Shakey went to a psychiatrist. "Doc," he said, "I've got trouble. Every time I get into bed, I think there's somebody under it. I get under the bed, I think there's somebody on top of it. Top, under, top, under. "You gotta help me, I'm going crazy!"
"Just put yourself in my hands for two years," said the shrink. "Come to me three times a week, and I'll cure your fears."
"How much do you charge?"
"A hundred dollars per visit."
"I'll sleep on it," said Shakey.
Six months later the doctor met Shakey on the street. "Why didn't you ever come to see me again?" asked the psychiatrist.
"For a hundred buck's a visit? A bartender cured me for ten dollars."
Sheri, the pert and pretty nurse took her troubles to a resident psychiatrist in the hospital where she worked. "Doctor, you must help me", she pleaded. "It's gotten so that every time I date one of the young doctors here, I end up dating him. And then afterward, I feel guilty and depressed for a week."
"I see", nodded the psychiatrist. "And you, no doubt, want me to strengthen your will power and resolve in this matter".
"No!" exclaimed the nurse. "I want you to fix it so I won't feel guilty and depressed afterward!"