As retold by Bruce Lowitt

A poor shlub wanders into Louie Levy's shlock emporium on Elizabeth Street, looking for a sport jacket.

The salesman knows a mark when he sees one, picks a jacket he hasn't been able to see in two years and slaps in on the guy.

"Nu? It's beautiful. It's you," the salesman says.

"Well," the shlub says, "I like it, but the left shoulder, it feels a little tight."

"So do this," the salesman says, pushing down on the shoulder. "How's it feel now?"

"Okay, except now along the waist on the right it's kind of snug."

"So do this," the salesman says, shoving the side of the waist." How about now?"

"Uhh, now the back, it's pulling a little."

"So do this," the salesman says, giving him a zetz on his behind. "Now it's perfect, right?"

"Well," the customer says, not wanting to offend the salesman, "I guess so. Okay, I'll take it." And with his left shoulder down, bent at the waist and his belly pushed out, he hobbles out of the store just as two elderly Jewish ladies pass by.

"Oy," says one, "look at that poor man all bent over with arthritis."

"A pity," says the other one. "But look how nice the suit fits."