A habitual drunk
staggered up to the front door of a home late one night, and kept rapping
loudly until a lady in pyjamas
came to answer.
"Par'n me,
ma'am," he lushes, "this is an emergency. Can you tell me where Mulla
Nasrudin lives?"
"Why,"
she exclaimed, "you are Mulla Nasrudin yourself!"
"I
know, I know," he replied, "but that still doesn't answer the
question -- where does he live?"
