What the Devil has in Store for me in the Afterlife
by Joe Buonfiglio
All right, I’m just going to dive in with a healthy dose of honesty here. Well, it’s more like an unhealthy dose, actually. You see, I am as sick as the proverbial dog today and do not feel like writing this goddamn blog-post. I’d just as soon not “bring on the funny” if you don’t mind, so goodbye.
No, really. I’d have to bang out this bullshit with one hand while holding my head from falling too deep into the toilet with the other. I’m blowing monkey-chunks all over my phone screen, for God’s sake, and it’s not one of those “no problem getting it wet” sports models, capiche? So, like, go away and let me die in peace, okay?
Goddamn it! I’ve got nonstop anal leakage here and you want me to fucking entertain you? Listen, you thoughtless prick, I’d rather be transported into a future where the reigning species of silverback gorillas have replaced the simple handshake with banana butt-probes than attempt to bring any absurdly lowbrow joy into your miserable little life today. So back the fuck off and just step away from that ledge before I totally lose my shit and—
You’re not going away, are you?
I. Am. In. Hell.
However, that deduction derived from this unpleasant circumstance has me thinking. With all due respect for and eternal apologies to Dante and his Inferno, when I finally evacuate the mortal coil, I wonder what delights the Horned Beast has in store for me as I slide deeper into the infamous “Nine Circles”? If Hell is a custom-tailored amusement park of torture, I’m sure Old Beelzebub can’t wait for me to start riding the rides.
Circle #1: LIMBO — As an Agnostic, poet Dante’s Inferno would give me an automatic soul-dump into Limboland in order to further the work’s goal of converting an immoral society to righteousness. And while I see that corrupt society as the best possible well from which to draw the waters of absurdity, it’s still time to turn over the AC/DC engine and get going down the Highway to Hell.
Do not pass GO.
Do not collect $200.
Do not spank the monkey while wearing a spiked caestus battle-glove.
Don’t ask. Anyway, given that the likes of Socrates, Aristotle, Cicero and Hippocrates would be sharin’ a few brewskies with me in this level of the eternal landscape that’s not so much Hell as it is Heaven Lite, I could do worse. That is, of course, until my rather corpulent ass gets dropkicked down into…
Circle #2: LUST — Oh, right. Like you can look at a naked dwarf with nipple rings holding a plate full of burritos and not feel stirrings down your Bermuda Shorts Triangle. If I’m going down in the old Book of Life as a perv miscreant for this one, I’m going down swinging a porn-quality dildo like it was the favorite bat of Barry Bonds in his heyday!
Am I an unrepentant deviant? Yes. Do I deserve Hell for this? Probably. Does writing this pretty much guarantee I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight? Absolutely! But given that I’ll be sharing said couch in this level of the Thug Afterlife with such adulterous legends as Cleopatra, Cornish knight of the Round Table Tristan and Helen of Troy, I think I’ll survive. Well, not “survive” technically, as I am quite dead to be here in the first place; but you get the idea. Until I descend deeper, that is, into the even more lustful state of…
Circle #3: GLUTTONY — Ah, the overindulgence of food, drink and other worldly pleasures; quite possibly my favorite deadly sin. Give me a triple-stacked bacon-cheeseburger, a draft-drawn icy-cold bit of foamy anything in a pub with so many big-screen TVs simultaneously running as to induce sensory-overload driven epilepsy, and I’ll be ready for this level of Hell. Why? Because, I’ve already been to Heaven.
So, are you gonna finish those chicken wings?
Sorry, Satan. Of course, I meant “hot wings.”
Circle #4: GREED — With apologies to disco-era singer Andrea True circa 1976, I only like it if I have “more, more, more.” “Greed,” said Wall Street‘s Gordon Gekko in the 1980s, “for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right. Greed works.” However, I must be punished not for my hoarding of money, not for my accumulation of the instruments and implements of power and fame; no, I must be cloistered in this abominable level of torment for my avaricious amassing of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Good Lord, I cannot get enough of the damn things.
I’ve shoplifted them from gas-station convenience stores. I’ve pilfered handfuls of them from bowls atop the desks of receptionists on bathroom break. Hell, I’ve even stolen them out of children’s Easter baskets!
But before you punish me, oh infallible Almighty, consider this: why did you breed my insatiable need for peanut butter and chocolate into the very core of my being, into my DNA, into my soul itself? Perhaps before casting me down into The Pit, you should examine why you allow peanut butter cups to exist in the alluring shapes of Christmas trees and Easter eggs.
Condemn me? CONDEMN ME! I’m just a pawn in this cosmic confection crisis. You set this candy-stockpiling game into motion, my Big Friend! You’re the one who should be sitting on the perpetual hotplate of the damned, not me!
I get tossing us out of The Garden for biting an apple. That makes perfect sense. But biting chocolate and peanut butter in the most perfect edible container ever conceived? That’s just not playing fair!
Circle #5: ANGER — Hey, one man’s anger is another man’s passion. So I threaten to vivisect government officials on occasion. Does that make me a bad person? Hell, who here hasn’t watched the Congress or the Legislature or the Assembly or the Council or governmental whatthefuckever and thought, “You know, if I offed a few of these fuckers, they’d probably erect a statue in my honor.”
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in favor of any sort of gratuitous pissed-off gunslinging manufactured for the sole purpose of capturing the event on your smartphone camera in order to boost the number of hits for your floundering YouTube channel. That variety of artificially generated “publicity stunt anger” should not be condoned.
Don’t look at me like that! I’ve already apologized for my “Random Acts of Drive-by Titty-Twisting” video, so just back the fuck off. I can’t believe you even brought that up again.
God! That makes me SO MAD! I hate you so much! I’m gonna rip off your head! I’m gonna rip off your head and dump down your neck! I’m gonna rip off your head, dump down your neck and dance on your grave— No, PISS on your grave while I taunt the surviving members of your family with—
Perhaps I shouldn’t have weaseled my way out of those court-ordered anger-management classes.
Circle #6: HERESY — Hello? Agnostic. Can’t really argue this one. Onward … and downward.
Circle #7: VIOLENCE — Look, what the hell do you want from me? I was born in New Jersey. It’s just going to be an innate trait that I believe that some people just need killin’. This is no more unnatural than a honeybee’s desire to produce the sweet, gooey stuff you love to drizzle on grapefruit. What is there not to get? Refer back to the Fifth Circle of Hell if you need clarification. What am I, your mother?
What?! Did somebody say something about somebody’s mother? I’ll fuckin’ break your fuckin’—
That was I— er, me! That was me! (Forgot my Jersey for a second there.)
Aaaaaaah fuck you, anyway!
Circle #8: FRAUD — Oh yes, as Dante describes, let us gather up the seducers, the panderers, the flatterers, the simonists, sorcerers and false prophets, corrupt politicians, hypocrites, thieves, evil counselors and advisers, divisive individuals and various falsifiers such as alchemists, perjurers and counterfeiters, the con men et al.
In other words, my people.
Look, I lived in Los Angeles for nearly a decade. You sort of get used to it.
Circle #9: TREACHERY — The bottom dwellers; the worst of the worst. This is where I’ve done my best work. Unfortunately, there’s no deceiving The Great Deceiver. He didn’t buy “My dog ate my homework” back then; he ain’t buying “It was only driven by a little old lady to church on Sundays” now. This is where the likes of Abel’s brother Cain and Judas Iscariot dwell for all time … right next to all the IRS agents and lawyers … and meter-maids … and that bitch from high school who only asked me to the prom to make her boyfriend jealous, and then left me standing in the rain holding that fucking nerdy corsage … and Phil Runkenberger from chess club with his “mate in seven” bullshit.
Hey, here’s a new move for you: queen to bishop up your ass.
Fuck you, Phil.
Circle #10? — Number 10? Yes. I know Dante only had nine lovely levels of nastiness with which to torment the unforgiven, but I’m quite certain Satan will add a level just for me. In it, I’ll be forced to sit alone in front of a blackboard repetitively writing “Miss Mulbertain’s tits are off limits if she falls asleep on the bus” over and over and over while the porter I stiffed on that cruise years ago shoves each component of a spontaneously regenerating “Welcome Aboard!” fruit basket up my ass while the rotting corpse of Don Ho sings Tiny Bubbles amidst a sea of shaved chimpanzees farting the soundtrack to Pulp Fiction for all eternity.
It’s the complimentary pineapples I fear the most.
Fuckin’ Phil Runkenberger.
© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio All Rights Reserved.