Shakey went to a psychiatrist. “Doc,” he said, “I’ve got trouble. Every time I get into bed, I think there’s somebody under it. You gotta help me, I’m going crazy!”

“Come to me three times a week for two years,” said the psychiatrist, “and I’ll cure your fears.”

“How much do you charge?”

“A hundred dollars per visit.”

“I’ll sleep on it,” said Shakey. Six months later the doctor met Shakey on the street. “Why didn’t you ever come to see me again?” asked the psychiatrist.

“Too expensive. My paperboy cured me for ten dollars.”

“Is that so! How?”

“He told me to cut the legs off my bed!”