Jameson was THREE SHEETS TO THE WIND when he went DOWN. Luckily, he ended up CRASHING on something ULTRA SOFT. Unfortunately, the something he ended up crashing on was situated in somebody else's apartment, to which he just so happened to have procured a spare key. This apartment, where, in his blacked out state, he'd apparently decided to seek refuge, belonged to his ex-girlfriend, Margarita.
Margarita seemed to have a bit of a BEDSPRING in her step this morning, as she was just BOUNCING back from a long night of BURNING UP THE SHEETS in somebody else's FOUR-POSTER, and was not expecting to return home to find Jameson SAWING LOGS, having first upended the remaining contents of a plastic liter bottle of whisky (so cheap its afterburn was the stuff of NIGHTMARES) all over her brand new duvet.
So when Jameson awoke, with a KING-SIZED hangover, mind you, it was to Margarita's dulcet voice singing him a LULLABYE of outrage, bitterness, blame, and recrimination, in a near hysterical, high-pitched ALARM CLOCK klaxon of a scream that would have AWAKENED THE DEAD any night of the week.
Jameson was still too inebriated to think straight, so he tried to calm her down by inviting her to join him in a nap, since she did look tired. But then he noticed the enormous whisky stain that had besmirched her formerly pristine duvet (still damp from the previous night's BED WETTING) and he understood that there would be no way to COMFORTER.
ba-dum-bum.
Disclaimer: yes, yes, I know that not all of the bed-related references in this story are puns, but I suspect a few of them of being somewhat punnish. At least a couple? I'd settle for one. To tell the truth, I kinda got lost in the story. What's a pun again?
Find this week's Punday Monday challenge here: @improv/punday-monday-290
Photo by Charl Folscher on Unsplash