Bob had a reputation for enjoying his nights out a little too much. One evening, after a few too many drinks, he stumbled through the front door, made his way to the bedroom, and collapsed into bed beside his peacefully sleeping wife.

But instead of waking up with a hangover and some questionable life choices, Bob found himself in a place he never expected—the Pearly Gates of Heaven, face-to-face with St. Peter himself.

A Deal at the Pearly Gates

Confused and still feeling a little woozy, Bob muttered, “Am I dreaming? What’s going on?”

St. Peter, holding a clipboard and wearing a patient smile, replied, “Bob, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you passed away in your sleep.”

Bob’s jaw dropped. “What? No! I can’t be dead! I’ve got so much left to do!”

St. Peter, showing a hint of sympathy, leaned closer. “Well, Bob, there is… one option. You can return to Earth, but only as a chicken.”

Bob hesitated. A chicken? Really? But desperate to return to life, he agreed.

In an instant, feathers sprouted from his body, and he was no longer standing at the Pearly Gates. Instead, he found himself clucking in a chicken coop on a farm.

The Life of a Hen

Adjusting to his new feathery reality, Bob was greeted by a confident rooster strutting around the coop.

“Well, well, look who’s new to the farm! How are you settling in, hen?” the rooster crowed.

Bob shuffled awkwardly, trying to get used to his new chicken feet. “It’s… fine, I guess. But I’ve got this weird pressure inside me. Like I’m about to explode!”

The rooster burst out laughing. “Oh, buddy, you’re ovulating. Haven’t you ever laid an egg before?”

Bob blinked his beady chicken eyes. “Uh… no. Never.”

“Well, it’s easy,” the rooster said with a knowing nod. “Just relax and let it happen.”

Taking a deep breath (or as deep as a chicken can manage), Bob gave in to the strange sensation. With a final push, out popped an egg.

Staring at it in disbelief, Bob felt an unexpected sense of accomplishment—and dare he say, motherly pride.

“I did it! I laid an egg!” he clucked excitedly.

Overcome with joy, Bob laid another egg… and then another. Just as he was about to lay his third, he felt a sharp smack on the back of his head.

Back to Reality

Bob jolted awake, eyes wide and heart racing.

Standing over him, with hands on her hips and an expression caught somewhere between anger and disbelief, was his wife.

“Bob! Wake up!” she shouted. “You’re drunk again… and you’re POOPING in the bed!”

Bob froze. Reality hit him like a freight train.

He wasn’t in a chicken coop. He wasn’t laying eggs. And St. Peter was nowhere to be found.

It was just another wild night, a little too much whiskey, and a very unhappy wife.

The Moral of the Story?

Maybe Bob will think twice before his next big night out—or at least before slipping into bed afterward.

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