Slack Slacker Spends A Weekend in Hell
Well, this is awkward. Issues Under Fire was to be reignited today, but in recognition of Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday, I'll delay the program's return until tomorrow. Besides, as you may recall, the program's timely return depended largely upon my ability to solve one Hell of a problem. Last Friday, I found myself stranded at the Gates of Hell and clueless about where to turn. It was an experience of a lifetime and such an experience should be shared.
To begin with, if you ever find yourself at the Gates of Hell, don't waste time asking yourself why you are here. If you think about it, you can devise a few qualifying reasons. And don't try calling for help on your smartphone because there's no cell service in Hell. Not even Verizon. And even if you could place a call, who the Hell do you know would breach the Gates of Hell to get you out? If you're in Hell, more than likely, the people you know are too busy cashing in your life insurance policies to care.
You'd be better off if you take a moment and collect yourself. Take some time to understand your surroundings. Take a walk around and meet some of the people there. This won't be a problem because Hell is crowded and extremely loud. People are everywhere. And don't be bashful around the famous ones. In Hell, there's no ranking or celebrity status. Your presence in Hell means you're at the bottom of everything known and unknown. You can't get any lower than residing in Hell. In Hell, everyone's misery is shared equally.
There are no cooler spaces in Hell. No matter how much money you've got, you can't buy a cold beer anywhere. No matter who you were in life, no matter what you've achieved, no matter who you're related to, you ain't worth Sh*t when you arrive in Hell. You could be a president, a prime minister, a king or a fortune 100 CEO and still command less influence than a flee on a camel's ass. So when you run into a guy like Hitler, you should say Hi. In fact, I did just that.
Adolf was crouched beside an old rotting weeping willow, barely visible through a sea of former police officers, war heroes, religious leaders, and politicians. It was tough, but I caught Hitler's attention and went through the throngs. But before I could introduce myself, Hitler cut me off mid-sentence, saying he already knew who I was because he'd heard I was coming. Damn, that's Fucked I thought, but I was determined to get to know the guy, if only to ask the question everybody would want an answer to. Why?
Since I watch a lot of the History Channel, I knew this guy was a real hothead, and I didn't want to set him off before I could convince him I wasn't a Jew in disguise. Once I'd allayed his fears by sharing a ham sandwich, he tried to smile to show his appreciation for my interest, but smiles are rare in Hell, so I just accepted the effort as a positive step. Unfortunately, I stupidly asked if he had any regrets because, in proper form, this Mother-Fu#*ker went off on me.
Hitler jumped up from his seated position, stared me in the eyes with ice cold contempt, and angrily stated, "Being misunderstood is my only regret". And then, without any warning, he began yelling at the top of his lungs that he was framed, he was robbed, he was the victim of the most venomous character assignation the world has ever known. Lies, lies, all lies, he said. I tried to ease away from him when he started foaming at the mouth, but the more heated he got, the more white hot, lava-like liquid started drooling down his chin and onto the ground near my feet.
Not noticing a crowd clustering behind me as they strained to hear Hitler's raging rant, I couldn't move far enough or fast enough to get away before it was too late. I was trapped in the madness now. As he was in life, Hitler in Hell could still captivate an audience like you wouldn't believe. The hoard of hate began cheering wildly when Adolf started spitting out some of his best hate speech. This was a spectacle, and it went on for hours, or so it seemed.
During that time, Hitler worked himself and his audience into such a blind rage that they transformed themselves into a mad man leading a bloody, soul-thirsty mob. Suddenly, I could feel all eyes were on me. WTF? Yeah, the crowd was looking at me like I was the object of their pain, misery, and eternal despair. This was Evil leading Evil, and all the hate in Hell was directed at me. While I know now that asking why and how I could have ended up in Hell is a waste of time, I couldn't help wondering what the Hell I did to be the most hated person in the underworld. Hell, even Hitler had a fan club.
As the mass of haters began to close in, yelling Get him, Hold him and Burn his soul, I somehow found the strength to break free and ran aimlessly in one direction after another. But every direction led back to the same place I'd just escaped from. It was a vicious circle that only seemed to get smaller the harder and faster I ran. Those who weren't actively trying to burn my very soul offered nothing but hostile glares and stares as I staggered and stumbled through thousand of hands pulling at what was the last few treads of my torn and ripped clothing. Was this the end I asked myself and what the Hell, comes after Hell?
And just when I knew all was lost, I felt a familiar tug at my pant leg, along with an unmistakable GRR. It was Doobie, RetroVision Media's radicalized Yorkshire Terrier. Being a savage beast, convicted for bestiality, drug trafficking, terrorist activities, torture and other war crimes and crimes against humanity, spying for a foreign country, driving under the influence, driving without a license, and for conduct unbecoming a dog, I was not surprised to see Doobie in Hell.
As bad as Doobie was and as much as I'd grown to dislike Doobie, his face was a happy sight for my bloodshot and blurry eyes. I knew if anybody could find a way out of Hell, it was Doobie, our radicalized Yorkie. Follow me, he says. I'm in and out of this joint all the time. Just grab my collar, close your eyes, and don't open them until I tell you to. Considering what I'd seen so far, I followed Doobie's instructions without question. Along the way, I heard Hell's haters cursing my name relentlessly. I heard howls and growls. I heard screams of nightmarish dreams. I literally listened to the reign of Hell's pain.
When we arrived at what Doobie said was the only known exit from Hell, he told me to open my eyes. And we stood at the most horrifying Gothic gates I'd ever seen. He told me to recite a series of prime numbers he'd said was in my pocket. I did so obediently, and the Gates of Hell began to open slowly. I could still hear the groans and moans of those left behind as we returned to the world of the living.
Now, believe me when I tell you, as grateful as I was for the rescue, I still couldn't resist demanding Doobie tell me how I ended up in Hell and why for heaven's sake was I so hated when I got there? Because he knew where to find me, I knew Doobie had something do to with me being there. And much to my surprise, for once in his miserable life, the bastard told me the truth.
According to Doobie, he'd gotten into a high-stakes poker game with the Devil and had run out of money. There was a massive pot on the table and the Devil refused to accept anything but a sucker's soul if he wanted to stay in the game. So Doobie decided to steal mine, thinking nothing could beat the full house he was holding.
Like an idiot, Doobie didn't remember that the Devil cheats and loses. I was so pissed, I wanted to have his ass neutered on the spot, but I knew it would only make him meaner than he already is. I decided to just let it go and try to come up with a good story to explain my absence. Until then, this will suffice.
For those of you who'd rather believe this is just some tall tale told to get out of coming to work on Martin Luther King's birthday, I can tell you this from personal experience: Hell is full of non-believers just like you. So there!
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