I'm not as think as you drunk I am.

A bloke’s been sinking pints at the local pub all night until he’s properly plastered.
The publican taps the counter and goes, "Alright mate, last drinks were ages ago, time to head home."
So the bloke turns on his barstool, goes to take a step, and lands flat on his mug. Geez, he thinks, I'm far more pissed than I thought. I’ll just crawl out to the car park, catch a bit of fresh air, and clear the head.
He drags himself out the door, crawls over to a lamppost, and pulls himself up. He goes to take one step and—wham—flat on his face again. Strewth, he mutters. The missus is going to absolutely murder me if she catches me like this. Luckily we’re only a couple of blocks down the road. If I crawl all the way back, I should be right by the time I hit the front door.
So he army-crawls down the footpath, hauls himself up the front steps, turns the door handle, tries to walk in, and bang—straight onto the lino. Far out, I’m in proper trouble now. He decides the safest play is to crawl down the hallway, slide into bed quietly, and pretend he's been fast asleep all night.
He finally slithers under the duvet, rests his head on the pillow, and smirks to himself. Unreal. Pulled it off.
Right on cue, his wife rolls over, shines her phone in his eyes, and sighs, "Been down the pub getting absolutely wrecked again, haven't you?"
He gasps, "How on earth did you know that, darl?"
She says, "Because the publican just rang—you left your wheelchair at the bar again.