"Taste it." "No." "Just take a taste." "No."

"Taste it." "No." "Just take a taste." "No." "One taste?" "No." "At least smell it." "I don't want to." "Just a whiff?" "Nope." "I'll waft it under your nose."

"Get away from me!" She yelled as he held rat poison up to her face. "You are a f*&%ing psycho! I don't like these games." "Come oooooonnnn," he whispered, "I'll love you forever,"

"I'll even do that special thing that made you squeak so loud." She looked at him warily. "So I just eat the poison, write something on a piece of paper, then fold it up and give

it back to you, and then you will do as you promised? Like that Korean gal in the salon who advertised 'prostate massage, for health'?" "YES!" she shouted, "Now eat the poison bef

ore I completely lose interest!" I took a couple of handfuls of green arsenic and gobbled then down Mme Bovary-style. Hmmmm, "It's surprisingly ineffective," I said before clutchin

g my throat and falling forward on a glass table 'Heathers-style'. At my funeral a lot of people said things about me that weren't entirely true. I was self-absorbed and not

entirely without reason: if we weren't so full of ourselves, who would be? As I lay in my closed casket, I could feel them passing by and muttering platitudes.But I had a surprise:

Ever so quietly, I donned the rainbow wig, painted my face white and the area around my mouth bright red, and placed the big rubber ball on my nose. The casket was opened, and BAM

nailed that stake right through the heart. I always wore clown makeup when I work. It distracts the undead long enough for me to get the job done. And the look on their faces...

makes me cry. Now there's some sad things known to man. But ain't much sadder than tears of a clown, when there's no one around. Finished now, I returned to sit under the sidewalk.