The greatest insurance sales pitch I ever heard was uttered by Groucho Marx in “A Night at the Opera” when he told a potential client, “I have here an accident policy that will absolutely protect you no matter what happens. If you lose a leg, we’ll help you look for it.”

That’s the kind of solemn promise you don’t hear in all those TV insurance commercials, which feature a guy who hangs out with a big flightless bird, customers who do business with a talking lizard, and a doctor who tries to prevent young homeowners from becoming their parents.

It is not my policy to insure my two grown daughters against becoming me because that’s the last thing in the world they’d want to do.

And they couldn’t get coverage anyway. After all, if there was ever a poor risk, it’s me.

But I am lucky to know the best insurance man in the business.

He is none other than Timothy K. Lovelette, president, chief executive officer and grand high exalted mystic ruler of the Marshall K. Lovelette Insurance Agency of Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

“Everybody wants to get into the insurance business,” said Tim, a college buddy who has remained a great friend for more than half a century. “I’ve become the exclusive agent for anyone who wants to get into the insurance acting business.”

That includes the aforementioned spokespeople, as well as mascots like geckos and emus.

“There’s a casting call in my office,” Tim said. “I have a lot that I’m working on.”

“How about casting me?” I wondered. “My kids should see you for an insurance policy against me.”

“No insurance company in the world would sell a policy against you,” Tim told me.

“Not even yours?” I said.

“Are you kidding?” said Tim. “You should tell your kids, ‘I feel bad that I may have to be a burden to you.’ Nobody is going to want you.”

“The worst part is that our kids still have stuff in our houses, even though they moved out years ago,” I said.

“There’s a simple solution,” said Tim. “Wrap it all up and mail it to them during the holidays with a tag that says, ‘Merry Christmas!’ ”

“No wonder our kids would never want to become us,” I said.

“But ultimately, they’ll get back at us,” Tim predicted. “When we die, our kids will have a yard sale. Our stuff will go on the free table.”

“What about those animal mascots?” I asked.

“If you got them together in my office, the emu would eat the gecko,” Tim theorized. “The most annoying one is that duck. It keeps quacking only one word.”

“You mean the name of the insurance company it represents?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Tim said. “It makes you want to go duck hunting.”

“Maybe the duck can take out a life insurance policy,” I suggested.

“Not with me,” said Tim, adding that the animal mascot for the Lovelette Insurance Agency could be a wild turkey. “Ben Franklin wanted it to be the national bird,” he said. “And it’s an excellent bourbon.”

“How about a snake?” I wondered, noting that Tim, in his role as the ringleader of countless pranks in college, often enlisted the services of live snakes he found in the woods near the school.

“They were our evil pets, but they wouldn’t make good mascots,” he replied. “Besides, they don’t have arms. How would they sign policies?”

“Good point,” I said, adding that Tim would be an even better spokesman than Mayhem, the mischievous guy who causes trouble in what I think are the best insurance commercials.

“I could see that,” he said.

“If a client lost a leg, would you help him look for it?” I asked.

“It wouldn’t be covered,” said Tim, “but I would do it for the amusement value.”

“Yet another reason,” I said, “for our kids not to become their parents.”

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