His wife, shaking her head at the daily spectacle, never missed the chance to warn him, “One day, you’re going to fart your guts out.”

On Thanksgiving morning, as she prepared the holiday meal, an idea struck her.

With a mischievous grin, she scooped up a handful of turkey innards and quietly tiptoed into their bedroom.

With delicate precision, she tucked the slimy pieces into his underwear and waited for the inevitable.

An hour later, the familiar sound echoed through the house—his usual fart-laugh routine.

But this time, the laughter was abruptly cut short by a panicked scream, followed by ten minutes of eerie silence.

Concerned but stifling a giggle, she waited for him to emerge.

When he finally made his way downstairs, he looked pale, his fingers coated in something he clearly wished he hadn’t touched.

With a sheepish expression, he cleared his throat and said,

“Honey, I owe you an apology. You were right all these years—

I finally farted my guts out.” He took a deep breath and held up his dirty fingers.

“But don’t worry. By the grace of God and these two fingers, I managed to shove them all back in.”

Theirs was a love built on humor, mischief, and an understanding that even the silliest moments could become treasured memories.

Fifty years of marriage had taught them that laughter was just as essential as love—and on that

Thanksgiving morning, she had certainly given them both something to be thankful for.