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Saturday, May 9, 1998
By Paul Ford
The Way People Are
I'm a cop. I like doughnuts. I was at home and heard a knock at the door. It was Death. He intoned, "I have come for you."
"Are you sure you don't want the corrupt politician next door? Or the Hispanic man in a hairnet? The lisping gay man? The angry black youth? The businessman in a suit? The dull, stupid, comical fat guy in 3B? Max Von Sydow?"
"No, it says right here I have to get an angelic, innocent child to meet quota."
"Well, that's not me. I'm a cop. I like doughnuts."
"I'm Death. I like sandwiches."
"Can I get you something?"
"A map. Is this Philadelphia?"
"It feels that way right now," I said. There was another knock at the door. It was a muse.
"Hi! I'm looking for a writer," she announced.
Everyone looked around the room, Death, myself, and all the cameramen. "No writer here," we all said.
"Well, obviously," said the muse, and she slammed the door.
"You like bacon?" I asked Death. Death just looked at me.