Stupidity

This kind of horse shit makes me realize just how beautiful masturbation truly is.

Pearly Gates, My Ass

I stand at the Pearly Gates. St. Peter glances over my resume' with a grimace. "I don't know," he says, "I just don't think there's enough here to let you in. You got any references?"

I start to rack my brain. Who do I know that would say enough good things about me? I know! "Sir, I believe my employer, Edward, would provide you with the references you need."

Poof! Edward appears, standing next to me.

"Sir," St. Peter begins, "Would you please explain to me why Mr. Amod should be allowed inside these gates?"

"Certainly. He's never missed a day of work since he's been my employee. He takes care of things, even looking after the place while I and Mrs. Edward are away. He plays with and takes great care of our dog, Appy. Almost all of Mr. Amod's students appreciate his efforts to educate them about the dangers of drugs and alcohol. They seem to enjoy taking the class as much as he enjoys teaching it."

St. Peter writes something, looks at Edward, then back to his clipboard. "I understand, Sir, that he's an acceptable employee, but what has he done for the benefit of mankind?"

"Well, he rides his bicycle to work and back every day, six days a week. That's over 600 miles a month! He does this, he says, because he believes big oil is destroying the planet, and because he doesn't want to contribute to global warming any more than he has to. I mean, he makes very good money. He could easily afford to buy a nice car, maybe even an SUV if he so chose. Instead, he rides through the rain and cold."

"But has he gone out of his way to help anybody? What specific acts has he done for individuals?"

"There was once this woman from France who had severe psychological problems. She was an alcoholic, verbally and physically abusive. As difficult as this was for Mr. Amod, he provided her shelter and paid all her expenses for about three years, until it was no longer physically possible to do so."

"Thank you, Sir. That will be all." And Poof! Edward disappears. "Well, Mr. Amod, it appears you may well be worthy after all. If you'll just sign here, I'll--"

"Hold on just a minute!," an angry voice calls out. "I dated Mr. Amod back in the late 80's." He borrowed $500.00 from me to buy a new van. He then moved to Florida, cheated with other women, and never paid me back. He's a lying, cheating, son of a bitch."

"Nicole?" Oh God, how did SHE get here? "But we were broke up at that time."

"No, we weren't!"

"Yes, we--"

"Enough!," St. Peter says, raising a hand. "Mr. Amod, you've done a terrible thing, but if that's all you've done, then--"

MIKE: He cheated with my girlfriend!

ME: She came on to me.

TOM: He took my wife!

ME: Ditto.

MITCH: He broke my nose!

ME: You deserved it, you piece of shit.

TAMMY: He made fun of my baby!

ME: No, Tammy, your baby really DOES have a big fucking head.

After a few minutes, the accusations stop, and St. Peter looks at me, his grimace apparent once again. "You have committed terrible sins, Mr. Amod. None, however, merit sending you to that awful place down below. Even though it's against my better judgment, I'll allow you to pass."

Yes! I'm in! Woohoo! Fuck all those assholes. Let'em burn in hell.

As I walk through the gates, I see a river made of milk and honey. A large NO SWIMMING sign in yellow letters. Another sign reads: TONIGHT'S SHOW: JIM AND TAMMIE FAE--TOGETHER AGAIN. I nearly trip on a golden brick, then look up to find a tall, plump man standing over me. It's Rev. Jerry Falwell.

"Hi, Brother. Welcome to Heaven," he says, shaking my hand. "I'll be your tour guide today. First, I'd like to introduce you to some of my friends." As we walked, he hummed some hymn I'd heard back in Sunday school a few million years ago. We eventually came to a large group of people.

"Excuse me, I'd like everybody to meet our newest arrival: Mr. Amod." I panic when the shaking of the hands begins. Everyone is dressed the same, with short hair and black ties. The women all wear ankle-length dresses and bad make-up. All hands, male and female, hold bibles. Every halelujah-shouting, born again bible thumper ever born is here now, waiting to shake my hand. I ask to see Mr. Falwell in private.

"Sir, I really appreciate your showing me around and all, but I don't believe I belong here."

Rev. Falwell laughs out loud. "Don't belong here?! Well, of course you belong here, son. There's no way you could fool St. Peter. Besides, the only other place to go is a very bad place indeed. Darkness, smoke, fire, and every evil demon ever created live there. We keep these on us at all times, just to remind us how lucky we are to be here with our Lord and Savior." He reaches in h is jacket pocket, pulls out something that looks like a black mirror. "This mirror shows us what is going on there right now."

I take the mirror, look at its reflection. Almost immediately, images start to appear. My jaw drops. This can't be. Nothing could be this cruel.

Seeing my expression, Jerry shakes his head. "Don't feel too sorry for them son. After all, they did commit some terrible sins when they were alive."

I look again at the mirror. The images are crystal clear now, and show Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, and Bon Scott performing a concert. The audience is one big orgy. Those not having sex are smoking a bowl. There's Janis Joplin. And over there is Jim Morrison with Marilyn. I traded Jimi and John for Jim and Tammy Fae?! I've got to get out of here! I drop the mirror and run full-speed down the golden pavement, back toward the gates. "Peter! Hey Pete, man, you fucked up! I'm a terrible sinner, man! I've killed baby seals. I sunk the Titanic! It was me who shot JFK!"

I decide to get a little more personal. "Hey, Pete! Moses is a faggot and Abraham is his gay lover! God sucks donkey dicks, and Jesus--"

"Now Amod, why are you saying such ugly things?"

"Jesus? Oh my God, it's good to see you. Hey, look, I didn't mean any of it but, come on, you know better than anyone that I don't belong here."

"Of course, you don't. Peter and I were just fucking with you."

"What?! You assholes! I'll get you back, you know that."

"I know you'll try."

"So, can I like, join the party now?"

"There's a bowl waiting with your name on it."

"Sweet." He leads me behind this huge grove of trees where a cave hides. This cave isn't cool like most I've been in, however, and the deeper we go, the warmer it gets. An inviting kind of heat. Welcoming. "So, Jesus, tell me again what it was like to be crucified."

"Well, Judas and I were smoking some really good stuff that day, and there were these two lesbians . . . "

Jesus really is the coolest savior ever.

A Most Uplifting Subject

Last night I learned of the death of one of my favorite authors, Robert Anton Wilson. Even though I've never met him, he feels more like a friend than just some guy whose books I've enjoyed. I find it difficult to be sad, however, because if his writings are valid, and I'm sure they are, he's partying right now with Jimi Hendrix and Tim Leary. Still, it got me to thinking about death.


My first experience with death came the night my Aunt Mae, my mom's oldest sister, died in a car crash on her 32nd birthday. I was 5 or 6 years old. My dad's voice woke me up when he answered the phone, and then the wail of my mom's agony tore at my little soul. I remember drifting in and out of consciousness as they talked about what happened.

As they talked, I dreamt their words. I saw people pulling the body out of the creek. I saw the tree stump her car had struck. I saw relatives and friends standing around as the car was towed from the creek bed. It became an ongoing nightmare, complete with emotional narration.

Although I don't remember it, my parents must have woken my brother and me and taken us to the living room, but I'm not sure why. Dad had gotten Ruby, our neighbor, to come sit with us while he and Mom performed the gruesome task of being with the family during such a time of horror. Ruby, who almost always smiled, did not. A heavy, dark layer of gloom fell over the Universe that day.

The after effects of her death proved almost as dreadful. Her husband, an abusive alcoholic with a mean temper, would get the kids if someone else didn't step in. She had six, but only two were still at home, Kenny and Don. Thankfully, my grandparents adopted them, but it was a rocky road.

Kenny and Don didn't see or remember much of their father's abusive ways, and soon began to resent Grandma and Grandpa for keeping them from him. Unfortunately, their sister Sharon, who was married at this time, also thought that they belonged with more immediate family. An ugly struggle ensued, and eventually Grandma and Grandpa let Sharon and her husband assume custody of the two. Relations between the three of them and the rest of the family never fully returned to normal.

I often wonder whether it's death we should dread, or dealing with the living. Death seems so easy.