“So, a dead guy walks into a bar—”
“How?” my friend asks.
“On his feet.”
“Yeah, but how? Like, he’s dead. If he’s a vampire, he can’t, right? If he’s a zombie—”
“It’s a joke. Go with it.”
“Okay, who’s there?”
“Not that kind of joke.”
“Not that kind of joke who?”
“Shut up and listen. A dead guy walks into a bar—”
“Who is he?”
“He’ll be you in a few moments.”
“Oh.”
“A dead guy walks into a bar, okay? He walks into the bar and the barkeep says, ‘What’ll it be?’ And the dead guy says, ‘Whiskey and soda. Make it quick. I gotta get buried in an hour.’ The barkeep gets him his whiskey and soda. Anyway, the hour’s almost up, and the dead guy’s only like half way through his drink. He sees the clock, picks up the glass, and heads for the door. ‘Hey,’ says the bartender, ‘you can’t take it with you!'”
“This really happened, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Is the bartender alive?”
“No.”
“Do we know where the corpse went?”
“No.”
“Your joke stinks.”
“Not as bad as he did, according to witnesses. Nose-witness testimony.”
“I hate you.”
Tale Told 