A census taker stood on the front porch, clipboard in hand, looking at an elderly man named George. “Sir, for our official government records, are you married or happy?” he asked.
George froze. His brain stalled out completely like a rusted lawnmower. “Uh… well, I’m married, and I suppose I’m—”
Suddenly, his wife Martha’s voice thundered from the top of the stairs: “You better think very carefully about how you finish that sentence, George!”
Startled by the warning, George panicked, took a clumsy step backward, lost his balance, and tumbled all the way down the entryway stairs in slow motion.
Sprawled flat on his back at the bottom of the steps, George let out a long, painful groan: “…Married.”
The census taker clicked his pen and raised an eyebrow. “So, should I check the box for ‘married but miserable’?”
Martha appeared at the top of the landing, arms crossed tightly like a drill sergeant. “You better write down ‘married AND blissfully happy’—or I’ll personally ensure he takes a trip down those stairs a second time!”
Rubbing his lower back, George looked up from the floor and sighed, “Just put down married, happy, and severely bruised.”
The census taker shook his head, jotted a final note on his clipboard, and quietly walked away:
“Status: Married beyond repair.”
