Columnist speaks from beyond the grave

Dear Readers,

Please help me. I am in Hell. I really don't like it very much down here. It is much too warm for my taste. Ever since I died two weeks back, and Saint Peter made it clear I had as much chance of passing through the pearly gates as a camel had of going through the eye of a needle, I have been down here being tormented endlessly by legions of awful scaly things that look like ex-members of Gwar.

Speaking of which, did any of you happen to catch The Dave Brockie Experience at FN Music last month? -√°Boy, that show was killer! All that drama, wrapped in a nice fat salami sandwich of stupidity and served with a slice of kick butt and a side of rock on! When Dave closed the show with that one song whose title is pretty much unprintable in these hallowed pages, I thought I was going to burst into literal tears. I can still hear "Sick of You" ringing in my fractured eardrums.

Anyhoo, so here I am in Hell, and boy it ain't no vacation resort. Why, it seems like I am always terrible thirsty, and the airconditioning hasn't been turned on eternity. I am continually slimed upon by those aforementioned green scaly things, and quite alot of them bear a striking resemblence to a young Sally Struthers. And dark, hoo boy, you wouldn't think a place so darned firey could be so pitch black, but it is real funny here that way.

However, I am in good company.

My bunkmate is Ghengis Khan. Right down the hall we have Lee Harvey Oswald, Josef Stalin, Jack the Ripper, and several members of various heavy metal bands that really love the decor. I have been hobnobbing with some important people, and just because they're dead don't mean I ain't enjoying being around the rich and famous.

And of course, I have met up with some of my old highschool teachers, including the incredibly pulchritudinous Mrs. Crabstone, who was the object of many of my most fervid mid-afternoon daydreams, and is mostly down here because she couldn't keep her dress on with staples.

And then there is Ghandi. Don't even ask me about that one. All I know is that the man upstairs sends 'em down, and we have to accept them.

Now, y'all can't let on you know about this, but there are a few of us planning on busting out of this here place. You see, we got it all figured out. The screws don't even do a head count in the morning, figuring you got about as much chance of escaping as I had of getting a date on Friday night when I was alive. But, well, a whole mess of them scaly guys goes flying right past the gates every 60 seconds, off to make their rounds and torment souls and the like. If some of us could just steal some wings and some horns, glue some cloven hooves onto our feet, we could just snarl and sail out on with them. Right out the fiery Gates of Hell and past that ignoramous sign that reads "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!": Yeah right, I ain't abandoned ALL hope. I mean, things could work out in the end, right? anyway, I got to keep telling myself that, because it's like dad always said to me. "Son" he said, " If a monkey and lawyer jump off a cliff together, which one is the first to hit bottom?"

And then I would say, " I dunno, which one?"

To which he would reply, " Who the hell cares?"

I think that sums up my feelings exactly.


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