Reader’s Note: This story is satirical and was published in a spoof issue.
“You’d better take care of me, Lord. Otherwise you’re going to have me on your hands.”
-Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Well, here I am. I bet the so-called “omniscient, all-powerful” bastard thought I was kidding and that he’d never see me in his holy lair. But after I pulled the trigger and was sent to Hell, that cowardly swine Satan was too goddamned scared to keep me down below. Ad so my brutal odyssey has led me to what most God-fearing Americans and other world citizens call Paradise.
But believe me when I say this place is some kind of terrible kindergarten of good feelings and whitewashed simulacra. That awful jackass St. Peter wouldn’t even let me light a cigarette as I walked through the entrance to Paradise. With a smug little grin he told me, “There’s a no-smoking policy here. These gates don’t stay pearly by themselves, after all.”
Once I got past that mindless clerk, I was staggered to find that George W. Bush isn’t kidding; God really does favor the Republican Party. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I watched all the reptiles that plagued me on Earth milled about before me. Strangely enough, I’ve taken a liking to the fiends; Gandhi, MLK and Princess Di and all the other goody two-shoes bore me worse than waiting for slow-working acid, and so I’ve created strange alliances with the swine I hated. I’ve gone skeet-shooting with Strom Thurmond, took mescaline and gone swimming with Ronald Reagan and even split several bottles of Chivas Regal with the arch-pig himself, Richard M. Nixon. Now there’s a guy that knows his Jewish jokes.
Finally, I’ve been using the hotline that Jesus set up with the White House to crank-call that silly savage Dubya. One time I made a joke about socialism and Social Security, but he seemed to take it seriously, because the dandy’s looking to kill the program outright. Sorry, old and poor people; it was a joke, honest. I suppose that even in death, my saga’s not over; I’ll keep pursuing the American dream until I run God himself out of this den of thieves.
The writer, a doctor of journalism, went the way of Cobain several weeks ago.
