For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow, The Doctors Say

Everybody raised their glasses in a toast to me.
“Happy birthday, Willard,” they said.
“No hard feelings about the funny farm thing?” asked Albert.
“None at all,” I said, smiling.
They drank, and the cake was brought out.
By the time the song was over, I learned over the cake and said “I wish you’d all just die.”
Sure enough, as I was blowing out the candles, each guest was either dead or holding their throats, dying.
“How?” choked Albert, the last one alive.
“Poisoned wine,” I said. “It’s a very good year. No hard feelings, Al?”
He didn’t answer.