I am at the point in my life where the slow collapse into total uselessness has become undeniable and while I am not in imminent peril of shuffling off to meet my maker, I scrutinize and question my mortality with increasing frequency, encouraging the concept of a possible exile to Hell to often intrude into my consciousness. This aggressively captures my thoughts with regularity when I experience the despair of reading the political posts on sites like this one which detail the dreadful absence of sanity and character in the political process.
Let me introduce my new favorite quote.
“Its Gilbert Gottfried loudly narrating your life wherever you go.”
I originally encountered this phrase on the website “Hatless in Hattiesburg” buried in a list of mocking Obamacare metaphors. Despite the writer’s intention, I realized that they had just articulated a large component of Hell Part II to expand and complement what I have envisioned in that place for many years by looking beyond the location to enrich the cruelty of the process.
Hell Part I: An old theater in the decayed side of town with filthy, smelly seats which all have broken springs protruding through the ancient leather in vital places. It started as legitimate theater before the turn of the 20th century but after a transition to the silver screen it proudly premiered a Gloria Swanson silent movie which she attended in splendor amidst the decadent glory of the Jazz Age. However, the gilt slowly peeled, the leather decayed and the magnificence surrendered to mold during many decades in decline, bottoming out commercially as a porn theater. It is no longer up to snuff for even that base usage and it currently serves an EXCLUSIVE AND VERY SPECIALIZED CLIENTELE OF LOST SOULS while it only screens an endless loop of full career retrospectives spotlighting the filmographies of those giants of cinema, Keanu Reeves, Charles Bronson and Jean Claude van Damme. There is a sketchy snackbar in the lobby proffering endless giant tubs of dry, salty popcorn washed down with gratuitous Big Gulps. AND there are no restrooms.
The restroom part always seemed awful but problematic since it was too simple that there was never to be a place to… ,well you know, but there had to be dark corners somewhere in the auditorium, didn’t there? Not quite evil enough because to really suffer you must be tormented with endlessly unrequited hope while writhing in impotence.
When I read the Gottfried quote, I immediately saw that for my vision of Hell to be fully realized, there MUST be a Part II where the punishment includes a pit stop sequence beginning with a mysterious unexplained escape from the theater accompanied by a Greek Chorus of Gottfried phantoms who follow close behind chanting their invective in a monotone as you flee toward that 7-11 and relief/salvation in the distance. All the while you are ducking the terrifying violent packs of Coulda Been Sons of Obama who roam throughout the district (must be Detroit or South Philly) like ravenous wolves but who somehow seem uproariously diverted by the Gottfried’s pathetic recitation of YOUR LIFE which once seemed quite absurd even to yourself. It is difficult to mug someone while you are hysterical with laughter.
Oddly, you never do quite reach the 7-11 but suddenly in a hazy transitory flash you find yourself transported back to Part I and in your moldy seat just in time to catch the opening credits of “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure” with a fully extended bladder, an urge to eat anything salty and a desperate thirst. Yep, I conjure up being massively screwed for a really loooooooong time!
Do your worst Obama, et al, we have all endured and overcome grave situations before and I have the feeling that sometime in eternity I will look back wistfully at the relatively innocuous innocence of the stress induced by your fumbling foolishness.
A worthy post, Sir Dink, but your dreams of hell are incomplete without the constant pressure of bureaucracy adding to that of your aged bladder. Surely the “insolence of office” has more potential for induced suffering than even the monotony of Gottfried can evoke.
Throw in a kidney stone or two, that make their way down the urinary tract like marbles, cut from volcanic rock, and the dream becomes a, “You Are There,” episode for me, and the old phrase, “Get tough or die,” takes on a new meaning.