. The
bottle of "Jameson" in each back pocket broke and made the landing
especially painful.

Managing not to yell, Paddy sprung up, pulled down his pants, and looked in
the hall mirror to see that his butt cheeks were cut and bleeding. He
managed to quietly find a full box of Band-Aids and began putting a
Band-Aid as best he could on each place he saw blood. He then hid the now
almost empty Band-Aid box and stumbled his way to bed.

In the morning, Paddy woke up with searing pain in both his head and butt.
Bridget sat staring at him from across the room. She said, "Paddy McGuire,
ye were drunk again last night, weren't ye?"

Paddy said, "Why are ye accusin' me of such a thing?"

"Ah, well," Bridget said, "it could be the open front door; it could be the
broken glass at the bottom of the stairs; it could be the drops of blood
trailing through the house; it could be yer bloodshot eyes; but mostly, I'm
thinkin', it's all those Band-Aids stuck to the hall mirror."