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(“Devil horns of rock” gesture)
Are you kidding me? Are you even kidding? Seriously: are you even fucking kidding me? It’s no CONTEST.
We can fold up this tent right NOW, because there is no fucking WAY that Heaven can compete with Hell. Hell is awesome and mighty and mean-ass and fucking HARD. Heaven is limp and damp and weak. I know it and you know it.
Highway to Hell? Kick you in the face rock and roll, drenched in nut-sweat.
Highway to Heaven? A thin excuse to keep us acquainted with Michael Landon’s ridiculous nimbus of hair.
Let’s represent Hell with, oh, say, Black Sabbath. And Heaven will be, oh, I don’t know, Loggins and Messina.
If ANY song by Black Sabbath released between 1971 and 1978 meets ANY song ever released, demo’ed, jammed on, or even CONSIDERED by Loggins and Messina – who wins?
If they met up in a darkened alley, which fucking song do you think is gonna make it out? No contest, man. Fucking “War Pigs”? Fucking “Sweet Leaf” – fucking “IRON MAN” for fuck’s sake? You think if it’s two in the morning and Loggins and Messina’s “House at Pooh Corner” finds itself in a trash-strewn alley with ANYTHING by Black Sabbath, it’s gonna make it out of there? FUCK no. “House at Pooh Corner” is coughing up blood by the garbage cans, while “Sweet Leaf”, unscathed, goes to find another hooker.
And then you’re like “Well, but, that’s not FAIR – Sabbath’s a metal band. Loggins and Messina were like bearded pale little troubadours. So you can’t compare them. It isn’t fair.” And you know what Hell says to that? NOTHING. Hell just pushes you to the ground and kicks you in your pusswad face for having the temerity to question its reasoning.
And then before you can start whining about the injustice of THAT, Hell strikes a kitchen match on your fucking EYE and lights its cigarette. And while you’re screaming about THAT, Hell blows smoke down your throat and you burst into flames. And your final thought before you are engulfed completely is something like: “You are awesome, Hell. I have wasted my life as a pin-dick hipster,” or “I’ve been a vegan for like 18 years, and I’ve never stopped missing bacon,” or simply: “Thank you.”
And then while you’re busy turning to ash, Hell is like, “We’re not done, yet, Cecily,” and totally reforms you and you shake it off and you’re like “Why you call me Cecily?” And Hell is like “Zip it, Delilah.” And before you can question that, Hell just hauls off and dick-slaps you with a unit that’s big around as a fire hydrant, and before you can even BEGIN to get that salty nut-musk out of your nostrils, Hell jumps eight feet in the air and lands on your head, mashing its crotch into your hair and you are wearing Hell’s vagina like a hat. A viscous vagina hat. Or what French Oprah would call “le chapeau de va-jay-jay”.
And as you stagger around, trying to shake your way out of this brimstone vagina hat, it occurs to you: “WAIT a second – Hell dick-slapped me AND I’m wearing Hell as a vagina hat?” Yeah. That’s right. Hell’s got everything.
And if you could catch a glimpse of yourself in your wiry-haired vagina hat and the penis like a flaccid log of provolone waggling before your face, you might think that you are just about the most disgusting Snuffleuffagus that ever there was, and you would be right.
And Hell just laughs which you can’t even really hear, but you more like experience as these kind of arrhythmic contractions, like Hell is doing Kegels on your head. And you may rest assured – that never, until the last drop of Time drains away at the end of Forever, you will NEVER forget the sensation of wearing Hell as a vagina hat that’s doing scalp Kegels on you. AND, as the horror of the scalp Kegels really sink in, you feel the Hell-cock bouncing off your chin. And none of what is happening to you right now smells good at all. Because Hell? Is not FRESH… down there. There is… a smell.
Well how can I describe it? Words, quite literally, fail. For the smell of this vag-hat and nad-goggles is so epically, mind-crackingly awful that words – English words, the words we have thus far devised, are simply not equal to the task. If you ate nothing but rotten eggs and Taco Bell and then took a shit in a slaughterhouse, that would not be anywhere near APPROACHING this smell, but the killing floor of the slaughterhouse where you’ve just taken a rancid shit would be a good PLACE to start contemplating the depth and breadth and complexity of this smell.
But AS you fail to even begin characterizing the most superficial notes of this smell, you tamp down your dry heaves long enough to reflect. And here’s what you come up with:
- Hell is riding your head like a omni-genital verson of Travolta in Urban Cowboy, and
And that’s really all you can think about it.
And there you stand, vag hat and Hell’s penis, like a linebacker’s arm, just fwapping against your chest, and every time one of Hell’s cassava-sized nads comes bouncing to rest on your eye, you find yourself – imperceptibly, almost – leeeeaning into it. Seems impossible, right? But you are INTO it.
Freaky? Check. Shameful? Check. Trigger your self-loathing? You betcha.
And Hell just goes “Awwwww, yeah. I do believe we got one.” And Hell hops down off your head and holds onto your shoulders in a way like your dad might when you graduate from high school. But Hell is not dewy-eyed and proud-looking, like your dad would be. Hell peers into your eyes and says
“Put down the Fresca, Dorothy. It’s time to party,”
And Hell pulls out a bag of heroin the size of the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese and rips it open and stuffs your face into it and you start snorting, cause what else are you gonna do?
So then for the next month or decade or whatever, your life is all broken pool cues and running mascara and doing whippets in parking lots and ass play and chipped teeth and skid marks and pawned watches and stolen car batteries and lying about crabs and shivering and selling quarter-ounce bags to high school kids and taking punches and coming to in the snow and – it’s a longer story than we can fit in here, but – a night of hanging out with Lemmy from Motorhead and winding up doing lines of crank off his white and misshapen ass – and pushing the cork into the bottle and making maniacal noises where you can’t tell if you’re laughing or crying and snapped fingernails and blood blisters and dry eyes and what you think might be scurvy and cotton mouth and bolt cutters and fighting over leather pants and mouse turds and wept prayers and writhing on gurneys and defibrillators and gummed up locks and junkyard dogs and getting it on with truckstop amputees – and yeah, you heard right, that was plural – and making off with collection plates and T-boning cop cars and skating out of tight spots and wishing in vain for morning and fleeing the scene and eating crow and digging under fences and generally having a brutal run of criminality and appetite and craziness that lasts a month or a decade, or whatever.
And even though you are afraid all the time, and even though you feel desperate and nauseous and shaky from the second you wake up and in every waking moment till you can snatch some fitful sleep – it’s fucking worth it, man. I’m not gonna lie to you – living in Hell sucks pretty bad most of the time – the price is as steep as they come.
But look at this way: life is an orange. Most people just let the clock run out on it till it’s a husk. But you, in your lust-pig, dead-sprint way, have a skull that is topped with a crenellated juicer. And you fucking burrow into that orange and you fucking pulverize it till you are covered in pulp and pith and peel.