Let me set the scene for you: I'm on a road trip with the family, driving down the straightest highway you've ever seen, everything around just flat as you can imagine. All of a sudden, everything around me freezes like a photograph, and a small figure appears on my dashboard.
"Hey, how ya doing Tim? Wait, dumb question. You're dying!"
He looked like the Grim Reaper, straight out of a storybook, except about 2 feet tall and sitting on my dashboard. But he sure didn't sound like I'd imagine he would.
"What do you mean? Who are you?" I asked.
"Morty, Death, the Grim Reaper, take your pick. Anyway, that little headache you just started feeling? It's really a massive stroke! I mean, even if you were in a hospital right now, you'd be done for! Lucky for you, I'm gonna give you a choice, just to make things interesting. Killing people day in and day out can get old, you know. Even older than most of the people I kill! ...It's a joke, laugh! Oy, some people have no sense of humor...
"So, here's the deal: Instead of just offing you like I oughta, give me the name of who'll die. The owner of the name you say will immediately and permanently cease to function. But! It can't be me, and has to be someone close enough for you to touch, so you can't just say of some tyrant or celebrity."
I looked at my wife, Kathy, and our girls Libbie and Becca, and knew that I'd give my life for any of them in a heartbeat. "Go on, pick! Don't take all day, or I just might die of boredom. Will it be you?" Kathy would be able to take the wheel and get the car stopped safely enough if I died. "Maybe your lovely wife here? I may be able to see the future, and lemme tell ya, I see her turning into a real nightmare within a few years. (she's too pretty to stick with a schmuck like you)"
"Bitsy." I said, resolutely.
"Bitsy?! Who's Bitsy?!"
"The car." Kathy always thought it was silly for me to name our cars, but now it paid off in the most unlikely way imaginable.
Death had a surprised look on his face as he pondered my answer. Then he started laughing and said, "Oh, I shouldn't let you get away with that, but I do appreciate a wit nearly as sharp as my own. Time for Bitsy to bite the dust!"
Just as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared and time resumed. Bitsy's engine died, so I pushed on the brakes, but nothing happened. As the car was rolling to a stop, I tried to steer to keep it on the road, but found that the steering wheel too had "ceased to function". Luckily, by the time the car veered off the highway, we had slowed enough for it to just mean a bumpy ride. That joker even "killed" the door handles, so I had to bust out our windows to get out of Bitsy.
That's how I learned: when Death comes knocking, answer with a bad knock-knock joke and a good sense of humor, and he might just let you live for a while longer.