Harry, a golfing enthusiast if there ever was one, arrived home
from the club to an irate, ranting wife.
"I'm leaving you, Harry," his wife announced bitterly. "You
promised me faithfully that you'd be back before six and here it is almost
nine. It just can't take that long to play 18 holes of golf."
"Honey, wait," said Harry. "Let me explain. I know what I promised
you, but I have a very good reason for being late. Fred and I tee'd off
right on time and everything was fine for the first three holes. Then, on
the fourth tee Fred had a stroke. I ran back to the clubhouse but couldn't
find a doctor. And, by the time I got back to Fred, he was dead. So, for
the next 15 holes, it was hit the ball, drag Fred, hit the ball, drag Fred...
In retrospect, "Let's get the goat drunk"
should have been my cue to leave the party.