Irony shuffled dispiritedly from his bedroom in worn, smelly pajamas, fetching yesterday’s copy of The Wall Street Journal from the magazine rack, brewing a cup of tea and sitting down with a sigh at the ratty, stained kitchen table.
He wondered for the thousandth time that morning if life was worth living in this new age, an era in which he could not shake the suspicion that he was obsolete. Waving these depressing thoughts away, he opened the paper to the opinion section:
And with that, Irony rose determinedly from the table, fashioned a noose from the belt of his bathrobe, secured it around his neck, leapt up onto the table and tied the other end to the chandelier, kicked the table away and ended it all. The end.