THE GREAT GADFLY:

On Mortality

I woke up this morning and all the hair from my head had fallen out and had been stuffed in my mouth. Mommy, am I going to die?

My fingernails are getting thick and yellow, and crusty stuff keeps falling off of them and they smell like slightly sour milk. Mommy, am I going to die?

I looked in the mirror this morning and I thought for a second that I was watching an episode of Deep Space Nine until I realized I was looking at myself and not a Ferrengi. Mommy, am I going to die?

Last night after dinner, I watched my left pinky finger dissolve into a warm, gooey puddle. Mommy, am I going to die?

Which reminds me, I had spaghetti for dinner last night, and then right after dinner my half-digested spaghetti came oozing out through my nipples like a play-doh fun factory. Mommy, am I going to die?

I gave birth to a litter of cute little goats last weekend, and then the weekend before that I laid about 300 tadpole eggs. Mommy, am I going to die?

That birthmark I've always had at my bikini area, it's starting to grow lips and it likes to talk about financial news and Lou Dobbs. It won't shut up. It keeps me up at night. I put a bandage over it to try to keep it quiet, but it eats through. It eats through the bandage. And then it's just more, "blah blah blah, stock market, blah blah blah the Dow." Mommy, am I going to die?

My left foot is turning into a cellphone, and it wants to know why there are so many cellphone commercials set in bowling alleys these days. Mommy, am I going to die?

I have to go now. My reproductive organs have just morphed into a Bedazzler, and I'm going to go decorate a denim jacket with my penis now.