On a quiet Sunday evening, Bert and Edna, married fifty-five years, sat on their porch swing sipping tea and watching squirrels fight over a Cheeto. “Bert,” Edna said suddenly,
“let’s talk about our bucket lists.” “At eighty-seven?” Bert grumbled. “If I wake up remembering where my pants are, that’s a win.” Edna laughed. “No, something we’ve always wanted to do.”
Bert thought. “Skydiving.” Edna gasped. “You faint tying your shoes!” “Then let me land in the neighbor’s garden,” he smirked.
“I’ve always wanted to haunt him.” Edna’s eyes twinkled. “Well, I’ve got my own wish—I want to confess something.” She grinned. “Remember how your recliner leaned left for twenty years? That was me. I jammed a spatula in it after you ruined my curtains in ’89.”
Bert gaped. “You’re evil!” “And the remote?” she added. “I glued a penny inside so it only played Hallmark movies.” Bert sputtered.
“You said it was haunted!” She sipped her tea. “Slow-motion snowball fights are the best revenge, dear.” After a pause, Bert confessed,
“Those ten years of Saturday ‘fishing trips’? Bowling. Won four trophies. They’re hidden behind the water heater.” Edna blinked. “So I threw out a fake trophy?”
They burst out laughing. Later, in heaven, St. Peter showed them a dream home, endless golf, and gourmet food—all free. Bert froze.
“No cholesterol? No weight gain?” “None,” St. Peter smiled. Bert shook his fist. “Edna! If it weren’t for your bran muffins, we could’ve been here years ago!”
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