My Horse
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My Horse

“That was for the piece of paper in your trouser pocket with the name ‘Mary Ellen’ written on it,” she replies.

“Don’t be silly,” he says, “Two weeks ago when I went to the races. Mary Ellen was the name of one of the horses I bet on.”

His wife seemed satisfied at this and apologized.

Three days later he’s again sitting in his chair reading when she nails him with an even bigger frying pan, knocking him out cold.

When he comes around he asks, “What was that for?”

“Your frickin’ horse phoned.

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