(Last night, having fallen asleep while worrying about my wife having cancer, I dreamed I was a big deal television talk show host, and that my guest that night was Death.)
Me: Welcome to the show.
Death: Thanks! It’s great to be here.
Me: I hate you.
Death: Excuse me?
Me: I mean, I hate you haven’t made a movie in so long. I guess you’ve got one out now, though. What’s it called? “Annie Hell”? “Singing in the Pain”? “Guess Who’s Not Coming to Dinner”?
Death: I don’t have a movie out.
Me: “The Flim-Flam Man”?
Death: I don’t have a movie out.
Me: You don’t?
Death: No.
Me: Then why are you here? Don’t tell me you finally wrote a book of your own.
Death: Nope. The reason I’m here is because you invited me here.
Me: Whoa—whoa there, Reapster. I didn’t invite you here. I don’t like you. I don’t like your work. I never have.
Death: But this is your show. Why would I be here if you didn’t invite me?
Me: I have no idea.
Death: I guess your sponsors invited me.
Me: No. My sponsors don’t run this show. I run this show.
Death: Oh, come on. I think we both know better than that.
Me (standing): Get out. There’s been a terrible mistake. I want you off this show. This is a happy show. This is a show about making people feel good. It’s about having fun. You don’t belong here. Get out.
Death: But my segment isn’t over.
Me: Yes it is. Good-bye.
Death: I’m sorry, John. Really, I am. But I’m afraid I just haven’t done yet what I came here to do.
Me: Get out! Get off my stage! Leave this building! You’re not welcomed here! You have no business here! Go away!
(Death remains placidly gazing out toward the audience. My in-house band begins playing, softly at first, and then increasingly loud, until I can’t even hear myself screaming. Though I’m unaware of it, we cut to commercial.)
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