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From customer, Barbara O'Connor, a bit of morbid humor: 

Last Rites

A man is struck by a bus on a busy street.  He is lying near death on the sidewalk as a crowd gathers.

"A priest.  Somebody get me a priest!" the man gasps.

A policeman checks the crowd and yells, "A PRIEST, PLEASE!"

Out of the crowd steps a little old Jewish man of at least 80 years of age.  "Mr. Policeman," says the man, "I'm not a priest.  I'm not even a Christian.  But for 50 years now I'm living behind the Catholic church on First Avenue, and every night I'm overhearing their services.  I can recall a lot of it, and maybe I can be of some comfort to this man."
The policeman agrees, and clears the crowd so the man can get through to where the injured man lay.  He kneels down, leans over the prostrate man and says in a solemn voice:  "B-4.  I-19.  N-38.  G-54.  O-72. . ."

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