One morning Mullah Nasruddin was sitting outside his house, letting the sun do its work, when his wife suddenly put her head out a window and began to scold him.

“Nasruddin,” she said, “what are you doing sitting there dreaming? Have you forgotten?”

“Forgotten?”

“We have to go to the mayor’s funeral! Hurry and get dressed. We will be late!”

“Why should I bother to hurry for his funeral?” Nasruddin demanded. “He certainly isn’t going to make an effort for my funeral.”