(The wind blows, a cool breeze, blowing fine dark black strand of hair out of my face, littered by tear-streaked eyes)

I shall tell you a really sad, sad, story about the sad, sad fate of Cathy Anne McGregor. The story was just so sad! I just used up a whole box of tissues, drying my teary eyes. All I could see was the blue sadness, as the story rolled through my mind. The sadness could no longer be contained in my dreary soul, and therefore I tell it to all. The disembodied tale of pure sadness that lingers in our pathetic, primitive minds for days on… Oh, how it could have ended! If only you where actually there! But then it's only 101,000 times greater in the amount of sadness than before.

The story itself is a separate entity, away from this world, the sadness too powerful for our, and my, body to ingest and hold. The memory of it, word for word, can make a funeral sound like a birthday party on Christmas. The story has been passed around for generations upon generations, flowing to our minds from mouth-to-mouth. It has existed in the days of 1898 and has kept people from smiling since. It started wars across the land, as it started the dangerous terrorist acts of 1909 in East Africa, because of this tale, told at a tribal story-time. (By a Griot, of course.)

And so, even though its sadness I bear in my cursed mind, I'll tell you the sad tale. But tell it to everyone you know, for not doing so can ruin your life and happiness….

One day, Cathy Anne McGregor was working in her father's barn, tossing up the bright yellow bales of hay, and packing it into squares for a county fair hayride. The birds chirped and the sun shined brightly… Ah! What a perfect day!

Then…

Suddenly…

A cow fell on her. MOO!

She died. (Cathy, not the cow.)

THE END! Sad, wasn't it?

(I walk away, finally relieved of my sadness, I throw my head back and laugh insanely.)