Forcas: Will you be interviewing any new announcers my dread Lord.
Lucifer: Yeah we might as well. Who do we have in the last bus?
Forcas: Well we have several people. We have Colonel Potter from MASH.
Lucifer: Nah, I hated that show. They were all big time Liberals and I am surrounded with those douches all day long here in hell. You can't swing a dead Haitian and not hit a pile of freakin liberals. I mean you know that fuckin' Sandinista fuckin Blow Job Honeycunt is coming right to hell. The Big Guy is not gonna want to listen to his bullshit through all eternity.
Forcas: We have that North Korean dictator guy Kim Jung Il. He just got here.
Lucifer: What another chink. We got too many fuckin chinks here as it is. I don't want another one as the PA announcer. Plus you can never understand them. Me likey fucky sucky five dolla. Who talks like that? Next.
Forcas: Well we have noted iconoclast and commentator Christopher Hitchens.
Lucifer: Oh snap! That might work. He is a snarky motherfucker. And he dissed Mother Teresa. What an idiot. Even I love Mother Teresa and I am fucking Satan! What a moron. Send him in.
Forcas: Right away Sire!
Christopher Hitchens: (slides down the stairwell to hell and tumbles at the feet of Satan and his right hand fallen angel Forcas) What’s going on here? One minute I was walking to a bright light and met a man in a robe with a clipboard and the next thing I know a trap door opens and I am roasting my tootsies off. Don’t you know who I am?
Lucifer: Yeah. I know who you are. You are the fuckin douchey communist asshole who got one thing right about those fuckin towelheads and everyone started kissing your ass. You have to realize that you would end up here in hell. I mean the Big Guy don't talk much but he doesn't like when you diss his team. You dissed Mother Teresa. You might as well have mocked the Yankees. The Big Guy don't play that.
Christopher Hitchens: But there is no God. How can he sentence me to hell when he doesn't exist.
Lucifer: Oh he exists bumfuck. You just didn't believe in him. Well he believes in you. Enough to sentence you to Hell for all eternity. You know you are boring me. Where did you get this reputation as a great mind. You are one boring conversationalist. Forcas come and get this douche.
Forcas: Yes Sire. (Two burley demons grab Christopher Hitchens and drag him away as he protests feebly that he is a serious intellecual who can't be treated this way)
Lucifer: What a maroon. I know. Send him to the mock up of the Algonquin Round table. He can sit there with Harpo Marx, Mae West, Rosemary Kennedy and that guy that kept squeezing the rabbits. Let him display his wit with people at his own level.
Forcas: Very well my lord. Who will we have announcing today?
Lucifer: I know. Get Ray Scott. I want to bust his balls about the Packers today. Let's torment him worse than he was when he lived in Wisconsin. And believe me that is fuckin hard to do!
Lucifer: Yeah we might as well. Who do we have in the last bus?
Forcas: Well we have several people. We have Colonel Potter from MASH.
Lucifer: Nah, I hated that show. They were all big time Liberals and I am surrounded with those douches all day long here in hell. You can't swing a dead Haitian and not hit a pile of freakin liberals. I mean you know that fuckin' Sandinista fuckin Blow Job Honeycunt is coming right to hell. The Big Guy is not gonna want to listen to his bullshit through all eternity.
Forcas: We have that North Korean dictator guy Kim Jung Il. He just got here.
Lucifer: What another chink. We got too many fuckin chinks here as it is. I don't want another one as the PA announcer. Plus you can never understand them. Me likey fucky sucky five dolla. Who talks like that? Next.
Forcas: Well we have noted iconoclast and commentator Christopher Hitchens.
Lucifer: Oh snap! That might work. He is a snarky motherfucker. And he dissed Mother Teresa. What an idiot. Even I love Mother Teresa and I am fucking Satan! What a moron. Send him in.
Forcas: Right away Sire!
Christopher Hitchens: (slides down the stairwell to hell and tumbles at the feet of Satan and his right hand fallen angel Forcas) What’s going on here? One minute I was walking to a bright light and met a man in a robe with a clipboard and the next thing I know a trap door opens and I am roasting my tootsies off. Don’t you know who I am?
Lucifer: Yeah. I know who you are. You are the fuckin douchey communist asshole who got one thing right about those fuckin towelheads and everyone started kissing your ass. You have to realize that you would end up here in hell. I mean the Big Guy don't talk much but he doesn't like when you diss his team. You dissed Mother Teresa. You might as well have mocked the Yankees. The Big Guy don't play that.
Christopher Hitchens: But there is no God. How can he sentence me to hell when he doesn't exist.
Lucifer: Oh he exists bumfuck. You just didn't believe in him. Well he believes in you. Enough to sentence you to Hell for all eternity. You know you are boring me. Where did you get this reputation as a great mind. You are one boring conversationalist. Forcas come and get this douche.
Forcas: Yes Sire. (Two burley demons grab Christopher Hitchens and drag him away as he protests feebly that he is a serious intellecual who can't be treated this way)
Lucifer: What a maroon. I know. Send him to the mock up of the Algonquin Round table. He can sit there with Harpo Marx, Mae West, Rosemary Kennedy and that guy that kept squeezing the rabbits. Let him display his wit with people at his own level.
Forcas: Very well my lord. Who will we have announcing today?
Lucifer: I know. Get Ray Scott. I want to bust his balls about the Packers today. Let's torment him worse than he was when he lived in Wisconsin. And believe me that is fuckin hard to do!
13 comments:
Who do we have in the last bus?
You know, it's a morbid thought but this series has real growth potential. Think about it. All those boomers out there getting closer. The bulge that the demographic snake swallowed a while ago has moved quite a ways and it is not pregnant--it's about to start taking a massive dump--the size of which even Titus would admire.
I wish I could buy stock in Trooper York, Ink.
Oh they will be coming in by the bus load. And lots of announcers. Morely Safer. Mike Wallace. Chris Shenkel. Tom Brokaw. Barabara WaWa. The list will be endless.
It is hard to keep up sometimes.
Or, as it is known around here, good times...
And lots of announcers.
Journalists too. Helen Thomas? Who besides Jake Tapper will mourn her?
The series shuts down after Jimmy Carter arrives.
I had a dream the other night about Christopher Hitchens.
Seriously.
This is it:
The first part of the dream repeated exactly what we had done earlier in the evening:
We went to a school event put on by the Catholic middle school in Cambridge, Mass. where I teach part-time. Afterwards, we went to dinner at Grendel's with some old friends who are parents of a current 8th-grader. It was great to see them. We had a good meal, and it was fun for our boys to get together.
So, a very nice evening ended, and we came home and turned in for the night.
When I woke in the morning, I remembered everything just as I describe, except when we went to dinner.
In addition to our friends, we were with another couple we didn't really know. They seemed to be parents of a new student, but I can't say who. They were pretentious with vague mid-Atlantic accents. They kept dropping names of all the famous people in politics and the media they had known in Washington and Manhattan.
(A little aside: I have a reputation around here and in EBL-land of being an elitist East Coast snob. Seriously, all you people who live elsewhere: You. Have. No. Idea.)
Anyway, we were getting more irritated with them. My son and I were exchanging looks, and my wife kept nudging me with her foot.
Just then, someone who looked exactly like Christopher Hitchens made his way through the crowd and up to our table.
He was a little strange-looking, though. He was dressed normally enough, and there was some color to his clothing, but overall, he was moonlight-colored, translucent and shimmery. People seemed too busy drinking and partying to notice anything unusual. They just moved aside when he came through.
Our guests looked as if they were expecting him. The wife said, "Oh, hello, Christopher. Good to see you." Hitchens replied, "Hello, June, Tom. Nice to see you, too. But what am I doing here? There's not supposed to be anything. I just died. It all ought to go black. Instead, I'm wandering around Cambridge, Massachusetts on a cold night. What the Hell?"
"Oh, pull up a chair and have something to drink. You know our friends..."(at which, introductions were made all around).
"Well, I can't pull up a chair. And I can't lift a glass, damn it! I think I'm now a spirit. This wasn't supposed to happen!"
"Well, it seems to have," said the husband.
"So, what am I supposed to do? What does this mean?" said Hitchens.
Someone ventured that, because he hadn't been sent straight to the Fiery Pit, he might be in Purgatory and now had a second chance.
"What, Purgatory? Why me? I'd rather burn in Hell forever than admit any of that Catholic mumbo-jumbo!"
"Quiet, quiet, Christopher," said the wife. "One should never second-guess the Almighty, but I suspect because you were such a fantastic writer and great mind, He didn't want to let Satan have you, just like that. No, you'll have to pay for your sins, but it looks like they weren't so horrible, after all."
Hitchens started to object, but I interrupted with a thought: "You know, the school is expanding next year, and we're sure to need another teacher. Who better to teach English, or maybe Religion, seeing as it's Purgatory and all, than Mr Hitchens here?"
Everyone, except Hitchens, thought that was a great idea. I said, "Let's go back and see if the Headmaster is still around!"
We threw money on the table and rushed out. No one at the bar paid the slightest attention to a spectre making for the door.
[END OF PART I]
[PART II OF HIRING HITCHENS]
Back at the school, we found the Headmaster with his coat on, fumbling with his keys. I said, "Bill, there's someone I want you to meet. He might make a great teacher for next year. I'm sure he could teach any subject except maybe math."
Tucking his muffler into his coat, the Headmaster replied coldly, "We're having a meeting next Tuesday. We haven't decided anything yet."
I said, "But, Bill, we want you to meet the Ghost of Christopher Hitchens. Seems he's in Purgatory, and teaching middle-schoolers might be the perfect way to get his feet wet."
At that, the Headmaster, who had been busy putting on his gloves, finally looked up in surprise. Seeing Hitchens' Ghost, he hurriedly pulled his gloves off, extended a hand and said, "Ah! Mr Hitchens, what a pleasure!" It was an awkward, one-sided handshake, because, despite Hitchens' visible effort to reciprocate the gesture, there was nothing substantial enough for the Headmaster to grasp.
The Headmaster gestured for everyone to sit down. It was quickly decided that Hitchens would be the perfect candidate for the new position. As a Ghost, he was especially attractive because of his nonexistent salary requirements. "The medical insurance savings alone will get us another part-time position," said the Headmaster.
Hitchens was given a quick tour. He couldn't lift chalk, but he was able to do few things with the Smart Boards. Hitchens, who seemed more and more resigned, and perhaps even humbled, by his new state, was very cooperative, and even promised to see if he could learn ectoplasmic haunting to enable him to write on the boards. The Headmaster assured him there would be money in the budget for an assistant to handle such tasks as a Ghost might not be able to manage.
Hitchens wondered where he would stay. "'Live' would seem to be a category error," he said.
The Headmaster replied, "Why don't you haunt the Rectory? It's very nice. I'm sure no one will mind. The priests are all great guys. They're highly-educated, which I imagine you'd expect here in Cambridge. The best group of Priests I've ever met. I'm sure they'd love to share stories with you. And if the homilies around here don't cure you of atheism, well, nothing will."
"I suppose if the alternative is burning in the Fiery Furnace forever, I could have a chat with the good Fathers," said Hitchens, rather dejectedly.
"That's the spirit, Chris," said the Headmaster, "Welcome to our school!"
I said, "You know, teaching here may be Mr Hitchens' first taste of Purgatory, but this is the most fun I've had in years. I LOVE teaching! I never thought I would, until I had my own kids, and now I'm sorry I didn't make it my profession from the beginning. I LOVE it here!"
"Well," said Hitchens, dropping his newfound humility, "you are some nobody, struggling to survive. ANYTHING looks like a step up to the likes of YOU! What do you think teaching middle-schoolers means to ME? I AM, after all, Christopher Hitchens."
"Looks like we've found a good place to start, Mr Hitchens," said Father S—, strolling in from the hallway where he had been listening.
Unfortunately, I woke up just then, and never did learn what Father S– had in mind.
But I do think it's a little unfair, Trooper, to punish Hitchens everlastingly, when 110,000 years learning to care about others by teaching middle schoolers might save him from Satan.
I don't know. I think anybody that disses Mother Teresa or the New York Yankees should burn in hell for all eternity.
All those boomers out there getting closer. The bulge that the demographic snake swallowed a while ago has moved quite a ways and it is not pregnant--it's about to start taking a massive dump--the size of which even Titus would admire.
This is one of the best comments I've ever read in my life.
Troop,
Mother Teresa hated the freakin' Yankees!!
Now there's a conundrum for ya.
It's a sibling rivalry thing. You know like the Smothers Brothers. They both can't be the favorites.
"All those boomers out there getting closer. The bulge that the demographic snake swallowed a while ago has moved quite a ways and it is not pregnant--it's about to start taking a massive dump--the size of which even Titus would admire."
Bravo Chick.
This is one of the best comments I've ever read in my life.
Why thank you Ritmo--that makes me feel all august...Kekulé!
Bravo Chick.
Merry Christmas, Titus. Have fun in homeland territory!
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