Patient: Doctor, I think I'm a moth. Can you help me?
Dr.: You think you're a moth?
Patient: Yes. Can you help me?
Dr.: Well, I'm just a general practioner. You need to see a psychiatrist.
Patient: I know that, Sir. In fact, I was on my way to the psychiatrist's office when I saw your light.
Old feller is in bed upstairs, about to die.
From below comes the aroma of home-made chocolate chip cookies baking.
He says to himself, "Before I go, I'm going to have one last chocolate chip cookie", and he painfully crawls out of bed, down the stairs, into the kitchen, and reaches his hand up to grab a cookie from the cooling rack on the kitchen table.
WHAPP!!! A spatula hits his outstretched hand. "You let that thing go, Hiram!" his wife demands. "Those are for the funeral!"