After fifty years of marriage, Earl and Martha thought they had survived every possible domestic crisis—until a quiet Tuesday afternoon turned into a high-stakes living room rescue mission.
Earl had just settled into his favorite spot on the couch, armed with a bag of potato chips and the TV remote. Ten minutes later, his arm slipped deep into the dark gap between the cushions, becoming completely jammed.
“Uh… Martha? Little help here?” Earl grunted, pulling and twisting frantically.
Martha glanced over her reading glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Earl, you’ve been stuck in worse places. Remember when your belt buckle got caught in the garage door? Figure it out, I’m busy.”
Five minutes passed, and Earl was still flailing around like a flipped turtle. Realizing her husband was genuinely trapped, Martha finally sighed, picked up the phone, and called the fire department.
“Hello? My husband’s arm is completely stuck inside our sofa,” she told the dispatcher.
The dispatcher paused, trying to process the request. “Is he injured, ma’am?”
“Only his pride,” Martha replied dryly. “But you’d better hurry before he finishes off all the snacks.”
Hearing this from the depths of the cushions, the trapped Earl yelled out, “Tell them to bring the jaws of life… or at least a sandwich!”
Martha hung up the phone and looked at her red-faced husband with a smirk.
“They’re on their way, dear… just as soon as they can stop laughing.”
