I know I say this every six months or so, but I know what I want on my tombstone. Forget about what I wanted last time. This right here. The bunny with the pancake on its head and the inscription exactly as it is. Throw out all those old plans.

Well, maybe keep the periodic fifteen-foot jets of flame that shoot up from the sides. Hell, if they've already been ordered we might as well use 'em.

My friend Megan's car burst into flames in front of my house the other night. Brian and Virginia were home but I was tempted to call Mollie, my absent roomate, and tell her to come home immediately and then hang up in mid-sentence.

Upon her arrival she would find the flaming car in the middle of the street, the fire engine lights playing crazily over the neighborhood like an ominous disco ball, and (in my plan) a chalk outline of myself in the driveway.

It would have been cruel, I know, but opportunities like that don't come around every night. Not in this part of town, anyway.

My plan was foiled because I couldn't find my sidewalk chalk. At least, not the colors I wanted. Pink is not the preferred color for such ghastly undertakings.

But it should be.