Only thirteen people expressed a desire to see my body poisoned with CLAM CAKES, so instead you must be content with pictures of me dressed as a pirate,
sipping a drink that I erroneously believe to be "tropical,"
making Robert Frost faces in front of his cottage, spanking trespassers with a rolled-up poem,
standing in the shadow of the most awe-inspiring Jesus statue ever sculpted--his eyes are literally black burrows where the badger Judgment hides,
observing the cat Archibald, who spends all day bathing himself on Hemingway's bed because he is a king,
and gazing at pages of meadow-porn, spilled from the filthy fingers of one John James Audubon.
Clam-clamorers, can you be content with these?