"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

Howard sighed and shook his head. "The set-up implies that chickens are capable of conscious choice, but they're not; they're chickens."

"Two Jews walk into a bar and -"

"And have a drink like normal people."

"Your momma is -"

The broken comedian burst into tears. "I assume a very pleasant woman," he replied, between chokes and sobs.

The insurance agent grunted affirmatively. "Yes, you don't appear very funny anymore, do you? What were the events leading up to this sudden loss of humor?"

Recalling the last few years, he could think of nothing. He wiped his tears with a sleeve, and tried to steady his voice. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Things seemed to be going well; I took a trip to London; I was married, became a father, had a birthday -"

"Oh," replied the agent. "Oh, that changes this quite a bit."

Howard looked at him wide eyed. "W-what?"

The agent turned the contract on the desk so that Howard could read it. With a pen he pointed at the fine print at the bottom and, looking over his classes, he began to explain. "You see, Howard, here it clearly states that loss of humor as a result of marriage, children, or the age of forty nullifies any claim." He put the paper on the stack, then tapped them on the desk. "I'm very sorry. There is nothing I can do here."

"I still tell dad jokes; my wife laughs at them!" he pleaded.

"Yes, but she doesn't really think they're funny, does she?"

Howard hung his head. "No. No, she doesn't; I'm a has been." For a while he stared at the floor, then it came to him. He looked up at the agent. "A stay at home has been..."

The agent smiled and shook his hand, and though Howard didn't leave with the insurance companies money that day, he left with his confidence back - and that was worth more than anything to him.