DW staggered home very late after an evening with his drinking buddies. He took off his shoes to avoid waking his wife. He tiptoed as quietly as he could toward the stairs leading to their upstairs bedroom, but misjudged the bottom step. As he caught himself by grabbing the banister, his body swung around and he landed heavily on his rump. The bottle of whiskey in each back pocket broke and made his landing especially painful. Managing not to yell, DW staggered up, pulled down his pants, and looked in the hall mirror to see that his butt cheeks were cut and bleeding. He managed to quietly find a full box of Band-Aids and began putting a Band-Aid as best he could on each place he saw blood. He then hid the now almost empty Band-Aid box and stumbled his way to bed. In the morning, DW woke up with searing pain in both his head and butt. His wife sat staring at him from across the room. She said, "DW, ye were drunk again last night, weren't ye?" DW said, "Why are ye accusin' me of such a thing?" "Ah, well," she said, "it could be the open front door; it could be the broken glass at the bottom of the stairs; it could be the drops of blood trailing through the house; it could be yer bloodshot eyes; but mostly, I'm thinkin', it's all those Band-Aids stuck to the hall mirror."