It began, as many good stories do, with something ordinary — two old men sitting on a worn wooden bench in the park. The afternoon sun was mild, pigeons strutted nearby like they owned the place, and children’s laughter drifted faintly from the playground across the path. One of the men, Harold, leaned heavily on his cane, staring thoughtfully at the ducks in the pond. The other, Frank, adjusted his cap and sighed in the way only someone with eight decades of experience can sigh — full of wisdom, weariness, and just a hint of mischief.

To anyone passing by, they looked like part of the scenery, two retirees passing time the way retirees do. Nothing about the scene suggested it was about to spiral into something so unexpectedly hilarious that bystanders would later swear they had to sit down just to recover. Harold cleared his throat first. “You know, Frank,” he began slowly, “I think my wife’s hearing is getting worse.” Frank didn’t look surprised. “Oh yeah? How bad?” Harold shrugged. “Hard to say. Yesterday I stood right behind her in the kitchen and asked what was for dinner. No response.” Frank nodded solemnly. “That does sound concerning.”