YOU CAN'T TAKE ME ANYWHERE

     It was a special dinner.  Karen's parent's, Maria's, and mine. 
We were eating downtown at The Palm, the restaurant in the Bellevue
Strattford.  At the table behind us were Bill Giles and Norman
Braman, owners of the Phillies and Eagles, respectively.  Earlier
that evening we had seen about twenty bellhops surrounding this guy
who was trying to get on the elevator.  We looked closer and it was
Muhammed Ali.  His son had strayed, and Howard and I were play-
duking it up with him, before he was dragged into the elevator.
     Dinner went well, at least until dessert.  We all got coffee
and cheesecake, and Maria's mom made the mistake of telling a joke. 
It was a clean one, a Polish joke.  The punch line was:  "But this
is a hardware store."  Soon, everyone told his or her own. 
Finally, it was Karen's turn.  Maria, as Karen started, dug her
fingernails into my right knee.  Howard did the same to my left.  
     The tables around us had been eavesdropping since we had
started this joke thing, and Karen was well aware of her audience.
     She said, "How do you get a nun pregnant?" I crossed my
fingers under the table and shook my head.  The hands on my knees
tightened their grip.
     Maria's father said, "I'll bite.  How *do* you get a nun
pregnant?"
    "YOU *F*U*C*K* HER!!"
    Oh man.