Every year, the same group of guys packs up their gear and heads out to the same cluster of cabins for their annual deer camp. It’s a tradition built on camaraderie, tall tales, and a shared escape from daily life. But this year, a familiar problem threatened to derail the entire trip before it even began. The issue was Carl, and his legendary, wall-shaking snore. It was the kind of sound that didn’t just interrupt sleep; it seemed to defy the laws of physics, vibrating through floorboards and rattling window panes. A democratic, if dreaded, rotation was established to share the burden of being Carl’s roommate.
The first victim was Steve. He entered the cabin with Carl that night armed with earplugs and a hopeful spirit. He emerged the next morning a broken man. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his hair a testament to a night spent tossing, turning, and finally just sitting upright in bed, resigned to his auditory fate. When asked, he described the sound as a catastrophic industrial accident involving power tools and sheet metal. He hadn’t slept a single, solitary wink. Sympathy was offered, along with more coffee.
Night two belonged to Mike, who fancied himself a bit more resilient. He marched in with a determined set to his jaw. By morning, that determination had been replaced by a thousand-yard stare. He reported that the rhythmic, seismic roaring had not only kept him awake but had seemingly resonated in his very bones, making his teeth ache. He, too, had spent the dark hours in a state of wide-awake misery, studying the shadows on the ceiling as Carl’s symphonic snoring played on. The mood at breakfast grew grim. This was unsustainable.
On the third night, all eyes turned to Big Frank. A former linebacker with a calm demeanor, Frank was the group’s anchor. If anyone could withstand the sonic onslaught through sheer force of will or perhaps by simply being too solid to be rattled, it was him. The next morning, the group assembled, expecting to see even their sturdiest member looking worse for wear. Instead, Frank glided into the kitchen looking downright radiant. He was rested, groomed, and sipping his coffee with the serenity of a man who had spent the night at a spa.
The stunned silence was broken by a chorus of disbelief. How was this possible? What was his secret? Had Carl suddenly been cured? Frank simply grinned, a twinkle in his eye. He explained that after they’d settled in, he had taken a moment to ensure Carl was comfortable. He’d kindly tucked him in, fluffed his pillow, and then, quite gently, had given him a soft kiss on the forehead. The result? Carl, wide-eyed and utterly bewildered, had spent the entire night rigidly awake, watching Frank suspiciously. Frank, however, had enjoyed the most peaceful, silent sleep of the entire trip. The lesson was delivered not with a complaint, but with clever, psychological counterplay.
