Ever since I was a little kid I've had this thing about under the bed. Like, I'm a grown man, I pay taxes, I can back up a trailer, but at night my brain goes "yeah there's definitely a guy under there." Just sitting in the dark. Waiting. Probably judging my life choices.
So finally I go see a shrink about it. I sit down, I tell him the whole deal — every night, same fear, somebody's under the bed, I'm losing my mind.
He nods like he's heard it a million times. Goes, "Here's what we do. You come see me three times a week, for a year, and we'll get rid of this."
I'm like, alright, what's that run me?
"Eighty dollars a visit."
So I do the math right there in the chair. Eighty bucks, three times a week, fifty-two weeks. That's $12,480. To stop being scared of the dark. At that point I'm more scared of the invoice than the guy under the bed.
I tell him, "Let me sleep on it." Which — given the problem — was a bold choice.
Six months go by. I run into the shrink on the street. He goes, "Hey, you never came back. How'd the whole under-the-bed thing work out?"
"Oh, cured. Totally cured."
He's like, "Really. And how'd you manage that?"
"Well, I did your math. Twelve grand to talk about my feelings three times a week, or... a bartender fixed it for ten bucks."
Now he's got an attitude. "A bartender. Cured your phobia. For ten dollars."
"Yep. And with the money I saved I bought a new pickup truck, so honestly it was the best therapy I've ever had."
"Okay, I'll bite. What did the bartender tell you?"
"He told me to cut the legs off the bed."
...Ain't nobody under there now.
Behind the grin: This one's an old barstool classic — the kind of joke that's been forwarded around since email was invented. The math checks out, the logic is flawless, and somewhere a psychiatrist is still mad about it.