I’m reminded of another joke, one that was told to me as a child by my psychologist father.  A lady goes to the shrink and tells him all her friends think she’s crazy.  “Why do they think that?” he asks.  “Because I’m dead and no one believes me.”  “Ah,” says the therapist.  (Therapists have to say, “Ah.”)  The lady is happy to be believed.  “But tell me,” says the therapist, “Do dead people bleed?”  “No,” says the lady, “They most certainly do not.”  “Aha!” says the therapist as he grabs the lady’s hand, sticks her finger with a needle that he’s presumably been carrying in his pocket for just such an occassion and squeezes out a drop of blood.  “What do you say to this?” he demands triumphantly.  “Well, what do you know,” says the lady in wide-eyed disbelief, “Dead people do bleed.”