Clayton staggered home late one night after another extended evening with his drinking buddies. He removed his shoes and tip-toed to the stairs to avoid waking his wife, Kathleen, but misjudged the bottom step.

Grabbing and missing the banister, he swung around and sat down heavily, crushing the whiskey bottle in each back pocket. Managing not to scream, Clayton sprung up, pulled down his pants, and looked in the hall mirror. His butt cheeks were full of cuts and bleeding profusely. He managed to find a box of Band-Aids and began putting one on each place where he saw blood.

He hid the nearly empty Band-Aid box and stumbled his way up to bed. The next morning, Clayton awoke with searing pain in both his head and butt and Kathleen staring at him from across the room. “You came home drunk again last night, didn’t you?” she cried. Clayton mumbled, “Why do you say that?” “Well, it could be the open front door, or it could be the broken glass at the bottom of the stairs, or it could be the drops of blood throughout the house, or it could be your bloodshot eyes, but mostly… it’s that downstairs mirror covered with Band-Aids!“