H.L Mencken said that Puritanism is the haunting fear that someone, somewhere may be happy.
As first, I thought that this was Cherophobia, the fear of happiness and gaity, but H.L Mencken was very specific about the happiness being in others, not the Puritans themselves, which is quite an understandable mistake if you know any Puritans.
Sure, they’ll deny it, but Puritans are a very unhappy bunch. And they want to share that unhappiness.
At least they’re nice enough to share, right?
If only they were willing to share ice cream and bubblegum like that.
Those unhappy jerks.
When Elvis died (if you believe the news, that is), he didn’t just walk through the Pearly Gates. He drove his big ol Cadillac right through them.
Problem is, those Gates were made a long time ago, and they weren’t meant to pass a Cadillac, so it was a tight fit.
And Elvis, well, he had a problem with the booze and the pills, so it was a miracle that he didn’t scratch a fender or side panel.
The Gates of Hell, on the other hand, are wide enough to fit any vehicle.
(Just try and find a parking space.)
If you wait for me on the other side, I will join you eventually.
After all, time is an eternity. And it’s only a matter of time before my time comes.
Wait for me. I’ll be there soon. You won’t have to wait forever.
I’ll be older. Maybe much older. You might not even recognize me, but I will recognize you.
If I can remember. Sometimes, I forget things. Important things.
Nothing is as important to me as you are. But what if… what if I forget?
Then I suppose you’ll need to remember for us both.
See you soon?
There’s a civilization of tiny people living in my scalp. They think I’m some sort of god.
An evil god.
I pick at them and scratch them out constantly. Then I flood and smother them every morning with shampoo in the shower.
Then I smother them in darkness when I put on my favorite ballcap. Which I never wash, so they are blanketed in the stench.
And yet, they still call me their god. And sing hymns and shout prayers and conduct rituals and sacrifice crops and livestock in my vaunted name.
Stupid noisy fuckers. Time to shave my head.
If there are legal pads, are there illegal pads?
Yes. There are illegal pads.
Oh, they started off as legal pads, just like any other legal pad, but they were highly impressionable, and they got into ink. Bad ink. And bad contracts.
They say a prescription pad’s not to blame for a corrupt physician’s crimes, and I guess you could same for legal pads gone bad too, but given enough time, the evil rubs off on them.
No, there’s no hope for them, except put them into the recycling bin and maybe they’ll get another chance.
Or become toilet paper.
I don’t know how people can stand the heat in Phoenix. Is there some secret underground tunnel system, because there aren’t enough skybridge tubes full of chilled mercy from one building to another.
Maybe they go around at night after the sun grants temporary reprieve from its searing wrath?
Centuries ago, my people wandered 40 years in the desert before they reached The Promised Land.
Me, I’d have given up after a day.
“Was Pharaoh really all that bad? I bet the labor market would be in our favor now.”
I step into a building.
Cool, refreshing air conditioning.
Whenever someone throws the “Christ-Killer” insult at me, I snap their photograph and run their face through my databases.
Then, I go back in time and kill their mother before they are born.
When I return to the present time, the person is gone, because they never existed.
No, I didn’t kill Jesus this way. It would mess up too many things.
Nor did I shout with the rest of the crowd to call for Jesus’ death.
Instead, I waited for the guy after he “came back.”
Stuffed his body in the time machine engine.
The book says he’s “ascended.”