Mulla Nasrudin was telling his wife about a dream he had the night before. “It was terrible,” he said. “I was at a birthday party at Yusef’s house. His mother had baked a chocolate cake three feet high, and when she cut it everybody was given a piece that was so large that it hung over the sides of the plate. Then she dipped up some homemade ice cream. She had so much of it that she had to give each one of us our share in a soup bowl.” “What was so terrible about that dream?” asked his wife. “Oh,” said Nasrudin, “I woke up before I could get the first taste.”