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My Failed Suicide Attempts

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CLEVELAND—As each of them looked around at the people gathered outside Quicken Loans Arena and fantasized about unholstering their weapon and taking aim directly at others, both a good guy with a gun and a bad guy with a gun attending the Republican National Convention reportedly worked themselves into a heightened state of excitement Thursday at the thought of unloading their firearm into the crowd.

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CLEVELAND—Describing how the bird of prey suddenly dived down from the sky at high velocity, sources confirmed Thursday that former GOP presidential nominee Bob Dole was picked off by a large red-tailed hawk circling above the Quicken Loans Arena parking lot.
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My Failed Suicide Attempts

There is nothing I desire more than for dear, sweet Death to draw its soft shroud around me and usher me from this mortal coil. But after 132 years, my prayers have still not been answered, so every now and again I attempt to bring about my yearned-for demise myself.

The first attempt occurred back when I still had fore-arms and could propel myself in my wheel-chair. After my nurse had retired to bed, I managed to slip out of the mansion and push myself across the grounds to my private zoo. I unlocked the bear's cage, wheeled myself in, and closed the door behind me. But I had not visited the zoo in several years, and the cage was no longer occupied by a bear, but by a great horned owl. A nocturnal predator, the owl began to peck at me with his sharp beak and beat me with his wings. I wielded my cane, refusing to allow a lowly owl to assassinate T. Herman Zweibel. Fortunately, the racket awoke my Swiss Guard, who managed to rescue me in the nick of time. God-damn owl!

Then, about a month ago, I was scanning my bed-chamber for some arsenic when I remembered that my despised but coldly efficient ro-bot nurse, Mr. Tin, had locked all the medicines in the adjoining dispensary. Improvising, I decided to throw myself out of bed in the hopes that my withered skull would meet the cold, hard concrete floor and shatter like an egg-shell. Unfortunately, I was too weak to do anything more than move my left foot a few meager inches, and I could only get my head to rest feebly upon my shoulder. There I lay until sun-rise, when Mr. Tin lumbered in and administered my morning enema, which was as icy as the Baltic Sea.

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