Every year, my mom and dad would hire Bobo the Clown for my birthday, until I grew too old for clowns.
Facing the big fifty, I decided I wanted to see Bobo one more time.
Thing is, both my parents are gone. Maybe Bobo, too.
I did some searches, and had to hire a private investigator.
Three days to go, and he got a hit.
Bobo was rotting away in an old folks home.
I dropped by and thanked him, and apologized for getting too old for him.
“We all get too old,” he said, “Happy birthday.”
And died.

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