Never Give One a Dictionary
I was having a beautiful stroll around the Eiffel Tower Memoriam Building—a building dedicated to fifty-three people whom none other than Bob the Clown killed one smiley-Spring day. Then, out of the shadows, came someone familiar to me. I gasped in horror as it was… an old lady! She was attempting to munch on a bratwurst in her hand, but, unfortunately she left her false teeth at home, and she was trying—with difficulty—to break open the leathery surface of the weenie with her bare gums, a slimy mess. She then looked up at me and smiled, and that was my cue to scream bloody murder and run away, but my screams sounded like I was in a vacuum, so I just sat down next to her on the bench and took the old lady-type torture of her munching that was louder in my mind than an iambic haiku (I know, scary, isn't it?). When I then heard a person clearing their throat with an utmost jubilation of their successful throat-clearing technique, then and there I knew who it had to be—Agent CBC at his finest.
When I was about to sneak-attack his large, sweaty head, he grabbed me by the scapula and asked me rudely what the Heck I was doing. I told him I thought he was Bob the Clown.
He retorted, "Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. See my I.D."
The card screamed at me, "His name is (insert name here except for 'Bob the Clown' or 'Agent CBC'), you idiot!"
"See?" the man said to me. I was afraid to admit I was wrong, because I didn't know if he was really who he says he is.
"You know what?" I said to him, "This is just like in Act Four of The Crucible when people pretended to be witches just so they wouldn't be tortured and murdered violently."
"Who cares?" the man replied.
"I don't," I snapped at him. "Okay, (insert name here except for 'Bob the Clown' and 'Agent CBC'), if you're not really CBC, you won't mind if I show you this!" I showed him a picture of me beside the Eiffel Tower holding a Glade French vanilla-scented candle. He didn't do anything, so I skedaddled.
The real CBC was waiting for me, and kicked me all the way through time and space to Salem, Massachusetts, 1692, where I was later convicted a witch for traveling across the space-time continuum without a permit and hanged. I became a ghost and haunted Bob the Clown until he committed suicide. He became a ghost too, and tried to haunt me, but he couldn't because I, too, was a ghost, as I mentioned previously, so he haunted a CHHS dictionary, who escaped CBC's wrath by throwing itself off of a radio tower in nearby Honolulu, Virginia. Pages went everywhere.
The end.