Lying on his deathbed, the rich, miserly old man calls to his long-suffering wife. "I want to take all my money with me," he tells her. "So promise me you’ll put it in the casket."
After the man dies, his widow attends the memorial service with her best friend. Just before the undertaker closes the coffin, she places a small metal box inside.
Her friend looks at her in horror. "Surely," she says, "you didn’t put the money in there."
"I did promise him I would," the widow answers. "So I got it all together, deposited every penny in my account, and wrote him a check. If he can cash it, he can spend it."
We were eating at one of the trendier restaurants in town when my friend pointed to the menu and told the waitress, "I’ll have the #24."
"Uh, Jim," I whispered, "that’s the price, not the meal number."
"Oh," he said. "Then give me the #12."
One day at a local café, a woman suddenly called out, "My daughter’s choking! She swallowed a nickel! Please, anyone, help!"
Immediately a man at a nearby table rushed up to her and said he was experienced in these situations. He calmly stepped over to the girl, then with no look of concern, wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. Out popped the nickel.
The man returned to his table as if nothing had happened.
"Thank you!" the mother cried. "Tell me, are you a doctor?"
"No," the man replied. "I work for the IRS."
Freelance newspaper writers don’t get nearly as much attention as writers with regular bylines.
So I was delighted when I finally got some notice. It was at the bank, and I was depositing a stack of checks.
"Wow," said the teller, reading off the names of publishers from the tops of the checks. "You must deliver a lot of newspapers!"