My mate Ben recently died in a horrible fire. The mortician thought it was Ben, but the body was so badly burned that somebody would need to make a positive identification. That task fell to George's two best friends, Stan and me.
Stan: "He's burnt pretty bad, all right. Roll him over." Stan looked at the dead man's buttocks and said, "Nope, that ain't Ben."
Thinking the incident strange, the mortician straightened up the body and said nothing. He brought me in.
Me: "Wow, he's burnt to a crisp. Roll him over." Again, "Nope, that ain't Ben."
Mortician: "How can you tell?"
Me: "Ben had two assholes."
Mortician: "What? How could he have two assholes?"
Me: "Everybody knew Ben had two assholes. Whenever the three of us would go into town you'd hear people say, "Here comes Ben with those two assholes!"