Trigger Warning
We got this one sayin’ — really a lotta sayins up here, but my personal favorite is: “hell ain’t worth a damn, ‘less you know why you’re damned.” I ain’t paraphrasin’ neither. We don’t have no time for paraphrasin’ up here.
That’s right, you’ll find out soon, once you too get damned. Hell is actually above all you regular type earth-dwellers. We’re up here just over the exosphere, plain invisible to y’all still mortal. I can see “heaven” from my house. And no, before you ask, hell is not in fact, on fire. Mr. Dante was wrong and so was my pastor.
Speakin’ of Reverend Elliot (my pastor), he told me if I said aloud: “Jesus Christ is Lord and savior now and forever”, that I’d get a one-way ticket straight to Paradise. But here I am now, sharin’ a two-story shitpad made o’ withered wood n’ streaky glass. My roommates? Buncha’ other Texan white men who slapped their daughters too hard and died o’ colon cancer like me. Goddamn you, Rev.
And if you’re a Christian who refrains from sayin’ cuss words, go on and give your kids back all their pennies from the household swear jar. It don’t matter like you think it does. They say cuss words across the clouds in JesusLand, constantly. Sailor-mouthed cherubim are prevalent. When Philip Seymour Hoffman OD’d, Mary Magdalene yelled “fuck” so loud, it cracked right through the mildewed walls of our hellhole abode.
I’ve even seen Jesus with my own eyes. Guy’s actuaIlly a real booze hound. He sleeps in on most Saturdays, and Sundays too. Sabbath my ass.
It didn’t take me long to figure out why I was eternally screwed, because I had the other fellas in this moldy domicile to figure it out for me. And once they did the figurin’, I wasted far too much of my afterlife in Hell trynna’ repent. Expectin’ someone else to pardon your wrongdoings in Hell is like expectin’ the self-checkout at a Home Depot not to confuse the fuck outta’ ya. Time killin’ nonsense that’ll make your dumbass brain even dumber. I mean, who the fuck wants to spend their afterlife losing intelligence?
Recently, I been waitin’ a long time to sit down and have a talk with Satan. You have to call a snobby lil’ snot nose clerk just to get an appointment. And that first appointment’s just an interview to qualify for another fuckin’ interview to qualify for havin’ your name put in a lottery system just for the chance to ask The Devil how her weekend was and if she’s still pissed Tim Tebow has a thriving career in minor league.
Most heathens n’ sinners wanna’ request a transfer to the pearly gates when they meet with Lady Satan. I don’t see the point in all that, we’re not all that lower. Sure, we don’t have no 4K resolutions on t.v. and there ain’t that many pretty women up here but between you and me, Heaven and Hell get food from the same caterin’ company. Our chow just comes by colder and more leftover.
The other fellas in the double-decker shit-pad tenement think I lost my mind when I tell ‘em my odds are good at getting a meet. But there’s two things they don’t realize: 1) that I’m the only one of ‘em who recognizes some of my disciplinary methods with my children weren’t always appropriate nor civil and 2) I’m not trynna’ get a transfer to shake hands with the Apostle Paul. I just want myself a trip back to Earth.
I don’t plan on writing no wrongs or plotting revenge back down there. Nuthin’ will change the legacy mixture of good deeds and shitty actions during my mortal life. No, when I get back down there, once Satan herself deems me worthy to plunge back down, I’mma do some teachin’ instead of being taught too.
I’ll get a book published describin’ all my experience thus far in Hell. Not an ebook neither, I’d want a book with fuckin’ real turnable pages. No divine circle-jerk contest like “Heaven is For Real.” I don’t wanna’ convince people to donate more money or smoke less cigs. I didn’t get those tips when I was a mortal, so neither will y’all. It’ll be more of a tell-all, but lacking the boring and appropriate context. Lettin’ y’all know Hell might be more pleasant livin’ than a couple, several hundred lifetimes down on Earth.
Without my book, no one will tell y’all mortals what to expect up here. You’d just have to live and wait and die to find out for themselves. The only freedom would come in pickin’ the order. God knows I already picked mine.