Tuesday, March 07, 2006

So I figure it's a pretty sure bet that I'm gonna end up in some sort of hell when I die...

...and here, for your reading pleasure, is a glimpse into what I imagine the little slice of hell that has been specially-configured to not suit my personal needs will look like:
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Time I will be forced to get up in the morning:

> Too fucking early

Time I will be forced to go to bed at night:

> Too fucking early

Work I will be expected to perform:

> Any. And lots of it. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I am not the biggest fan of labor of any kind.

Playing on background speakers, non-stop:

> Celine Dion (a standard in all hells)

> Barbra Streisand (see above)

> Hip-hop songs that rhyme words simply for the sake of rhyming and at the expense of any semblance of sense. Freestyle this, Hackmasta Shasta.

> Country songs littered with near and not-remotely-near rhymes. "Quarter" and "California?" Jesus, woman, move up north and get a real education.

> John Mayer. Interestingly enough, this will also be playing in my wife's heaven.

> Anti-war songs

> Pro-war songs

> Other war songs

> Christian music that sounds eerily similar to Aryan propaganda.

> Weird European crap. All of it. Even Monaco. Especially Monaco...

> Folk songs with all the forward impetus of a retarded glacier

> Anything teenage girls are into at any given moment

Only food items found in the cafeteria:

> Onions. Lots and lots and lots of revolting, inexplicably popular, bane of my taste buds onions. If you love onions, I neither need nor want you as an associate. Please exit this blog immediately. You know the way.

> Vegetables. All shapes, all sorts, all sizes (Except corn, which I think we can all agree kicks ass). Vegetables are for children and scrawny, personality-free, all-natural health nazis.

> Mushrooms. Jesus Christ, people, these are parasitic lifeforms! God, and you want that in you? Why not shove a tapeworm up your ass as a chaser? Also, they have all the slimy, rubbery texture of a worm. Bon appetit, fungus-lover.

> Meat that consists entirely of gristle, fat, and/or bones. "Cooked" rare, naturally. Tens of thousands of years on this dying planet and some of us are still purposely choosing to eat dead things "the old-fashioned way." Let's hear it for the progress of human civilization.

> Fish. Mmmmm! What is that I taste? Why, it's the delectable, unforgettable taste of ... nothing. Yippee. Can I have a second helping of bland, flavorless chum, please? Oh, add tartar sauce for a little added bite, you say? I have a better idea: Why don't I just eat a big bowl of fucking tartar sauce instead? Idiot.

> Any dessert with bits of nuts and/or chocolate in it. Oh, holy helping of mother-loving crap, is this ever a sore spot with me. Wow! A delicious brownie! A heavenly sundae! A mouth-watering bowl of ice cream! You know what this perfectly good treat needs? To be buried beneath a sea of tasteless rock-like chunks! And women, enough with the damn chocolate already. It's not enough you're increasing your dress size by four with that triple-layer choco-blast fudge-pack-a-rama parfait, but you gotta have chocolate chips slathered on top of the mess? Chocolate chips have effectively ruined mint-flavored ice cream and will no doubt follow me into the hellish hereafter.

> Anything black licorice-flavored. Would anyone mind telling me exactly why this flavor was invented? Were we bad? Like, "wipe my children off the face of the Earth with a Flood" bad?

The only drinks open to me at the bar:

Yes. Every hell has a bar. Can you think of a better place to put one?

> Bloody Marys. I'd like to find the sadist who thought up this pile of spiked antelope piss and perform a couple of emergency root canals on the sick bastard. I mean, let's just review this equation for liquid misery:

Alcohol (a) + Vegetables mixed into a vile pulp (vp) + A stick of fucking celery (c) = Matthew projectile vomiting at an alarming speed and frequency (Msf)

If you like Bloody Marys, kindly follow the example set by the onion humpers, you retarded farts.

> Diet Dr. Pepper. I hate the weird, untraceable taste of Dr. Pepper. Now, make that repulsive concoction "diet friendly." The commercials claim it still tastes just like real Dr. Pepper. Yup, it sure does. Next.

> Miller Lite. Believe it or not, this is the only beer the taste of which makes my stomach quiver and liver strenuously object. And I can down anything; Keystone (not just for Kops anymore), Milwaukee's ironically-named Best, Hamm's (which I continue to avow is simply cleverly-marketed mud), (Un)Natural Light, anything. I can even hold down other Miller products with an impressive degree of non-regurgitation. But that Miller Lite, sweet holy fuck. And their new ad campaign claims it has more taste. Well, Jesus, yeah, pal, that's your whole fucking problem right there! Now just lose the "taste" of liquefied gerbil droppings and we'll talk.

Famous women I will be forced to stare at that other guys I know consider hot but aren't:

> Christina Aquilera, Sarah Jessica Parker, Paris Hilton: bodies of goddesses, faces of dogs. These women's noses were each issued their own zip code, right? It seems only fair, what with the amount of mail from rhinoplastic surgeons those proboscides must generate.

> Ashlee Simpson. Also dog-faced and big-nosed, but this talent-free tagalong gets singled out on account of not possessing a single redeeming physical (or personal, come to think of it) trait. And she's honestly related to that living Venus, Jessica Simpson??? God and Mother Nature are horribly cruel and funny SOB's, I tell you what. And what with all the money that hypocritical Baptist bunch must be raking in after pimping out their hot daughter, you'd think Pa Simpson would have the presence of mind to get the ugly daughter a damned nose job already (Yes, I am being an asshole. Why do you think I'm going to hell?).

> Madonna. Am I the only person in the world who realized that this strident, wrinkled, weird-looking, snaggletoothed bitch was hideous even back in her "material" days? This chick -- I'm sorry -- "broad" (the age thing, you know) pulls the same "trick" that every dogfaced woman tries to get away with: you nasty-looking female trolls with halfway decent bodies strut around mostly naked, hoping that your assets will detract the average male's attention from your Medusa-like visage. And oddly enough, due to the idiocy of the average male, it works. Regularly. Not for me, though, uggos. As I always say, "If I can't look at the grille, it hardly matters what's under the hood." So keep slutting around and dressing like call girls, Fido, because men with taste and eyesight still ain't gonna fall for it.

The only pets I can keep:

> Cats. Everyone knows that the cat is the poster pet of hell.

> Zebrafish. Tanks and bowls and cups and pitchers full of pissed-off zebrafish lining the walls as far as the eye can see. I'm sure these vengeful little drain-stoppers will have plenty of choice words for my incompetent ass once I join them in the netherworld. They will also see to it that bleach is added to my list of available drink options at the bar.

The only shows/channels that will come in on my TV:

> Reality shows. Well, duh.

> The Home & Garden Network. This channel is so head-throbbingly dull that I can't fathom what even women and gay men could find so entrancing about it. My wife once made me watch a program about organizing a closet. Organizing a closet?! Holy crap, I hate actually organizing a closet. Why the hell would I want to take the time to watch someone else do it? Oh my god, and these shows have editors?

> Golf. I'm not sure how this "sport" warrants its own network, but I guess when you're rich, white, predictable, and devoid of a soul, programming execs will bend over backwards and frontwards for you. As I am not an attorney, absentee surgeon, politician, salesman, or member of any other rightfully-reviled occupation, maybe I just cannot fully appreciate this quietly-paced, white bread pastime. Although I hear that beer is served at regular intervals on the fairway by comely wenches. Perhaps it is finally time to get that medical license after all.

> Basketball. Sorry, guys. I know several of my constituents are big-time basketball fanatics, but I really would rather worry my foot off with a rusty hacksaw than sit through an entire NBA game. Yes, yes, I'm aware that college basketball is rumored to be far more exciting on account of its, er, well, uh ... you know, I forget. Whatever. My point is, the game lacks variety. Any variety. Just back and forth, back and forth ... This is also why ping-pong and goldfish fail to entrance me. Maybe if they tried it with women ...

> Women's basketball. Nope. Still no good.

> The Olympics: Summer, Winter, Spring, or Fall. Looking for a sure-fire way to kill a perfectly good party? Hint: Turn on the fucking Olympics! Why is this sure-fire? Because the Olympics are BORING.

IDIOT NATIONALIST: Hey, [this individual's natal country] holds the record for speed in regards to men who can run in an oval while passing a cylinder to one another!

BRAINDEAD JINGOIST: So what? [This individual's natal country] has citizens who can slide down a winding tube on a sled at an alarming rate!

I'm from America, a nation that has no need to assert its superiority and dominion over all other lesser countries. Still, enjoy your javelin toss, Zimbabwe.

> Day-time talk shows, soap operas, and all other daylight programming. In fact, why don't I just say "all programming aimed squarely at plump, superficial, homely, lonely hausfraus" and be done with it?

> All awards ceremonies. Hey, here's a stellar idea. Since it's not enough that celebrities are already rich, famous, narcissistic, and spoiled, let's shower them with accolades they neither deserve nor need. Sound like fun? Wait! There's more! We'll also televise it so the tired blue-collar industrial laborer in bumfuck Iowa can fully appreciate the vacuous preening that goes into being a household name.

> America's Funniest Home Videos. Clips notwithstanding (although only a quarter of them seem to be even mildly amusing), is there some kind of law on the books that requires that every host of this vapid show be a mind-blowing jackass? Bob Saget, Daisy Fuentes (hot -- yes; witty -- sorry), that prick who hosted with Daisy Fuentes, Tom Bergeron ... idiotic ass captains, all. And those voice-overs, oh, for Christ's sake ... By the way, I feel it's only fair to warn you that the cruelly unfunny Bob Saget will be waiting for you in hell. I believe it's all part of his contract with the Dark Lord.

> Concerts by pretentious beatniks. When did hour-long acoustic solos constitute fascinating art? Cause I call it glorified musak. Now order another low-carb latte in a shoddy recycled cup, you unkempt coffeehouse squatters.

> Shows about lawyers. Okay, so America hates lawyers, but loves shows about lawyers? Hell, I'm surprised no one's greenlighted a dramedy about atheistic French mimes yet.

> "Saturday Night Live." And it still won't be funny.

Pastimes I'll be resigned to:

> Reading the Bible

> Singing hymns (quietly)

> Speaking in tongues (quietly)

> Congregatin' (quietly)

> Denouncing anyone whose views veer even a milimeter from the ones that were pounded into my closed mind when I was an impressionable youth

> Not dancing

> Not drinking

> Not smoking

> Not cussin'

> Not fornicatin'

> Lots and lots of needlework

Ironically, my idea of hell is exactly the same as your average Baptist's idea of Heaven.

And to appease my right-winged constituents, I should point out that I will also have access to a time-share in a liberal hell where my days will be spent protesting loudly in a shrill, unpleasant voice; acting affected and bored; dating loudmouthed, hairy women; watching "The West Wing;" eating humus; listening to lesbian folk singers; and attending meaningless rallies led by smug, unshaven, well-fed hypocrites.
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There is more, so much more involved in my idea of what joy-sucking eternal torment would be, but I am bored and tired, so I'll continue it later.

Or maybe I'll write about The Transformers. I dunno. I haven't decided yet.

In closing, I was going to add a list of famous people I hated that I would have to party with in hell, but it quickly occurred to me that I hate a disturbingly large number of people.
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THE CYNICAL IDEALIST'S HATEFUL HINT #96: Starving, but too lazy to make yourself something substantial to eat? Simple; whine to your loved one.

MATTHEW: I'm sooo hungry. Can you make me something to eat? Please?

MATTHEW'S WIFE: Uh, I'm kind of busy right now. Can it wait?

MATTHEW (sighing heavily and slumping shoulders): Oh, fine. I'll just have some Spaghettios. (More sighing, followed by a slow, forlorn march towards the kitchen)

MATTHEW'S WIFE (exasperated): All right, all right. What do you want?

MATTHEW: Egg McMuffins.

If this fails to work for you, she does not love you. Leave her immediately.

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2 Comments:

Blogger Behnnie said...

bob saget...

2:51 AM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

What the hell is the matter with me? For those of you wondering about the above comment, I had referred to Saget as "Tom" in my original post.

It appears my subconscious was trying to deliberately forget that turd's actual name. Alas, his infamy lives on...

7:42 AM  

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