home, upstairs, dying in bed. He
smelled the aroma of his favorite
chocolate chip cookies baking. He
wanted one last cookie before he
died. He fell out of bed, crawled
to the landing, rolled down the
stairs and crawled into the
kitchen where his wife was
busily baking cookies. With his
last remaining strength he
crawled to the table and was just
barely able to lift his withered
arm to the cookie sheet. As he
grasped a warm, moist chocolate
chip cookie, his favorite kind, his
wife suddenly whacked his hand
with a spatula. Gasping for
breath, he asked her, "Why did
you do that?"
She answered, "Those are for the
funeral."
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