Santa was on his death bed. The doctor told his wife that the time had come for him and there was nothing he could do anymore. He suggested she better take him home and let him die in the comfort of his own surroundings and that he would hardly last the night.
Once home and in bed, he sniffed the air and muttered weakly: “Oh, mutton Tikka, mutton Tikka.”
Unable to contain himself he rolled over and fell from the bed. Somehow he managed to drag himself to the kitchen and saw piles of his favorite food on the table. Gathering all his strength he crawled to the table and extended his hand for the last bite of his favorite item. His wife saw what was happening, ran to him and smacked his hand: “This is to be served to the guests after your funeral.”
Once home and in bed, he sniffed the air and muttered weakly: “Oh, mutton Tikka, mutton Tikka.”
Unable to contain himself he rolled over and fell from the bed. Somehow he managed to drag himself to the kitchen and saw piles of his favorite food on the table. Gathering all his strength he crawled to the table and extended his hand for the last bite of his favorite item. His wife saw what was happening, ran to him and smacked his hand: “This is to be served to the guests after your funeral.”
