A son tells his father, “I have an imaginary girlfriend.” The father sighs and says, “You know, you could do better.” “Thanks Dad,” the son says. The father shakes his head and goes, “I was talking to your girlfriend.”
Satan (impatiently) to Newcomer: The trouble with you Chicago people is, that you think you are the best people down here; whereas you are merely the most numerous.
- - - Mark Twain, "Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar" 1897