An old Jew is on his deathbed at home. He wakes up from a troubled sleep to a delicious smell: potato knishes, his favorite. He tears up thinking of his loving wife, Rose, cooking them especially for him for what could be his last meal. He drags himself out of bed and crawls painfully down the hallway and reaches the kitchen where he spies the knishes on the table. As he reaches up for one Rose hits his hand with a ladle and says, "Schmuck, they're not for you; they're for the funeral.
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