Frank and Marge had been married for 46 years, which means they’ve spent 45 of those years arguing, and one year tolerating each other during their honeymoon.
They were invited to their neighbor’s BBQ — an event they both dreaded but couldn’t skip, since gossip in the neighborhood traveled faster than Marge’s menopause.
As they walked across the lawn, Frank whispered, “Marge, you sure you wanna wear that shirt? You know, the one that says ‘I’M A VIRGIN (But this is an old shirt)’?”
Marge, holding a soda like a trophy, didn’t even flinch.
“You wore socks with sandals and shorts with holes. I don’t think we’re here to impress, Frank.”
Frank muttered, “Yeah, but I didn’t wear a shirt that starts family debates.”
They arrived. Conversation stopped. The shirt spoke louder than any greeting could.
Their neighbor Doris choked on her hotdog.
Her husband Harold stared so hard he forgot to blink.
Even the pastor’s wife whispered, “I hope it’s laundry day and not a declaration.”
Frank tried to explain:
“She’s just being dramatic. It’s a joke. Old shirt, old lady, you get it.”
Marge corrected, “It’s not a joke. It’s called ‘setting boundaries before someone tries to introduce me to their single nephew.’”
Later, their granddaughter asked,
“Grandma, what’s a virgin?”
Marge smiled sweetly and said,
“It’s someone who hasn’t made the same mistake twice.”
Frank almost spit out his lemonade.
“She means me, doesn’t she?”
Marge winked.
“Well, you’re mistake number one through seven. But the grill smells good, so let’s eat.”
By the end of the night, the shirt was the talk of the neighborhood.
Frank was grumpy, embarrassed, and silently proud.
Marge was sipping her drink, soaking up the attention like sunscreen in Florida. 😅
