After fifty years of marriage, Earl and Martha thought they had survived every possible crisis—until a quiet Tuesday afternoon turned into a bizarre living room rescue mission.
Earl had just settled onto the couch with a bag of chips and the TV remote when his arm slipped deep into the gap between the cushions. He yanked, twisted, and pulled, but the couch simply refused to let go.
“Martha! A little help here?” Earl groaned, sweating from the exertion.
Martha peeked over her reading glasses, entirely unimpressed. “You figured your way out of the garage door incident, Earl. You can figure this 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 explained to the dispatcher.
The dispatcher paused. “Is he injured, ma’am?”
“Only his pride,” Martha replied dryly. “But you’d better hurry before he finishes eating all the snacks.”
Hearing this, Earl yelled from the depths of the cushions, “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 stop laughing.”
