The Last Brownie. . . .

A man lay on his deathbed. Perhaps a few hours to live. His hands were crossed on his chest and his eyes were closed. Suddenly his nose began to twitch. A familiar smell. He drifted upward out of the deep recess of sleep. That smell he thought. CHOCOLATE. Brownies baking! An eye flickered open. Then the other. And he slowly tilted his head. The smell of chocolate was overpowering.  The kitchen was just down the hall.  I need. . . one last brownie. . . .

With great effort, he rolled onto his side and let gravity take its course.  He flopped heavily onto the floor.  Slowly, laboriously he elbowed his way toward the kitchen.  After what seemed like hours, he crossed the threshold and there – on the kitchen table – was a plate of warm brownies.  He moved forward and then slowly extended his grasp . . . . fingers . . . . reaching . . . . almost there.

Just then his wife walked in the kitchen – “GEORGE!”  You leave those brownies aloneThose are for the funeral!

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