Myron Cohen told the story of a man who lay dying in his upstairs bed. His wife was downstairs in the kitchen making cookies. The man calls his young son, whom he loved very much, to his side.
"Joshie, my boy, I'm dying."
"I know, pappa."
"What is your mother doing?"
"She's in the kitchen making cookies."
"Oy, your mother's wonderful cookies. I love them so. Go downstairs and tell momma to send me up some cookies."
So the boy goes downstairs and returns a minute later empty-handed.
"Joshie, did you bring me some cookies?"
"No, pappa."
"No? But I love your momma's cookies. Go and get some."
"Momma said I can't give you any cookies, poppa."
"What? Did she say why?"
"She said the cookies were for after the funeral."
Pump the oil. Mother Nature won't die.
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