Miss Harriet, in her late 80's and long in the nursing home,  loved to race her wheelchair down the long corridors.  She would wheel out of her room, turn the speed to high and away she would go, careening around corners on one wheel.

No matter how many times the nurses threatened to take her wheelchair away if she didn't stop, the minute their backs were turned, she was off again to the races.

Old Jasper, however, could slow her down.  He would watch for her to turn down his hall; then, he would step in the middle of the corridor, waving for her to stop.

When she did, he would demand to see her license to drive, and Harriet, whose elevator didn't go quite to the top, would whip out her social security card.

Jasper's elevator was shy a few top floors as well, and he would let her proceed.  But the next day, he would be back waving again for her to stop.  This time he wanted "proof of insurance."  

Out would come her AARP card and Jasper would allow her to continue her race down the corridors.

One day, though, when Harriet turned down Jasper's corridor, there he stood, stark naked, holding his whing ding in his hand.

"Oh, crap!" Miss  Harriet exclaimed.  "Not that damn breathalyzer test again!"