Snoring humor: Things that go AHHH! in the night

Things that go AHHH! in the night

My wife calls them figments of my imagination. I call them badges of honour.

They are the black, blue and purple marks up and down my right ribcage - the price all married men must pay for allegedly snoring.

I say ‘allegedly’ because in most cases we only have our wives’ word for it.

Take a typical scene from a typical marital bedroom.
It is 2am. He is sound asleep, dreaming happily about tropical fish or something else that he finds particularly stimulating. She is wide awake and cranky.

Suddenly, THWACK, he is waken by a painful jab to the ribcage.

"What the $%#@"? he yells. "What was that for?"

"You were snoring again," she says angrily.

"No I wasn’t," he mumbles. "How could I be snoring? I’ve been lying here awake, thinking about poecilia reticulata. Honestly."

THWACK. She delivers another painful prod to the ribs.

"What was that for?" he protests.

"For lying," she says.

"Okay, okay," he says resignedly. "I was asleep, I admit it. But I wasn’t snoring."

THWACK.

"I’m telling the truth," he grimaces, trying not to wake the neighbours. "I was dreaming about aphyocharax rubripinnis."

"Aphyocharax rubripinnis?" she says. "You rotten fibber. You said you were thinking about poecilia reticulata! You don’t love me any more."

DOUBLE THWACK.

This is where wives miss the point.

They are supposed to be coming up with evidence to support their claim that their husband was snoring and, instead, get worked up about the alleged species in their partner’s dreams.

This is all very counterproductive.

Two minutes ago there were two people in a bed. One, the hubby, was asleep and happy. The other, the wife, was awake and unhappy.

Now there are two unhappy, awake people in a bed. What’s more, one of them is in need of emergency medical treatment for possible broken ribs.

Of course, all wives deny this. My wife Katherine doesn’t even acknowledge the bruises on my ribcage, and most certainly denies ever striking me in nocturnal anger. "You must have dreamed it," she says. "Don’t try to tell me what I do or do not dream about," I say. "That’s what got me into trouble in the first place."

"No it didn’t," says Katherine. "You were snoring."

"For the last time: I don’t snore," I say. "And if I do, well, it must be your fault. I never snored before I was married."

This is true. Honestly.

When I was single, I was like The Sleeping Beauty, only more macho in my blue pyjamas. I never snorted and I definitely never grunted.

Unfortunately, I cannot prove this.

But fortunately, neither can Katherine.

I have given up trying to make her apologise for the bruises she says don’t even exist.

Instead, I put on a brave face every morning when I gingerly pull on a shirt.

I guess there are a lot of married men just like me out there.

Marriage is a battlefield. Snore zones are bloody.

We carry our scars with pride.

First published in The Advocate, Burnie

NB: I called this site Dunno because I kept drawing a blank when I had to put a name to it