Counting number of feet

Marge was in bed with a man (not her husband). All of a sudden, they heard a noise downstairs. "Oh, my God, your husband is home! What am I going to do?" "Just stay in bed with me. He's probably so drunk, he ain't gonna notice you here with me." The fear of getting caught trying to escape was more powerful than the thought of getting caught in bed with Marge, so he trusted her advice. Sure enough, Marge's husband came crawling into bed and as he pulled the covers over him, he pulled the blankets, exposing six feet.

"Honey!" he yelled. "What the hell is going on? I see six feet at the end of the bed!" "Dear, you're so drunk, you can't count. If you don't believe me, count them
again." Honey!" he yelled. "What the hell is going on? I see six feet at the end of
the bed!"

"Dear, you're so drunk, you can't count. If you don't believe me, count them
again." The husband got out of bed, and counted. "One, two, three, four... By gosh,
you're right, dear!"