Health inspector walks into a small, hole-in-the wall sandwich shop consisting of nothing but a lunch counter with stools, takes one look, and practically has a heart attack. The place is absolutely filthy. The counter hasn't been wiped, much less actually cleaned, in weeks, behind the counter flies are buzzing around the greasy piles of sandwich fillings, a mop used to swab the floors (Gawd! We won't even talk about the floors!) is propped in the sink along with several huge stacks of food-encrusted dishes waiting to be washed. And the proprietor looks like he's just crawled out of a Dumpster. Nondescript pants with stains down the front and back, a sweat-stained sleeveless undershirt ("vest" to our British friends), greasy hair hanging in his face, five days' growth of beard, and half-moons of God-knows-what under his fingernails. A cigarette dangles from his lips, scattering ashes on the food. There's even mold on the piles of bread scattered on a cutting-board that has what looks like globs of fat on it. Flies everywhere!

The health inspector goes up in flames! He points out monumental list of health violations to the proprietor, gives him a copy of his report and a copy of the health regulations, and tells him, "Now, listen! I ought to shut you down permanently! But if you close your doors right now and promise me that you'll get this pest hole cleaned up—and I mean spotless!—I'll give you a break. I'll be back in a week!"

A week later, the health inspector returns. He finds the place totally transformed. It's as if a miracle has taken place. There is a new sign out front and the windows, previously opaque with grease, are clean. The inspector stands outside and peers through the window in amaze! The counter has been refinished and is lustrously clean, the stools have all been replaced, the floor is spotless. The sandwich meats and other fillings are all in plastic containers, the cutting boards have also been replaced. And behind the counter stands the proprietor. Resplendent in his gleamingly white chef's smock, pants, and hat. He is clean shaven and freshly barbered, and not only are his hands clean, he's wearing rubber gloves.

The inspector watches as the proprietor prepares a sandwich for a customer sitting at the counter. He washes his hands thoroughly with disinfectant soap, pulls a new pair of rubber gloves out of a dispenser, and puts them on. He picks up a pair of stainless steel tongs and uses them to place two slices of bread on a plate he just took from a steaming dishwasher. He uses separate spatulas to spread butter, mayo, and other condiments on the bread, putting them into an autoclave to be sterilized after each use. Then, again with the stainless steel tongs, he adds the cheese, meat, tomato slice, and lettuce, places the top slice of bread on the sandwich, slices it diagonally with a sharp knife, which he also puts into the autoclave, deftly manages to use the tongs to put a stack of potato chips (crisps) on the plate, and then a dill pickle. He then places it before the customer.

His hands, even though clad in rubber gloves, never even touch the sandwich. He does almost everything with the stainless steel tongs.

The inspector is amazed! He enters the shop and expresses his delight at the transformation. The proprietor proceeds to show him around the small shop and points out all the changes he's made and the innovations he has installed, all in the interest of cleanliness. Some of them are quite new and unconventional. The inspector even learns a few things and starts taking copious notes.

Then, he notices a piece of string hanging over the collar of the proprietor's chef's smock.

"What is that?" he asks.

"Oh," says the proprietor, "that's for when I have to go to the bathroom. I wash my hands thoroughly both before and after of course, but still, I don't touch my penis with my hands at all. I have the other end of the string tied around my penis, so when I pull this end, it pops out through my fly and I can do my business. My hands never touch it."

The inspector makes rapid notes. "Amazing. String. Tie to . . . unzip fly . . . pull string. . . ."

"Wait a minute," he says. "When you've finished 'doing your business' as you say . . . how do you get it back into your pants?"

"Simple," says the proprietor. "The tongs."