Jackson went to a psychiatrist. “Doc,” he said, “I’ve got trouble. Every time I get into bed I think there’s somebody under it. I get under the bed, I think there’s somebody on top of it. Top, under, top, under. I’m going crazy!”

“Just put yourself in my hands for two years,” said the shrink. “Come to me three times a week, and I’ll cure you.”

“How much do you charge?”

“A hundred dollars per visit.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Jackson never went back.

Six months later he met the doctor on the street.

“Why didn’t you ever come to see me again?” asked the psychiatrist.

“For a hundred bucks a visit? A bartender cured me for 10 dollars.”

“Is that so! How?”

“He told me to cut the legs off the bed.”

A man went to his doctor after a brief but debilitating illness.

The doctor, after a lengthy examination, looked him in the eye and said, “I’ve some bad news for you . . . you have a cancer and it can’t be cured. I give you two weeks to a month.”

The man was shocked and saddened by the news, but being a man of solid character, managed to compose himself and walk from the doctor’s office to meet his son, who was waiting for him outside.

“Son,” he said, “as Rudyard Kipling once said, if you can meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same – you’ll be a man. It turns out that I have cancer and I’ve been given a short time to live. But we’re going to celebrate my life. Let’s head for the pub and have a few pints.”

His son was shocked at first, but after three or four pints the two were feeling a little less sombre. They had a laugh, shed a few tears and drank some more beers.

After a while, they were eventually approached by some of the man’s old friends, who asked what the two were celebrating.

He told his friends, “I’ve only got a few weeks to live as I have been diagnosed with AIDS.”

The friends gave him their condolences and they all had a few more beers.

After his friends left, the man’s son leaned over and whispered in confusion, “Dad, you are dying of cancer. Why did you tell your friends that you are dying of AIDS?”

“Well, son,” the father replied, “I don’t want them sleeping your mother when I’m gone.”