A little boy, Timmy, was attending his first wedding. He’d spent the ceremony mostly fascinated by the sparkly shoes of the flower girl and the surprisingly loud snoring emanating from his grandpa in the front row. After the service, his cousin, ten-year-old Sarah, leaned in conspiratorially.
“So, Timmy,” she whispered, “how’d you like the wedding?”
Timmy, still slightly dazed from the sheer volume of cake he’d consumed during the reception, shrugged. “It was okay,” he mumbled, crumbs clinging to his cheek. “But I did have a question.”
Sarah, ever the know-it-all, puffed out her chest. “Ask away, little bro!”
Timmy furrowed his brow in concentration. “How many women can a man marry?”
Sarah blinked, surprised. This wasn’t the typical “Did the bride cry?” or “Was the food good?” question she’d expected. “Well,” she began, thinking hard, “usually just one, Timmy. It’s called monogamy.”
Timmy’s eyes widened. “Monogamy? That’s…boring.” He tapped his finger on his chin thoughtfully. “No, see, my dad told me that’s how many wives a man can have BEFORE he runs out of socks.”
