A Mother Had Three Virgin Daughters

Three daughters, all fresh-faced virgins, were due to tie the knot in rapid succession. Their mother, a tad concerned about their romantic debuts, slyly asked each to send a one-word honeymoon postcard describing their, ahem, marital “fun.”

The first postcard, sun-kissed from Hawaii, arrived two days later: “Nescafé.” Mom, puzzled, grabbed the coffee jar. It declared, “Good to the last drop.” Blushing but pleased, she knew daughter number one was brewing something sweet.

The second postcard mailed a week later from Vermont, read: “Benson & Hedges.” Mom, now a pro, raced to her husband’s cigarettes. The pack boasted, “Extra Long. King Size.” She chuckled, a flicker of embarrassment mixing with pride. Daughter number two was clearly enjoying a satisfying smoke.

The third daughter, whisked away to the Caribbean, remained ominously silent. Weeks turned into a month, and Mom’s nerves frayed. Finally, a postcard arrived, scrawled with shaky handwriting: “British Airways.” Mom’s heart jumped. British Airways? Had there been an accident? Frantic, she flipped through a magazine, desperate for clues. Finally, in an airline ad, she found it: “Three times a day, seven days a week, both ways.” (Mom promptly fainted.)