sound of keys jingling in the front door. Her heart nearly stopped. Her husband was home early!

Panicking, she turned to her lover, a man who suddenly seemed much less attractive now that his presence could get her divorced, injured, or worse—on the 6 o’clock news.

“Quick!” she whispered in a frantic voice. “Stand in the corner!”

The poor guy, now more terrified than turned on, scrambled to the nearest corner. She grabbed a bottle of baby oil, slathered it all over him like she was marinating a Thanksgiving turkey, then dusted him head to toe with talcum powder.

“Don’t move,” she hissed. “Pretend you’re a statue.”

The man, now looking like a creepy department store mannequin, froze in place, hands strategically covering his most vulnerable assets.

Just in time, the husband walked in. He glanced at the shiny, powdery, suspiciously muscular figure standing in the corner and raised an eyebrow.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Thinking fast, the wife smiled sweetly. “Oh, that’s a statue!” she said as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “The Smiths just bought one for their bedroom, and I thought it was so stylish that I got us one too!”

The husband shrugged. Rich people did weird things. And if the Smiths had a half-naked, greasy, talcum-powdered statue in their bedroom, then fine—so did they.

Not another word was said, and they both went to bed.