Why I fired my secretary
Two weeks ago, was my forty-fifth birthday, and I wasn't feeling too hot that morning anyway.
I went into breakfast, knowing my wife would be pleasant and say Happy Birthday and probably have a present for me.
She didn't even say Good Morning, let alone any Happy Birthday. I said, well, that's wives for you. The children will remember. The children came into breakfast and didn't say a word.
When I started to the office I was feeling pretty low and despondent. As I walked into my office, my secretary Janet said, "Good Morning, Boss, Happy Birthday." And I felt a little better; someone had remembered.
I worked until noon. About noon Janet knocked on my door and said, "You know it's such a beautiful day outside and it's your birthday, let's go to lunch, just you and me."
I said, "By George, that's the greatest thing I've heard all day. Let's go."
We went to lunch. We didn't go where we normally go; we went out into the country to a little private place. We had two martinis and enjoyed lunch tremendously.
On the way back to the office, she said, "You know, it's such a beautiful day. We don't need to go back to the office. Do we?"
I said, "No, I guess not."
She said, "Let's go to my apartment."
After arriving at her apartment, we had another martini and I smoked a beautiful Cuban cigar and she said, "Boss, if you don't mind, I think I'll go into the bedroom and slip into something more comfortable."
"Sure," I excitedly replied. She went into the bedroom and in about six minutes, she came out... ... carrying a big birthday cake, followed by my wife and children.
All were singing Happy Birthday.
... and there on the couch I sat... ...
with nothing on but my socks...
...and THAT'S why I fired my secretary
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Shakey 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... you gotta help me, 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 your fears". "How much do you charge?" "A hundred dollars per visit". "I'll sleep on it," said Shakey.
Six months later the doctor met Shakey on the street. "Why didn't you ever come to see me again?" asked the psychiatrist.
"For a hundred buck's a visit? A bartender cured me for ten dollars". "Is that so!? How?"
"He poured me a Scotch, gave me a Cuban cigar and then... He told me to cut the legs off the bed!"
