Author Topic: Everyday I write the book

In t' name of t' father
« Reply #100 on: March 17, 2021 »


"Read 'em and weep," said the reverend playing poker at the table where the last supper had been served, showing his hand with premature satisfaction.

"Not so fast," said the devil, last seen in Miss Jones, not to be confused with the 1941 comedy featuring quite a bit less vice on display. ("It was inspired by Sartre's No Exit, you know," the devil had informed them at the beginning, apologising for being late to the game.) It was true. Brontë was showing a busted flush.

Richard Nixon poured them both a drink, this being hell in case you were wondering. "Somebody forgot to count cards," he said sardonically.

"Why am I here again?" asked the reverend. "My unspilt seed gave the world literature which will last the ages!"

The devil was unapologetic. "Why are we anywhere? Have you seen the play?"

"I have not," said Brontë. Nor had Nixon, relieved to be getting a break from the torture room where he's condemned to be forever beaten by Hunter S. Thompson, who had been offered a berth in Heaven but declined. "Is it Kafkaesque?" offered the former president.

"A whisky on the house for Tricky Dick," said the devil.

"Patrick, you’re here because having suffered the deaths of your wife and all of your children before you, God in His infinite wisdom decided you haven't suffered enough. You'll recall that He works in mysterious ways. Do you know Isaiah 55:8-9?"

Quickly stifling the sin of pride for of course knowing it, the reverend recited for the devil: "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts."

"You sound like my English teacher when she assigned Wuthering Heights to the class," said Nixon, also condemned to drink without buzz.

"I rest my case," said the devil.

"Q.E.D.," agreed Nixon.

Brontë, never one to complain, handed his cards to the devil to reshuffle or not, as the case may be. "Eh bien, continuons...."

New Yorker, New Yorker
« Reply #101 on: March 18, 2021 »

Trouble and strife
« Reply #102 on: March 20, 2021 »

No escaping yourself
« Reply #103 on: March 24, 2021 »

Whole cloth
« Reply #104 on: April 02, 2021 »


Wear what you wish, but girl mode sounds more like twat mode.

Words

Which is my way of saying that I love the English language in all its glory


but some words come easier than others, and “twat” isn’t one of those I’ve ever been comfortable with. However, when it fits, it fits


and I'd rather not hide behind assterisks.


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Pariah's Progress
« Reply #105 on: April 07, 2021 »

Right hand man
« Reply #106 on: April 09, 2021 »


"What am I doing down here?" asked Hef. He scratched his head, genuinely bewildered to find himself in hell, and found a pair of ears there. A few tugs told him they were permanent fixtures. Across from him sat the devil. She was gorgeous.

"This is also news," he said by way of opening gambit.

The devil smiled. "Oh this body? It’s just something I threw on."

"I assume my torment is to look but not touch," said the eternal playboy, suddenly nervous about what he might find if his hands wandered south of the border of the belt on his robe. At least he'd been allowed to bring his wardrobe; if you're going to be spending forever somewhere, it's best to be comfortable.

"I've got a proposition for you," said the devil, a sly gleam in her eye.

Hef was nonplussed. Was he really in hell? His soul had told him it was damned as soon as he'd woken up here, but his head was recalculating the odds. "A proposition, you say?"

The devil nodded. "I want you to be my right hand man."

"What does the job entail?" asked Hef, surprised that position hadn't already been filled by someone like Hitler. He still didn’t quite know what was going on here, but he was warming to the possibilities.

"Follow me and I’ll give you a taste," said the devil.

The first room she took him to was furnished in such luxury he could have been back in his mansion. It was groaning with vases and innumerable fancy knick-knacks, which a man was busy dusting. He looked at them frantically. "I don't see any dust!" he fairly shouted, redoubling his efforts.

That didn't seem so terrible. "How long has he been at it?" Hef asked the devil as they left the man to it.

"Time doesn't exist here," said the devil. "But it seems like forever to him. I've informed him he can start on the hoovering when he finishes. I think he's desperate for a change – any change. Unfortunately for him, there is no dust."

The following room was a reverse call centre with rows of men on phones. By the look of it they weren't happy: those who weren't gibbering wrecks banging their heads against their desks were attempting to slash their wrists with anything handy. One guy's eyes had rolled clear out of his head; he was crawling on the floor searching for them, but they kept rolling away.

"Volunteers are calling from limbo," said the devil. "Mansplaining."

Hef shuddered, but it could be worse. "Where are all the demons?" he asked. "I thought there would be demons."

"Demons are a dime a dozen," said the devil. "Almost everybody up top has at least one already. It seemed like overkill."

Gloria Steinem welcomed them at the next door. "What are you in for?" he asked, genuinely surprised though secretly pleased, considering the screwing she'd given him back in the day.

"Fraud," she said. "Welcome to the eighth circle." She offered him a cup of Kool-Aid from the bar, which he declined.

"That's harsh, don't you think?" he asked the devil as they passed through a room of hobby-horses munching contentedly on keyboard warriors.

"Au contraire," said the devil. "As Madeline Albright observed, there is a special place in hell for such women. St. Peter and I had a bit of a tussle over her, it's true, but he gave in when I offered Ambrose Bierce in exchange.

"Maddy's here too, btw – that one was no contest."

The tour over, the devil eyed him speculatively, eyebrow arched as Eve's had been just before the fall. He felt a stirring in his groin. Something was very wrong, but he couldn't yet put his finger on it.

"Go ahead and put your finger on it," said the devil playfully.

Now positively columnar, Hef reached down inside his robe and grasped, then gasped.



said the devil. "With your square peg and boules de bleu, there's no more suitable man for the job."

We are not amused
I apologise unreservedly for the direction in which this is about to continue, and shall endeavour to avoid such vulgarity in future.



Soon-to-be birthday boy John Alcock (11 April 1715 – 23 February 1806) wouldn't normally get a look in: right place, right time. Actress of the silent film era Dorothy Cumming follows the day after, but I remind myself that I have free will, and therefore won't be going there.
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God bless us, every one
« Reply #107 on: April 12, 2021 »

You have been warned
« Reply #108 on: April 12, 2021 »

Mother washes socks that smell

Logos
« Reply #109 on: April 13, 2021 »