I miss you.
You’ve only been dead for three days and here I am at your desk, raiding your drawers for any sign of you. I dare not sit in your chair. You were the last one to sit there.
Each drawer is as funny as you were. A single rubber chicken in the top drawer, The middle drawer is glued shut. I can see a clear crust around the edges. The bottom drawer is filled with Gideon Bibles. I imagine you stole them from hotel rooms, perhaps replacing them with something offensive.
You knew that the best jokes straddle the line of offense, where most dare not tread. You, however, pitched a tent and called it home. You, with your goofy smile and lanky frame, hit the ball out of the park every time.
We're in mourning. We need you to make us laugh again.
That’s why I’m here. At your desk. Searching for anything funny.
A car just pulled into the driveway. Your wife? I don’t want to disturb her.
I see a stack of notebooks on the floor. I grab them and slip out the window.
I huddle in the bushes, barely able to contain my excitement.
I open the first notebook labeled “drunk texts and tweets”. Everything is comedic gold! A few pages in you scribbled: “Someone is trying to kill me.”
I throw my head back and laugh. You were hilarious.
Under the message you signed your name.
The other fans will never believe this! A real, authentic autograph!
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