Author Topic: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell  (Read 3074 times)

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Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #50 on: March 26, 2018, 12:02:10 PM »
While discussing with the buzzy one the waste in the medical industry—which surely must equal the waste in the defense industry, although it’s far less than what the primitives bilk out of social services—I noticed a matronly woman in the distance, walking hand-in-hand with a really fat one.

They were walking rather slowly, and as we were standing still, it took a while until they got close enough to identify.

“Look,” I said; “it’s poor dear long-suffering Marta; I wonder who the fat chick is, she’s with.

“And because they’re holding hands like that, I wonder if Martha’s transititioned to gaiety.”

Just then, some cops surrounded the two, speaking rather roughly to the fat woman.

“Uh oh,” said the buzzy one; “it looks like Omaha Steve’s in hot water.”

“The fat woman’s the big guy in Bellevue in drag,” it was explained to me.  “It’s not that he gets kicks out of dressing up like a woman, but more so that he’s disguising himself to get out of work.

“But his unshaven neckbeard gave him away, and he’s in trouble.”

“What kind of work was the lazy slob trying to get out of?” I asked.

“Delivering pies,” the buzzy one said.  “He didn’t want to get up off his ass and deliver some apple, cherry, and pumpkin pies.”

“What happens now?” I asked; “the stocks, the ducking-stool, the rack, the whipping post?—I do hope it’s the whipping-post.”

“None of those.  He’s condemned to punishment work because he shirked his job of delivering pies,” the buzzy one said.

“And he’ll have to do it forever and ever and ever now,” the buzzy one pointed out.

“What’s the big guy have to do?” I asked.

“Clean the sewers,” I was told.

“Now wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute,” I protested.  “For most people, that’d be punishment work, but Omaha Steve did it for several years in Omaha, working underneath the streets. 

“No matter how distasteful, it’s nothing new to him.”

“You’ve never seen a sewer in Hell,” the buzzy one reminded me.

to be continued

Offline BattleHymn

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #51 on: March 26, 2018, 12:15:03 PM »
 :rotf:

Poor Steve.  Doomed to fish the devil's own condoms out from hell's sewer, from his old catbird seat.

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #52 on: March 27, 2018, 03:14:28 AM »
“I.cannot.believe.it.” I said as I hoisted myself back up into the carriage.

“He gets the easiest, cushiest, softest job here in Hell, and the big guy’s too lazy to do even that.

“It’s a good thing he’s going to be working mandatory double shifts; it might illuminate him as to what work is, how other people have to toil and sweat."

“It’s too late for him to get illuminated,” the buzzy one said; “he had his chance, he was given the easy job of delivering pies, and he sloughed it off.  In Hell, God gives only one chance, and if one blows it, God lowers the boom.  Permanently. 

“Omaha Steve’s going to be working mandatory double shifts in the sewers of Hell forever and ever now, no days off, no weekends off, no holidays, no vacations.  He’s going to shovel shit through all time into Eternity—“

“Just because the big guy was too lazy to deliver some pies,” I interrupted.

“I dunno why the big slob was always so popular with the primitives,” I added; “he was always asking for recognition—having a forum named for him on Skins’s island or Manny’s message board—but didn’t do a damned thing to earn any recognition.

“I remember when Manny announced the ‘Wizard of Oz’ forum.   I got all wrought up and excited, thinking, ‘oh, good, now we’re going to be treated to the observations, the insight, the wisdom, of Steve.’

“I always wanted to get my fellow Nebraskan’s take on things, his unique perspectives, his imaginative ideas, his innovative solutions—on anything—and here it looked like it was going to happen. 

“Surely now that the big guy had a whole forum named after him, he’d stuff it full of all sort of reading material, most of it his original literary output.

“Yeah, right.

“The slob’s so lazy he posts political cartoon from the Omaha World-Herald every couple of days or so, and a news article from the same place maybe once every three, four, days.

“And the only time he writes any original material is when he pompously announces he’s going to be gone.

“I dunno what in the world made Manny think that Big Steve was going to contribute anything worthwhile to the jackpine primitives.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #53 on: March 27, 2018, 09:22:59 AM »
There was some guy carrying two large pans of bread just ahead of us, and I directed the late red round one to drive the horses a little slower, as I wanted to watch.

The guy wore pants that were held up by suspenders, and as he stumbled along, his pants kept dropping free of their hangers, exposing his loosely-fitting and dingy-grey boxer shorts.

Every time that happened, he had to stop, put down the pans of bread, hike up his pants and clip them to the end of his suspenders.

It was slow going, and funny to watch.

“Who is that?” I asked the buzzy one; “I think I should know him, but I don’t.”

Oh, the buzzy one replied.  “That’s the ‘Grateful Bread’ guy from DU Jr., the pompous arrogant ass whom you yourself baptized ‘Mr.-High-and-Mighty-There-Is-No-God-My-Shit-Don’t-Stink the bread man,’ just before you had to leave—the one whose own sense of sight, sound, taste, touch, and measurement of things determines what is real, and what isn’t.

“Never mind anybody else’s perceptions, or never mind that Reality is Infinite, an he’s a finite being with finite understanding trying to define what’s real and what’s not.  A finite entity cannot comprehend an Infinite one.

“He told God that God didn’t exist, and God said, ‘okay, whatever.’”

As the carriage moved along, I noticed another phenomenon, Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitive, again.  But this time, instead of Alpinic lederhosen, Lamond was wearing a kilt with tartan, knee-high socks, a Glengarry, and using a bagpipe, playing the Horst Wessel Lied, the favorite song of German socialists eighty years ago.

There was a bucket at his feet.

I asked the buzzy one what it was for, and he said it was for collecting contributions from passers-by appreciative of the music, for reparations.

“He’d asked God for reparations for all his brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, great-great-great-great-ancestors, to make up for their exploitation the past several hundred years.

“God pointed out that thanks to the generosity of Lyndon Johnson (using other people’s money) and his successors, Lamond and his people had actually gotten reparations ten times over and more, through the fifty-year-old War on Poverty and its affiliated social services—he was being greedy, and didn’t need to get any more.

“Lamond insisted, and so God had him set up to collect reparations through free-will donations, and this being Hell, MrsCorpio can’t stop until he’s amassed the whole billion-zillion-quadrillion dollars he’s seeking.

“Which means the arbiter of blackness on Skins’s island is probably going to be piping forever.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #54 on: March 28, 2018, 02:36:26 AM »
About the same time the late red round one, driving the horses, speeded up their pace to a trot, I commented to the buzzy one about a phenomenon I’d noticed ever since I first came down to visit Hell.

“There’s hundreds and hundreds of these kiosks all over the place, and despite their being open 24/7/365, every single one of them has thousands of primitives standing in front of them, waiting in line.

“I didn’t know there could be so many kiosks in the entire world, or that the market for their goods is so enormous.”

“Those are drug dispensaries,” the buzzy one explained to me; “primitives here in Hell get their drugs free, and as many as they want. 

“The only hitch is that they have to go to a dispensary to get them one at a time; they can’t keep any at home, they can’t save any for later, and most importantly, they can’t try to sell them.

They have to consume them in the physical presence of a dispenser, who watches them to be sure each pill goes down the hatch it’s supposed to go down, or each suppository goes up into where it’s supposed to go up.

“Some primitives have to interrupt what they’re doing and go to a kiosk for a pill eight or ten times a day—although there’s some extreme cases, such as that of Big Mo, the “mopinko” primitive, who when she’s not being diddled by Fat Che, the long-ago banned “Ben Burch” primitive, who has to go far more often than that.”

“What’s the purpose of all this trouble and inconvenience for the primitives?” I asked.

They’re being eternally punished for their preposterous attitudes about drugs, the buzzy one told me.

“You know how primitives think—‘I can do whatever I want to do, and if there’s consequences, drugs’ll heal those, leaving me free to not have to change my behavior or life-style.’ 

“For example, ‘If I get too fat, drugs’ll make me thin again.’”

Or, I contributed based upon a long-time observation, “’If I get haemorrhoids, rather than adding fiber and roughage to my diet and getting up off my ass from a desk, drugs’ll take care of them.’

“State governmental employees,” I explained to the buzzy one.

“I’ll bet there’s something else, too, based upon my observations of people who Hate God,” I added; “they think they can cure a spiritual need, a spiritual longing, a spiritual emptiness, with a mood-altering pill.

“Yeah, the primitives have all these wrong notions about drugs, and given all the time and trouble and welfare this attitude costs the hard-pressed taxpayers, the primitives need punished for it.

“But I wish God was, uh, somewhat more vigorous in applying the lash, because being gentle with primitives has never worked.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #55 on: March 31, 2018, 01:14:50 PM »
The buzzy one and I, again comfortably ensconced in the carriage driven by the late red round one, drawn by three horses, resumed our argument about the use of the DUmpster in keeping track of the primitives.

“I don’t think it’s polite to eavesdrop on what the primitives are saying, and then later to check out their backgrounds, including their credit ratings,” the buzzy one protested; “that’s just being too nosy, and I’d expected better of decent and civilized people.”

Uh, I pointed out, “because of their long and sordid record of hate-filled and seditious comments, it’s important for the safety of the Republic, and for our freedoms and liberties, that nothing the primitives say escapes our notice.

“We’re not dealing with nice people here; we’re dealing with primitives who wish to overthrow the popular will of the people and institute some sort of godless Maoist totalitarianism where they’re the bosses and we’re the untermenschen.

“Their sentiments, their plans, have to be overheard so that decent and civilized freedom-loving people can thwart them.

“And as for checking their backgrounds, you’re of course familiar with the concept of ‘quality control,’ where something’s checked out so as to verify it’s what it claims it is.

“It’s reasonable to assume the primitives are in favor of the Food & Drug Administration quality-checking foodstuffs and drugs to be sure they’re safe for human consumption; to be sure they’re what they advertise themselves to be.

“And the primitives, being in favor of that quality-control, surely shouldn’t object to the DUmpster quality-checking the primitives themselves, to be sure they’re what they allege themselves to be.

“You know how the primitives are always bragging about how nice they are, how generous they are, how open-minded they are, how smart they are—and it’s the DUmpster’s job to check up on them to be sure they’re as nice or generous or open-minded or smart as they claim to be.

“Quality control—ensuring that something’s what it claims it is.

“Of course, it’s unfortunate for the primitives that they always seem to fail every quality check of their virtue or intelligence, no matter how low the bar’s set.

“Having watched the primitives since 2001—although intensely only since 2004—I can’t think of a single instance where the primitives lived up to what they claimed to be.”

Just then, a passer-by shoved a playbill into the buzzy one’s hand, who read it and then passed it on to me.

“It’s an advertisement for the performance of Abelard and Heloise,” he said; “because the primitives hate culture, and because this is Hell, the primitives get a lot of culture here.”

“And look who’s starring in it,” I said; “the sheshe2 primitive in blackface—black shoe polish—and Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitive, in whiteface, using white shoe polish.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #56 on: April 01, 2018, 04:28:44 AM »
While riding around in circles, searching for the subway cat, the “undergroundpanther” primitive, we passed through what appeared to be a vast outdoor slaughterhouse much like those I’d seen in rustic villages in the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants—although this was much larger, thousands and thousands of primitives slaughtering, butchering, cooking, and serving mountain-sized quantities of beef, pork, poultry, and fish.

The odor of broiling animal fat makes me queasy in the stomach.

Even though I was born and raised in the principal beef-producing part of the world, and am a meat-eater, I’ve always upchucked at the stench of burning fat, that squiggly white lard that’s sometimes left on a cut of something when it really should be knived off and discarded.

It’s bad enough that I’ve avoided steakhouses no matter how popular, and at cookouts, I’ve always sat upwind of the barbeque grill so as to not catch a vomit-inducing whiff.

And thus my preference for hamburgers pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease. 

“What’s going on here?” I asked the buzzy one.

“These are vegetarian primitives,” he explained, “condemned to Hell for their overweening pride and arrogance and moral snobbery, considering themselves more virtuous than the plain meat-eating hoi polloi of Skins’s island.

“God dislikes the proud and the vain.

“I imagine it’s not fun for them, killing, chopping, cooking, and serving,” I said; “but maybe perhaps the punishment might be going too far in having them eat it, too?”

Yeah, the buzzy one said, “God being merciful, God doesn’t force them to eat meat—only to kill, chop, cook, and serve it.

“The vegetarian primitives are allowed to dine upon tofu and kale.

“But nothing else.  For 24/7/365 reaching into the furthest ends of eternity, they get to eat all the tofu and kale they want.  But nothing else.

“God dislikes those who think they’re morally superior, and this is the sort of everlasting punishment doled out to them.”

to be continued

Offline DumbAss Tanker

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #57 on: April 01, 2018, 06:21:55 AM »
Mrs. Corpulo playing the Horst Wessel Lied on bagpipes.  Yow.  It's gonna take a looooong time to cover the bottom of that bucket, let alone fill it.
Go and tell the Spartans, O traveler passing by
That here, obedient to their law, we lie.

Anything worth shooting once is worth shooting at least twice.

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #58 on: April 03, 2018, 03:46:20 AM »
As the carriage passed what appeared to be an entry into some sort of cave in the bluffs, the late red round one spurred the horses on faster, so as to pass it all the faster.

“What’s that?” I asked the buzzy one; “not only does that black hole have a horrific stench emanating from it, but it appears there’s people down inside there, wailing and moaning and groaning and screaming and crying and gnashing their teeth.”

“It’s the sub-Hell,” the buzzy one explained, “and we’re not going to go in to look at it, as what’s there is so dreadful, so horrible, it makes the hair curdle.

“The sub-Hell is one step below this regular Hell, and it’s specially reserved for those primitives who arrogantly flaunted their ingratitude by supporting the opponent to the worthier candidate for the Democrat nomination for the presidency.

“Here, this woman had done SO much, reviving a moribund Democrat party back in 1992 and getting her husband into the White House; as First Lady, and then as U.S. Senator, and finally as Secretary of State, she aggressively and successfully pushed the Democrat agenda, ranging from unlimited abortions to governmental control of everything.

“Not a likeable woman, but a remarkable woman, Messalina Agrippina.

“But there were some malcontent, deviant, primitives who didn’t want her, and they instead backed a second-rate hoary old white-haired sourassed sourpuss crank from Vermont and his thieving wife.

“And he and his supporters cheated so well they almost deprived her of her deserved nomination.

“It was a close call, much like how Alphonse Capote Gore tried stealing Florida back in 2000 and nearly succeeded.”

“Yeah, I could never figure that out,” I said; “she did so much for the Democrats, liberals, and primitives, but yet some primitives didn’t like her.

“They’d already kept her, the worthier candidate for the Democrat nomination, from getting it in 2008.

“I think it’s because Democrats hate women.”

Looking at the calendar, the buzzy one commented, “we’re coming up on a one-year anniversary, when you were told you had cancer of just about everything inside the torso, and advised to not sign leases or make other obligations lasting more than a month at a time, including renting a post office box or to fill the gasoline tank in the automobile more than halfway, because it might be wasted money.

“If it’s not too personal, how did you feel when you were told that?”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #59 on: April 04, 2018, 11:04:44 PM »
“Given that the one-year anniversary isn’t until 5:45 p.m. April 16, a couple of weeks away yet, I’d just as soon tell all that when we’re closer to the date.  There’s a lot to tell about this, uh, significant life-changing event, but it’s better told towards mid-month, when it’ll fit better into this saga of the primitives in Hell.

“For right now, I’m more interested in seeing what the Nance Greggs primitive is doing, standing over there in wrapped in leather and chains, and with a whip, by that rack.”

The buzzy one and I walked over to look, seeing the Nance Greggs primitive leaning over the tied-up and racked WillyT primitive, at one time the leader of the malcontents on Skins’s island until he was expulsed.

He was squirming and sweating and shivering, having had a good work-over by the Nance Greggs primitive, who was reminding him of his perfidy to the worthier of the two candidates for the Democrat nomination for president.

“That’s right,” I said; “you had this one candidate, this woman who’d almost single-handedly resurrected the near-defunct Democrat party in 1992, getting her husband into the White House.

“And then as First Lady, U.S. Senator, and Secretary of State, she vigorously and fruitfully pushed the Democrat agenda, everything from unlimited abortions to higher taxes.

“Then you had this other candidate, a grouchy old crank with a corrupt wife who didn’t do diddly-shit for Democrats but stand around looking righteously indignant for the television cameras.

“You’re not retarded; I dunno why it escaped you that as a Democrat, liberal, and primitive, you owed the lady your allegiance for all that she’d done for you.

“But n-o-o-o-o-o-o.  You chose instead to back a crusty old man who’d never done a damned thing for you (or anybody else but himself) in your life, and is never likely to.”

With my cane, I thwacked him really hard in the midriff, causing his skin to separate and his guts to spill out.  The WillyT primitive squirmed and groaned and sweated some more.

“There’s nothing God hates more than ingratitude.”

Then turning to the Nance Greggs primitive, I instructed her, “carry on, madam,” after which I joined the buzzy one back in our carriage.

When I was seated again, the buzzy one commented, “that was really mean and cruel, what with the WillyT primitive already suffering enough pain and agony.”

No, not really, I protested.  “I’m a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet, with no intention of inflicting cruelty.  I am however very interested in inflicting justice.

“And trust me, none of the primitives here in Hell have gotten anything near the punishment they deserve, for having been such a stinking gangrenous sore on human society during their lives.

“And additionally, as you yourself reminded me earlier, this is Hell, which is everlasting, infinite, without end, in its application of pain and agony.

“Once damage is done, it’s quickly healed so as to make the primitive suitable for further punishment.  After the Nance Greggs primitive is done with him, no matter how good and thorough her work, the WillyT primitive’s going to heal up almost instantly, so that she can work him over again.

“And it goes on and on and on, for Eternity.

“BainsBane, the jug primitive, for example, is always having her jugs, which’ve caused her so much trouble and misery, pared down to an appropriate size, but every time, the jugs grow back, bigger than ever.

“Or that lazy **** Omaha Steve, who’s constantly sent to the whipping-post for application of the lash, which of course makes for a lot of welts and cuts and blood and pain.  But then a couple of minutes after it’s all over, he’s whole again, ready for a new bout.

“Despite the severity of the punishment, no primitive’s ever going to die in Hell; he’s going to live on and on, constantly renewing himself for more richly-deserved torture and agony."

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #60 on: April 09, 2018, 02:34:12 PM »
“Okay, let’s check this out, and then I’ll tell you all about when I was told to start cashing in my chips,” I promised the buzzy one.

We were passing a very large tent with flapping-in-the-wind pennants and bleachers.

I noticed that as the late red round one drove the horses, our conveyance seemed to change imperceptibly; at first it’d been a closed carriage, and then a sled with covered sides and a roof overhead but an open front, then an open carriage with springs serving as shock absorbers, then a sled with a canvas top, then a carriage where passengers sat side-by-side rather than facing each other.

Napoleon Bonaparte or the Prince Regent would’ve been eminently comfortable riding any of them.

And there was the buzzy one, attired as if the dandy Beau Brummel.

Myself, I was about 110 years later, in khaki, including a bush helmet and baton, of a colonial administrator in British East Africa during the 1920s.

The tent was for a revival meeting, and it looked to be a big event.

There are religious people who pay close attention to God, and there are others indifferent towards God and religion—those who really don’t care, but at the same time it’s perfectly fine with them that other people do care.

All of them end up at the Other Place.

And then there’s a third sort of person, who hates God and religion with unrestrained passion, and wishes all traces of them to be exorcised from the human consciousness and memory.  All of them end up at This Place.

Because the primitives hate God and religion, and because the primitives go to Hell as punishment of their bigotry, narrow-mindedness, intolerance and hate-filled prejudices during their lifetimes, there’s a lot of God and religion in Hell, so as to irritate and annoy them 24/7/365.

In fact, there’s more God and religion in Hell, than anywhere else.

And unlike Heaven and earth, in Hell, participation in rituals, ceremonies, and services is mandatory for all primitives, nothing voluntary about it.

“Look,” I pointed out, “it says the Nance Greggs primitive is going to be the rip-roaring speaker—a lady speaker at a revival, imagine that--backed up by Mr. High-and-Mighty-there-is-no-God-my-shit-doesn’t-stink, the bread man from DU Jr.

“And then hypertensive ol’ Bob, the MastersNemesis primitive, is leading the choir in ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus,’ ‘The Old Rugged Cross,’ ‘Onward Christian Soliders,’ ‘Ave Maria,’ ‘Hail, Queen of Heaven,’ and other favorite old-time camp meeting songs and hymns.”

We stopped to watch and admire Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitive, who was at the entrance strumming a banjo to “Old Folks at Home” while in whiteface, white shoe polish, an upturned hat at his feet for contributions.

The buzzy one and I enjoyed the show, with the Nance Greggs primitive delivering a grand fire-and-brimstone, Eternal Damnation, sermon, reminding the primitives of what awaited them in Hell…..unless they changed their manners and morals.

And then Mr. High-and-Mighty-there-is-no-God-my-shit-doesn’t-stink, the bread man from DU Jr., orated a rousing pep-talk that inspired some of the primitives to slip off their seats in the bleachers and squirm and tumble around on the ground, sweating and moaning, their eyeballs rolled up so that only the whites showed.

Mrs. Alfred Packer, the hippywife primitive, and Marc, the DFW primitive, created a sensation rolling around locked together in ecstasy. 

There were a couple of nervous moments when it seemed Mrs. Alfred Packer, in her orgiastic frenzy, was going to rip off her clothes, but the cooking-and-baking primitives, attending en masse as a group, hollered at her to behave.

Among the other sideshows were dear old sweet Lu, the Lucinda primitive, and Amber, the Lady Freedom Returns primitive, sharing snakes with each other, that they entwined around their arms and necks, and while Lu could get them to twist around her waist, even the longest python couldn’t encircle Amber. 

And there was Bronstein, the trotsky primitive and boss atheist on Skins’s island, speaking in tongues.

“Well, that was a good show,” I commented to the buzzy one as we were leaving, stopping long enough to buy cotton candy sold by the primitive light in the loafers, pintobean.

“However, I’m confused,” I admitted.  “This is Hell, and the Nance Greggs primitive was promising the other primitives a chance, an opportunity, to achieve redemption—that if they were good, and obeyed Satan, sooner or later they’d get to leave Hell and go to Heaven.

“I thought Hell was forever; once one walks in, one’s never going to walk out.”

“It is,” the buzzy one said, “but this is Hell.  The Nance Greggs primitive lied.  Everything in Hell is a lie.

“Yes, the primitives believe that their misery and wretchedness is only temporary, that it’ll be over, and that they’ll be able to go and co-mingle with decent and civilized people in the Other Place, and parasite off of them again.

“Wrong.  Too bad for the primitives.

“Hell is forever; the primitives’ll never get out.  Never.  Ever.”

Oh, I said, with a sigh of relief.

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #61 on: April 12, 2018, 03:08:32 AM »
Because Hell was too full of distractions and other interesting phenomenons, the buzzy one and I decided to seek some out-of-the-way place to sit down and talk as I explained how it’d been nearly exactly a year ago, when I was bluntly told the odds were that I was not long for this world.

A quiet restaurant would’ve been ideal, but this being Hell, they all presented the most unappetizing environs and food, such as fish or chow of Asian derivation. 

We agreed cautiously upon a Hindu restaurant, but the only palatable offering was coffee, and so that’s all I had.

“The British dominated India for more than 200 years,” I pointed out, “and while they did a remarkable job building railways, the Indian Civil Service, and the Royal Indian Army, and eradicating barbarism, they neglected to reform the cuisine.”

The late red round one, being a servant, was compelled to sit out in the carriage and dine, his lunch on his lap, and our waitress was the oblate spheroid cousin nadin, who did not appear overly clean and offered indifferent service.

She’d been condemned to Hell for her overweening pride and arrogance, her punishment being to serve in only the most lowly, the most menial, jobs for Eternity.

“So…..anyway,” I said, “it’ll have been exactly one year on April 16, since I had surgery to replace a mitral valve in the heart.  The back-story on that was that I’d had a heart attack—the sort where the heart-beat races out of control while the blood pressure drops precipitously down near zero—two years before that, back in May 2015.

“It of course was due to 37 years of heavy-duty hard-core smoking, usually two but sometimes three packages of cigarettes a day. 

“I’d picked up smoking as a teenager, as a way of dealing with the stress and tension of being a deaf person in a hearing world.  And it worked; as I grew older, I evolved into a mellow, laid-back, casual, nonchalant sort of person, indulgent of the faults and flaws of other people.

“Based upon my observations of non-smokers, I could’ve very easily become a grouchy bitter indignant judgemental, always critical and condemnatory curmudgeon, spiteful and anti-social, an enemy of the human race.

“I dunno if one’s noticed, but the hoary old white-haired sourassed sourpuss crank from Vermont and his thieving wife don’t smoke.

“Smoking kept my temper and manners quietly composed, and influenced my public conduct and behavior to where I attained the reputation as a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one could ever hope to meet.

“In fact, it worked too well.  It was working, and so I had no motivation to seek alternative means, safer means, of dealing with stress and tension.

“The other advantage, an unexpected one, was that being a human chimney, my odor was such that it encouraged others to keep about an arm’s-length away from me.  I’d always been bothered by other people trying to get too close, too personal, too physical, with me—and myself gifted with a sensitive nose, I knew other people didn’t smell so good either.

“There were drawbacks, disadvantages, to smoking, but the bottom line was positive, the good things outweighing the bad things.

“I shudder when I stop to think I could’ve been a sourassed sourpuss.

“I could’ve even turned into a primitive.

“Oh, God,” I exhaled.

“So while it wasn’t the wisest remedy to keeping even and calm, I don’t regret taking up smoking.

“However, after the heart attack, it was obvious I had to quit, and I did.

“Fortunately by then, I was in a situation where I didn’t have to worry about getting along with other people, I didn’t have to kiss ass any more; I’d pretty much reached a stress-free, tension-free carefree sort of life.

“At the time of the heart attack, it was suggested I have cardiac surgery, but I resisted; to do well after cardiac surgery demands a healthy, positive attitude, and I was none of that in May 2015; I decided it was better to wait until I was in a happier mood.

“And there was a second advantage to waiting; if I successfully quit smoking during the interregnum—which of course I did—I’d be in better physical shape to endure the surgery.  I wouldn’t be the picture of health and strength, but still I’d be in better shape than I was then.

“In April 2017, twenty-three months after the heart attack, I decided it was time, and a cardiac valve was stolen from a cow to replace mine.

“I guess it’s more common to use mechanical valves or cardiac valves cut from pigs, but I wanted this to be as natural as possible, and to me a real valve from a real cow seemed more natural than some man-made mechanical device, or a real one but from a pig.

“The surgery went as smooth as a pig sliding on ice, and as events since proved, was an awesome success.

“However.

“Several hours after the surgery, while I was still, uh, sort of dazed, the surgeon came to see me.  He told me that when they’d opened up my chest to work on the heart, they’d seen lots of stuff that shouldn’t have been there, and it was biopsied during the surgery.

“He told me I had cancer of the esophagus that looked inoperable, and that it was spreading to the liver.

“’Okay,’ I said, and dismissed him to leave myself alone so as to better absorb the news.  I could get the details later.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #62 on: April 14, 2018, 02:14:33 PM »
The restaurant where the buzzy one and I were talking was a sidewalk café, and since the weather was decent, we sat out on the sidewalk, which had the effect of distraction given by passing primitives and events.

Suddenly I saw the big guy from Bellevue, Omaha Steve, stumbling along being followed by hundreds of hissing and jeering primitives.  He was wearing a bright orange suit, and because his hands couldn’t reach around his ample front so as to be handcuffed, he was manacled from the back instead.

“You know,” I commented to the buzzy one, “the primitives seem to usually get along with each other okay in life, but once they come to this place, all bets are off, they being quarrelsome, nasty, spiteful, and full of enmity towards each other.

“I guess Hell brings out their true nature, their honest selves.

“But anyway, what’s up with the big guy?  How come he was arrested?”

“He was caught shirking when he should’ve been working,” the buzzy one illuminated me.

“Well, well,” I said with some sarcasm, “they should’ve known he was going to shirk even before he got here.

“I mean, the guy gets a whole forum named for him on a message board, and so one reasonably expects him to fill it with all sorts of interesting material, both taken from somewhere else, and his original material.

“He sticks something in it maybe once every two days, and it’s usually always from one single source, the Omaha World-Herald, as if reading a newspaper is the sum total of his intellectual efforts all day long.

“And his own original material is usually half a sentence, six or seven words long.

“The big guy’s a world-class champion of ‘shirking.’

“What penalty did he get?” I asked.

“Well, since he always uses his poor health as his excuse for shirking, and because he’s in poor health because of his gross overweight, Satan decided it’d be good for him to lose some weight, and put him on a diet, in which he’s going to have to eat the same thing, and only that same thing, until he’s down to less than 200 pounds.

“It’ll probably take him a very long time to do that, though.”

“What kind of diet is he on?” I asked.

“One hundred percent celery, and nothing but celery, for breakfast, lunch, supper, and between-meal snacks, until he’s lost about half his bulk.”

My face fell.

“The idea being that to dine on celery uses up more calories than the celery itself,” the buzzy one went on, “and so the more celery one eats, the more fat one loses.”

Well, damn, I said; “when you said it was one-item diet, I was hoping it’d be something like snails or fish entrails.  I think the big guy got off too easily, with celery.”

Just then, the goodboy primitive, the sensitive piano-playing lad, riding a bicycle and uniformed very much like a Western Union telegraph messenger, approached the big guy and shoved a paper into his hands tied behind his back.

“What’s that?” I asked the buzzy one.

“It’s a summons to appear in court,” I was told; “poor dear Marta finally got tired of his abuse, and’s filed for divorce.  She just got really tired of supporting the lazy lout; while she was bringing home the bacon, he was chipping in an occasional 99-cent bag of pork rinds.

“And he was an ordeal to sleep with, as he stank pretty ripe in bed.”   

The crowd having by now passed us, I resumed telling the buzzy one of how it was, when I was told nearly exactly a year ago that I needed to start cashing in my chips.

“Okay, I was first told this some hours after coming out of the daze of the cardiac surgery, which itself had gone well.  Usually a medical professional wants to wait until someone’s clear-headed, but I’d requested at least a thumb’s-up or thumb’s-down as soon as the anesthesia was tapering off.

“He told me, I thanked him, and indicated I wanted to be left alone.

“And so I was left alone, and immediately fell asleep.

“When I woke up the next morning, the three principal people in my life—I being the last one from a large family—the neighbor, his wife, and the business partner, were standing around the bed, listening as two oncologists explained things to them.

“This had been arranged even before the operation, and has been my usual practice all my adult life when dealing with things medical.

“I’m deaf, and even though a competent person, it’s very hard for others, especially those not well-known to me, to communicate accurately with me.  If something’s vital for me to know, it’s best for me to get it from someone familiar to me.

“’If I need to know it, tell them, and then they’ll tell me later.’

“I mumbled ‘hello’ to the visitors, and then went back to sleep.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #63 on: April 16, 2018, 09:37:56 PM »
The buzzy one and I were briefly interrupted by Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitive, who rudely showed up at our table, wearing a feathered Indian headdress in the manner of Calvin Coolidge, and playing gypsy tunes on a violin, begging for tips.

I thwacked the arbiter of blackness on Skins’s island in the stomach with my cane, after which he sauntered away, leaving us alone.

“So anyway,” I resumed, “I knew the situation but not the details, which these three other people were getting on my behalf.   The details could wait.

“It’d been no surprise to me, but nothing I wanted to hear. 

“I mean, I’d been a heavy-duty industrial-strength smoker for a very long time, and was hardly ignorant of the perils and possible consequences of it. 

“So yeah, it was bad news, but I wasn’t surprised.

“It was troubling but not overwhelmingly so, as the blunt fact was that I’d outlived everybody else in the family—despite all their allegedly being smarter and wiser than me—and if one’s into morbidity and mortality, I’d lived more than two times the expected life-span of others born like me, infants grotesquely malformed in both body and mind because of their mothers’ exposure to Accutane before they were born.

“All my peers had perished from neglect, from drug and alcohol abuse, from crime and violence, from suicide, from accidents and injuries that wouldn’t have happened if only they’d heard something; it’s dangerous to be deaf in a hearing society.

“One dislikes any thought of dying, but at the same time, I’m appreciative to God and other people that I’d been around longer, done more things, seen more things, been more places, than many other people; I wished I’d done more, but it hasn’t been a wasted life.

“But that’s as far as I thought until much later, some months later, as I was preoccupied with a more pressing matter, that of recovering from major cardiac surgery. 

“It was a pity it’d been all for naught, but I’d been told that it was a success, the operation, and decided that confronting the future with a strong heart was better than confronting it with a weak one, and resolved to making recovery my priority.

“There wasn’t anything I could do about being terminally ill, but there was much I could do about restoration and rejuvenation of the cardiac organ.

“So that was my priority; I’d worry about this other thing later.

“Which of course I did, but not until after the heart was well on its way back.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #64 on: April 19, 2018, 02:23:39 AM »
Primitives began congregating across the street from where the buzzy one and I were sitting, all agog and excited because someone was going to be placed in the stocks, where one sits with his head, hands, and feet sticking through holes in hinged wood.

It was the big guy from Bellevue, the Omaha Steve primitive, but he was too fat to sit in the stocks the normal way, his own head, hands, and feet unable to be placed at right angles to the rest of his body.

The dilemma was solved by laying him down on his stomach, only his head and hands sticking through the stocks, while his feet were anchored down on the ground behind him.

That done, the primitives began walking by, laughing and jeering and throwing rotten tomatoes and rocks at the big guy.

“Man, it’s really evil and vicious, how the primitives turn on each other,” I commented.

“What did the big guy do this time?  Slack off again?”

“He’s been having to show up there every Tuesday, to be locked in the stocks from one in the afternoon until suppertime at six in the evening, and he has to do that every Tuesday, all the way through eternity,” the buzzy one told me.

“In the winter, instead of rotten tomatoes and rocks, the other primitives throw snowballs at him.”

“But what did the big guy do, to deserve this punishment?” I asked again.

“It’s an old story,” the buzzy one said.  “Back in May 2015, to garner sympathy from the primitives on Skins’s island, he concocted this tale about how he was terminal, having two years or less before springing loose of this mortal coil.

“He was just looking for pity and sympathy, that’s all,” the buzzy one commented.

Uh huh, I said; “I always thought so.

“And in doing that, he was mocking, ridiculing, minimizing the plight of his fellow primitives truly struck with terminal diseases, truly dying. 

“I dunno how many there are, primitives who’re terminal, and I imagine most of them are afflicted that particular sexually-transmitted disease one gets from going places one shouldn’t go,

“But really, it’s nothing to make light of, nothing to mock, nothing to minimize.

“And to make it harder for the primitives thus afflicted to endure such an ordeal, most don’t have the solace of God, having rejected God.

“It must be Hell for them, dying with no hope.

“Trust me, being terminal is nothing to take lightly.

“Being authentically terminal, that is.”

The buzzy one, who's seen the paperwork delineating my fate, observed that I seemed to be taking my situation with composure and even a sense of self-deprecating humor.

“Well, it’s a bitch of a situation, a lousy situation, a crummy situation about which one can do nothing, but it doesn’t make it any easier, moaning and groaning and whining and bawling about it.

“Best to just let God worry about it, while one moves on to other things.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #65 on: April 19, 2018, 10:28:47 AM »
“Who’s the fair-skinned, blue-eyed, blonde chick with the MrsCorpio primitive?” I asked, pointing to a couple sauntering down the sidewalk.

“Oh, that’s the sheshe2 primitive,” the buzzy one illuminated me.

“She’s the one who likes to pretend she’s of African derivation.”

Hmmmm, I commented; “she’s robbing the cradle, as she looks a lot older than him.”

I picked up where I’d left off.

“When I read all the literature about having a heart valve replaced,” I related, “it made it seem like an easy procedure, and mentioned that one could reasonably expect to stay in the hospital for only four days after it was done.

“Based upon that, and my natural resiliency, I then wondered if I could make it into an outpatient operation, myself being in and out the same day, as I didn’t want to hang around in the hospital.

“Man was I w-r-o-n-g,” I admitted.

“I was told the operation was a success, but still, I ended up staying in the hospital thirteen days, and then in the local nursing home an additional ten.

“The literature lied.

“I tried my best to recover as quickly as possible.  Using a walker and having a nurse prop me up, I was supposed to walk around two times a day in the hospital, but by the third day I was walking around half a dozen times a day and night—I did it during the middle of the night too, as I was bored—and after the first week, without a nurse.

“But still, they wouldn’t let me go until nearly two weeks’d passed.

“And I was in the the super high-priced luxurious intensive care ward.

“And then ten days in the nursing home, with all these old people.

“Just before leaving for the hospital and the operation, I’d set things up at home as if I was to be gone only four days, as the literature specified.  I was gone twenty-three days instead, and things piled up and up, the poor cats wondering if I was ever coming back.

“I’m single and live alone; if something needs done, and I myself don’t do it, well, it doesn’t get done.

“But anyway, while I was still recovering, I got bored and decided to set all my affairs in order.  I updated my will, I bought a prepaid funeral plan, consulted a priest about matters of a spiritual nature, and began distributing family property among my six adult nephews and their wives, and made arrangements for someone to take the cats after I was gone.

“Meaning that by the time I started in chemotherapy, I was all set for the worst.

“Or so I thought.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #66 on: April 20, 2018, 12:13:23 AM »
I ordered more coffee from cousin nadin, who sullenly obliged, but spilled half of it, wetting a large part of our table.

As cousin nadin made no move to wipe up the mess, I simply shoved the spillage aside with my bare hand.

“Anyway,” I said to the buzzy one, resuming our conversation, “so I was—

“Hey, what’s that?” I asked, interrupting myself.

Down the street came stumbling, fumbling, tripping, Mr. High-and-Mighty-My-Shit-Don’t-Stink the bread man from DU Jr. bearing a large sign GOD DOES NOT EXIST.

He was barefoot, and his pant legs were hiked halfway up his shins.  He moved feebly, as his feet were cut by the cobblestones, or he had to slosh through a mud-puddle.  His pants were held up by suspenders that snapped off, compelling him to stop and fasten them again and over again, lest he trip.

He was followed by a crowd of laughing, taunting, jeering primitives.

“Man,” I said, “at the risk of being blasphemous, that looks like nothing more than Christ on the Via Dolorosa, carrying the Cross to Calvary.

“What’d the bread man do, to get this punishment?”

“He was too sure he was right, damned sure, and he wouldn’t listen to anybody else who thought differently,” the buzzy one explained. 

“He’s got weak knees, and the sign’s purposely a little too heavy for him, but he’s doomed to carry it anyway, and his suspenders to constantly snap off, forever and ever, to make up for his pride and arrogance and intolerance.”

“Well, a clear-cut case of the punishment fitting the crime,” I said.

“So anyway,” I again resumed, “I was still recovering from the effects of the cardiac surgery—‘recovery’ in this case lasting clear until sometime in October, about six months after the operation—when in late April, I started bout of radiation therapy, as a prelude to starting chemotherapy in late May.

“This involved laying underneath a big machine for five minutes a day, for twenty-five days straight.

“Which necessitated me driving to the big city every single day, early in the morning, a round trip of 84 miles…..for five minutes of therapy.

“I was still considerably weakened and not supposed to be driving, but I did anyway.  This wasn’t any dirty crowded congested blue area and impatient road-raging Democrat drivers, but clean, wide-open spaces with little or no traffic, so no matter what shape I was in, I was no peril to anyone else, and no one else was any hazard for me.

“So I did okay.

“However, it got worse about mid-July, when I was in chemotherapy and declining rapidly…..but was compelled to drive to the hospital in the big city two times a day, getting there by 6:00 a.m. and later the same day, by 6:00 p.m.

“This had nothing to do with chemotherapy, which was only one time a week, and I had to do it twice, for two weeks each time, two times a day, to get shots in the stomach.

“I burned a lot of gasoline over the summer, but out here in the Sandhills, one’s used to traveling far distances to get something anyway.

“I disremember the cause, but my blood apparently became erratic, being ‘too thick’ sometimes, and ‘too thin’ some other times.  The INR number, which was supposed to remain, more or less, between 2.5 and 3.5, varied between near zero and eight or nine, and the assigned pharmaceutical wasn’t enough to handle it.

“At first, I was given a kit, and when I inquired about it, I was told I was expected to shoot myself in the stomach two times a day, for two weeks.

“Uh, no way.  I can’t poke myself, never could.  Nor can I another person. 

“At the same time, I have no qualms about being poked by any competent person—as I constantly was, during all this time.

“I dunno why this cold, clammy fear, but I won’t even inject anything into the cats—when a cat needs a deworming pill jammed down its throat, for example, I drive it to the veterinary, where the receptionist in the office does the dirty work.

“No way could I do that, any more than if I were diabetic, and needed insulin.

“It was suggested that since I have so many friends around here who are paramedics and hence able to administer shots, I could have one of them do it for me.

“I was surprised that medical professionals actually proposed this, as a paramedic could get into trouble for ‘practicing’ medicine in administering a shot not related to his paramedic duties (such as at the scene of an automobile accident), and as I later found out, yeah, I was right.

“So I had to drive to the big city, 84 miles a round trip two times a day, early in the morning and then again about suppertime, to get shot at some adjunct to the emergency room at the hospital.

“And this, while going disastrously downhill from chemotherapy, although the worst, where I actually received the Last Sacrament, Extreme Unction, two times, didn’t happen until early winter, long after I didn’t have to drive back-and-forth to get the shots.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #67 on: April 22, 2018, 09:40:05 PM »
I was only halfway done describing the ordeal of being treated for cancer—and hadn’t even touched upon the chemotherapy yet—but I was tired, worn down, dragged out, and suggested to the buzzy one that a change in scenery from this sidewalk café might refresh me.

The buzzy one waved over to the late red round one in his coachman’s uniform, sitting in the driver’s seat of the conveyance, dining from a brown paper bag.  Having just finished an egg salad sandwich, the late red round one was licking the mayonnaise off his fingers, and indicated yeah, he’d get the horses ready.

While waiting for the slovenly cousin nadin, who was no speedball, to bring the ticket, the buzzy one consulted a green-covered paperback book, the Michelin Guide to Hell.

Reading aloud from it, he quoted, “…..a special place in Hell is provided to house those primitives who’d been militant women’s-libbers during their earthly lives, lovers of abortion and haters of males, their sins being of course innumerable but mostly sins of willful ignorance and voluntary unawareness of how the world really is.

“Because of their hatred for members of the male race, and their exaggerated notions about how much ‘men’ run things, dominate things, ‘use’ women, think of women only as objects to satisfy their selfish male egos and needs, each women’s-libber is condemned to forever and ever live in Hell with male primitives, and only male primitives, Jugs, the BainsBane primitive, being one of the prime examples.

“Jugs lives only with male primitives, sees only male primitives, intercourses only with male primitives, eternally denied both the sight and company of other women.  And being a woman, she has to bring their coffee, make their sandwiches, do their laundry, women’s work in addition to her regular job—“

“You know,” I interrupted, “when I get there, I’m going to have to complain to God about this, all the punishments doled out to primitives being far too light for the weight of their sins and crimes.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #68 on: April 23, 2018, 07:32:20 AM »
“Wha--?” I said as I awoke, jerking up into a sitting position on the floor of a barge.

“And why’d we leave Hell?” I asked, looking around, seeing windmills and tulips alongside the shores of a slow-moving river, and wooden shoes parked in the sand while their owners swam.

The late red round one was in the back of the barge, using the rudder and a pole to move it, and much in the same manner of a gondolier, bellowed out Frere Jacques for our musical diversion.

“Don’t worry about it,” the buzzy one said; “we’re still in Hell, on our way to a spa, where the atmosphere and environment should be such that you can talk about the details of what happened from the end of May last year, until the end of December.

“You were tired out and fell asleep once we left the sidewalk café, and because you really needed your rest, you were left alone.”

“But this doesn’t look like Hell,” I insisted.

“In fact, it looks rather like…..Holland.”

“Ah, but remember one of franksolich’s first rules, that ‘nothing is as it seems to be.’

“Trust me, we’re still in Hell.”

There was a stranger with us, some guy who looked very much like the long-banned NYC_SKP primitive, Skippy.

“Oh,” the buzzy one said, noticing my confusion.  “This is Barry; he’s vice-president of public relations for Hell, and Satan ordered him to go around with us, being a guide and making sure there isn’t anything here in Hell that escapes our attention.”

“Oh,” I repeated, nodding at Barry.

“You know, whoever invented Hell was a genius,” I assured him, “an absolute genius.

“This idea of punishing primitives for their sinful and gratuitous greed, sloth, avarice, pride, pompous arrogance, lust, gluttony, know-it-allism, intolerance, narrow-mindedness, hate, and wrath during their lives on earth—by making them endure—and forever!—all those things they hated most while alive.

“Such as compelling the primitives who had an irrational fear and hate of God and religion, to attend church services two times a day, every day of the week.  Imagine, the defrocked warped primitive, the one with the face like Hindenberg’s, having to go to confession twice a day, and what she confides in the priest. 

“Or the primitives who abhorred Fox News, being forced to watch Fox News, and nothing but Fox News, every hour of every day into never-ending Eternity.  Ditto for those who didn’t like the amiable Rush Limbaugh, being blasted into their eardrums without cease.  Forever.

“Or the primitives who hated George Bush, having to spend all day painting likenesses of the man who saved us from Alphonse Capote Gore, or the primitives who hated capitalism and free enterprise, having to live under socialism. 

“Or the primitives who despised reticence, modesty, and caution in intimacy forced into eternal, everlasting celibacy.  Or the primitives who hated the rich, to wait at their tables, empty their wastebaskets, and wipe their asses…..forever and ever, without end.

“Or the primitives who allegedly hated racism, such as the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive or the sparkling old dude’s much-younger trophy wife, being dragooned into living next door to Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitives, and his brothers, or side-by-side with the EffieBlack primitive.

“Or the primitives protesting the Second Amendment browbeaten into carrying their signs around neighborhoods where it’d do the most good, black inner-city urban neighborhoods like the one Lamond lives in, instead of safe, clean middle-class suburbia.

“Or the primitives who thought the government needed more taxes, to be stuck with paying those taxes out of their own pockets.  Or the primitives who hated the military having to shine their boots and clean their latrines, relieving soldiers and sailors for more-important tasks.

“Or the primitives who loved abortion too much having to change the constantly-filling diapers of infants.  Twenty-four-seven-365.  Forever; the bowels that never end.  Or the primitives who hated work, having to work around the clock without let-up, without coffee- and lunch-breaks, without holidays and weekends.  Forever.

“And the list goes on and on and on.  You guys who invented Hell and run it, devised perfect everlasting punishment and torment, despite it being milder punishment than it needs to be, and I congratulate you.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #69 on: April 26, 2018, 01:04:03 PM »
I inquired of Skippy if there were shares of stock in Hell available for sale to the general public, “as it looks to me as if it’d be a good investment, a great investment, and besides, I’d like to have some say in its management.

“Given the enormity of the sins against Humanity the primitives committed, I think they’re treated way too mildly down here; they need to feel the lash more.”

Skippy reminded me that Hell is a closely-held operation, and he doubted there’d be any stock in it for sale.  However, as vice-president of public relations for Hell, he promised he’d ask Satan the next time he ran into the Head Man.

We arrived at the spa, where I hoped to relate further details of my experiences after cardiac surgery in April of last year.  The late red round one carefully steered the barge to the landing-dock, and we disboarded.

At the front desk, I took care of the late red round one, paying for him and getting him set up and comfortable in the servants’ dormitory.  The clerk behind the desk happened to be gnomish Dave, the davidthegnome primitive once of Skins’s island but now among the jackpines, where he runs the whiny “poverty and despair” forum.

It made sense; gnomish Dave used to be night clerk at a motel in rural Maine until his back ostensibly gave out, ostensibly making him too crippled to work, although apparently the Social Security disability gravy train disagrees.

I paid for my room, and the buzzy one paid for his; we both selected average run-of-the-mill rooms.

Skippy had found earthly habits difficult, it at all, to give up, even in Hell.  As before, “someone else,” in this case the taxpayers of Hell, had paid his travel expenses, which included a four-room luxury suite and five-star dinners.

The buzzy one and I went down to the snack bar to dine.

“As you’ve probably already guessed,” I began, “chemotherapy, even though it went on for almost seven months, didn’t go very well.  During those seven months, I ended up in the hospital nine times, for stays ranging from five days up to thirteen.

“I’m surprised there was a chance to squeeze chemotherapy in there, but it got sqooze, maybe ten, eleven, sessions.

“I don’t know the proper medical condition, or the word used to describe it, but I guess in simplistic terms, I proved ‘allergic’ to whatever was being dripped into me.

“My own best guess was that I was having all these bad reactions because I was being given too much too quickly, spending three or four hours a session.  So I requested it be dripped in more slowly, as to give the body time to absorb it better.

“They said yeah, sure, they’d try that, keeping me there six or seven hours a session, and it worked, for a couple of times, but then everything turned sour again.

“But the physician remained firmly sure that it would work, in the end.  And I agreed, as I wasn’t doing anything else in particular anyway, and really, there didn’t seem any possible alternative treatment.

“Now, in hindsight, it probably wouldn’t have worked, but it didn’t need to be as wretched, as miserable, an experience as it was. 

“The problem was the oncologist, who had very poor communicative skills.

“Just because one’s a doctor doesn’t make him good at communication.

“My normal-and-usual practice is to have a physician examine me, and then rather than bothering to discuss the details of what he’s found with me, discuss it instead with someone intimately acquainted with me, who then relays the details on to me.

“This is because despite that I’m obviously a competent adult, due to deafness, I don’t ‘get’ things, and one’s health or medical conditions are too important to be based upon what I think was said, rather than what was actually said.

“So I’ve always had other people do my listening for me.

“It saves a great deal of time and trouble, in addition to avoiding misunderstandings—I can ‘understand,’ but it takes time and much work to explain things to me.  Sooner or later, I ‘get’ it, but usually.....later, sometimes too late.

“What takes explaining something to a hearing person two or three minutes, to explain to me can take half an hour…..or more.

“So as to not waste everybody’s time and energy, best for the physician to look at me, and then explain things to someone close to me, who then explains them to me.

“I’m very selective about friends and acquaintances—having no near family still living—I use for such tasks; they’re people who know me well enough to sense, without being told, if I’m ‘getting’ something accurately or not.

“The cardiac surgery had gone so well, I think, because all the medical professionals involved didn’t waste their time trying to explain things to me; they had no problems at all, talking instead with three individuals designated by me, the neighbor, the neighbor’s wife, and the business partner.

“No problems at all.

“But this guy, second of two cancer physicians, didn’t want to do that; he insisted upon communicating—or trying to ‘communicate’—with me alone, even though his office had all the signed forms giving him my permission to share any information about me with these three people.

“Communication was proving just as exasperating as always ending up in the hospital.”

to be continued
« Last Edit: April 26, 2018, 01:17:45 PM by franksolich »

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #70 on: April 26, 2018, 11:23:05 PM »
The buzzy one and I went upstairs to see Skippy, ensconced at taxpayer expense in the luxury suite of the spa, and at the time quickly buttoning up his shirt while cousin nadin, who apparently had a second job in addition to waitressing, was closing the front of her blouse.

“I don’t have any cash,” Skippy told her; “we’ll have to do this by credit card. Here’s my governmentally-issued Visa card.”

Cousin nadin made out a slip in triplicate, for $250, noting it was for “taxi-cab fare.”

“That was one long taxi ride,” I said to the buzzy one.  “Where’d he go?  To Constantinople?”

Cousin nadin scowled at me, and then left.

Skippy, pouring himself a glass of taxpayer-purchased 2015 Cabernet Suavignon, commented that his boss, Satan, was curious as to what I found wrong with the management of Hell.  No, there were no shares of stock in Hell available for sale, but the Head Man was simply curious.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to take it up with your boss’s boss, God, but anyway, none of the punishments for the primitives, responsible for so much wretchedness and misery in the world, seem severe enough; they come short of fitting the crime.

“The case of the WillyT primitive, who dumped Messalina Agrippina in favor of the hoary old white-haired sourassed sourpuss crank from Vermont and his thieving wife, for example.

“Never mind all that Messalina Agrippina had done for the WillyT primitive, bringing the near-dead Democrat party back to life in 1992, and being a strong advocate of those causes Democrats, liberals, and primitives favor, such as free and unlimited abortions, suppression of disagreeable speech, higher taxes, corrupt machine-run government, overpaying governmental employees, whatnot else.

“All that wasn’t good enough for the WillyT primitive, who wanted more, and who hated Messalina Agrippina because she wouldn’t give more to him.

“Well, God hates ingratitude, and so the WillyT primitive’s fated to be racked every day for eternity.  He gets painfully and agonizingly torn apart, but as one can’t die in Hell, one’s stuck in Hell forever, he recovers…..and so is racked all over again, the next day.

“The last time I saw him, I had the happy opportunity to administer the coup de grace, thwacking him in the mid-section as he lay on the rack, pulled nearly twice as long as he’d been before, breaking open his torso and causing his guts to spill out.

“But he’s recovered now, as he always does, being set up for renewed torment.

“The Hillaryite NanceGregg primitive turns the crank to stretch him, but I don’t think that’s painful enough of an insult to him, for his ingratitude.  I think Messalina Agrippina herself should be given the honor, the cheerful duty, of racking him.”

The conversation steered itself back to my recovery from cardiac surgery and inevitably-losing battle with cancer.

“As I said,” reminding the buzzy one, I was in the hospital nine times between the conclusion of the heart surgery, where a valve was replaced in mid-April, and Christmas Eve seven months later, when I went into hospice and came home to die.

“Being a layman, I can’t pinpoint the cause of each hospitalization, but four of them had to do with a wildly-erratic heart, where the heart-beat rate escalated while the blood pressure dropped precipitously.  It wasn’t due to the valve replacement, I’ve been told; it was side-effects from the chemotherapy.

“The cardiologists wanted to install a pacemaker so as to make the heart more stable, but the oncologists resisted, saying a pacemaker might prolong the agony of dying from cancer.  I have no idea what dying from cancer’s like, but I’ve been told it’s more terrible than dying of a heart attack or cardiac arrest.

“Since I viewed the oncologists as the bosses, I took their side.  No pacemaker.

“The other hospitalizations were for things such as uncontrollable explosive bowels, pneumonia, and twice, for nearly-extinct white blood cells; in the last cases, I was very gingerly handled for days on end, by people wearing face masks and rubber gloves, and everything that touched me had to be germ-free.

“If one’s deaf, and has to rely upon reading lips, face masks can be a pain in the ass.

“But anyway, the day before Thanksgiving, the two oncologists came around to the opinion of the two cardiologists, and agreed that I should have a pacemaker so as to stabilize the heart.  It was installed Thanksgiving Eve, but on the wrong side of the chest—on purpose, though.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #71 on: April 29, 2018, 10:29:03 AM »
“Now, everybody has problems with chemotherapy,” I mentioned to the buzzy one, “and those I had at first were the usual-and-standard ones—the loss of hair, the bleeding from various orifices, fingernails growing brittle and falling off, fatigue, fading appetite, mouth and throat problems, infections of various natures, difficulty dining and swallowing, loss of the voice, memory lapses, and things undetectable by the individual, such as anemia or low blood cell counts.”

I suddenly remembered to mention something else.

“I’m s-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o grateful to God that the hair grew back, all of it and as thick as ever, although as you can see, it changed from dark brown to bright white.

“But at least it grew back; thank you, God.

“Of the nine hospitalizations during those months, May through December of last year, eight were related to chemotherapy; the ninth was because of an absent-minded overdose of pharmaceuticals.

“Thinking it was Saturday—it’s easy to lose track of the days of the week if one’s not working—I took the Saturday evening drugs about suppertime.  But at about 10:00 p.m., I’d forgotten all about that, and noticed I hadn’t taken the Friday drugs, this being Friday night.

“So I took those, neglecting to notice the bin for the Saturday drugs was empty, which would’ve indicated to me that oops, I’d already had the evening drugs.

“At the time, I was on more pharmaceuticals than I am now, most of which were cardiac drugs, and in theory a double dose of all of those should’ve stopped my heart.

“Fortunately, that didn’t happen, and when I was admitted to the hospital the next morning—having gone there because I couldn’t ‘focus,’ I had no sense of balance—my heart-beat rate was 28 beats per minute, which I guess is pretty low.

“But all the other times, those eight times, it was for pneumonia or uncontrollable bowels or low-or-no white blood cells, excessive bleeding as if I had haemophilia, or overall overwhelming body pain bad enough to make me faint.

“But worst of all was the uncontrollable bowels, which happened twice, in July and December.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #72 on: April 30, 2018, 04:28:29 AM »
“You know,” I said to the buzzy one, “all my life, which hasn’t been a short one, I’ve never really had any serious bowel problems. 

“In fact, my alimentary system is probably one of the healthier things in me.

“The bowels have rarely been a problem, and then only a minor one, because I don’t do anything to discombobulate them, such as chowing down on questionable food or weird food.

“I don’t dine on something unless I know exactly what it is, and I generally dine on the exact same things day after day after day after day, for years and years.

“I think this stems from when I was a little lad still clinging to my mother’s skirt as she talked with other people at the grocery store, in the ‘home health care’ aisle.

“Because she was a nurse, people oftentimes asked her for advice, in this case about laxatives and constipators and other things that mess with the bowels.

“Being deaf—besides being really young—I didn’t hear or understand the conversations, but it struck me that people inquiring of my mother about bowel remedies tended to be the prissy, fussy, fuddy-duddy, finicky, hypochondrial sorts.

“At a very young age, I resolved to not be like any of them.

“And then a couple of decades later, when I worked at the Nebraska Department of Health—a state governmental employee—I couldn’t help but overhear a lot of these desk-sitting broad-bottomed bureaucrats constantly and loudly bitching and whining about bowel problems, usually haemorrhoids. 

“I was very happy I hadn’t evolved into one of them.

“Just as the diet’s regular, the expulsion’s regular too; I never liked wasting time idly sitting on the commode, and once a day, or twice every three days, I go into the bathroom, sit down, do what one usually does, and get up.

“I’ve timed myself; usually a little bit less than two minutes sitting there.

“Once a day, or twice every three days, whatever’s needed.

“But in July of last year, and early January of this year, much to my distress and horror, the bowels abruptly became uncontrollable, side-effects of chemotherapy.

“I had no idea the human body was capable of producing so much of this stuff.

“And much to my horror, I discovered that even by not eating for two or three days didn’t slow down production.

“God.  I was scared. Terrified, paralyzed with fear.

“It never occurred to me that this too would pass; for some reason I don’t understand, I thought I’d have to live with it the rest of my life.

“One of the oncologists gave me three prescriptions, one of which included narcotics—he filled them himself, because he didn’t trust me to go out and buy them myself—but while I brought them home, still they sit there today, the bottles unopened.

“My feeling was that I didn’t want to stress my system more by introducing possibly-irritating chemicals into it.  Best to leave it be, and to try and control the spontaneous and prolific movements by diet instead.

“I figured a diet high in fiber and roughage would drive out the germs, viruses, parasites, or whatever it was, that cause flowing bowels.

“Much to my shock, I learned that no, these were the worst possible things; that I should instead be dining on white bread and white rice.

“Gah…..no ****ing way.

“I have no idea why processed and chemical foods are ‘good’ for diarrhea, while natural healthy foods aren’t.

“So I endured two widely-spaced episodes of uncontrollable bowels, in July and January, each of them four about three weeks fraught with much nervousness and trembling anxiety.

“I was spared considerable embarrassment though, because I was otherwise pretty ill, too sick to get out in public.  The only people who came to see me were the neighbor, the neighbor’s wife, the property caretaker, and Joe and Jose, two Texans who work for the property caretaker, so it wasn’t like a whole lot of people saw me getting embarrassed.

“Of course things got ruined.  It’s a good thing the furniture here’s thrift store furniture, meaning that if a couch or chair or bed got soiled, it was an easy matter of trashing it rather than trying to clean it up, just replacing it with another cheap used piece.

“The underwear’s white cotton briefs, three for six bucks at Dollar General, and so it was an easy—and cheap—matter of just tossing ruined pairs, rather than trying to launder them.

“But then when hospice came and took over my life, they brought along packages of disposable underwear, probably the greatest invention since that of sliced bread.

“But by that time, this second bout of the ailment had pretty much run its course, and so I still have four unopened packages of disposable underwear, and the regular underwear goes to the laundress every two weeks not even needing bleach.

“I hope to God I never have to live those days, those weeks, of uncertainty, fear, and terror again.  No other consequence of chemotherapy, while bad, was nearly as apprehensive, as nerve-wracking, as nail-biting.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #73 on: May 03, 2018, 02:33:55 AM »
Just then, Big Mo, the mopinko primitive, raced by the buzzy one and I, her face betraying utter terror, as Fat Che, the long-ago banned benburch primitive, leering and drooling, pursued her.

“What’s going on there?” the buzzy one asked me.  “It looks like they’re playing ‘hide and seek,’ but then and again it looks somewhat more serious than that.”

Oh, I said, “Big Mo’s living out her punishment in Hell, being eternally chased by Fat Che.

“Of course this being Hell, Fat Che’s never going to catch her, but she doesn’t know that; she supposes the obscene slob has a chance of catching her, and once he does, he’ll be able to have his way with her.

“It should be no wonder she’s terrified.

“She’s being punished this way because in life, when she was engaged in committing all sorts of insults and crimes against humanity, she hung around with him, despite being warned that wasn’t such a good idea; maybe it’d be better if she avoided the sordid pervert.

“But Big Mo figured she knew better than decent and civilized people, and so she ignored the well-meant warnings.

“Now she has to put up with this.  Forever and ever. 

“Too bad for Big Mo.”

“What’s Fat Che’s punishment?” the buzzy one asked me.

“It’s so awesomely terrible it blows the mind,” I replied; “I’ll tell you later, and I plan to bring it up with God, as I still don’t think the punishment’s bad enough; Fat Che deserves far worse than what he’s getting.

“But for right now, I need to continue on describing my life with cancer.

“So I was in chemotherapy from May through December, originally scheduled for one time a week, but as it evolved, I’d have chemotherapy one week, then be in the hospital the next week, and then chemotherapy again, then the hospital again, not quite but almost neatly alternating between the two.

“To summarize, I had uncontrollable bowels twice, in July and beginning in late December, for about three weeks each time.  At other times, I caught pneumonia, my white blood cells became nearly extinct, and the heart went haywire, I think four times, and there was that accidental overdose that nearly stopped the heart entirely.

“Beginning with the onset of this affliction, the heart-attack in May 2015, two years before any of this started happening in April 2017, I’d slowly begun losing my appetite and some poundage. 

“The desire to eat just wasn’t there any more.

“By the time of heart surgery and chemotherapy, I’d long ago foregone one of the greatest pleasures I've ever had, a carry-out supper from the local bar, a hamburger extremely well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, French fries fried on the grill instead of in the fryer, and a side dish of sour cream.

“The sour cream was meant both as a ‘dip’ for the French fries, and then to be taken by the spoonful, as if ice cream, for dessert.

“It was great, one of the joys and delights of this life, but after the heart attack, I really couldn’t take it any more, usually leaving more than half of it all unsupped-upon.

“And so I was already stumbling towards emaciation by the time of the surgery and chemotherapy.

“After which it got worse.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #74 on: May 03, 2018, 04:11:08 PM »
“It was about six weeks after I’d begun chemotherapy—with interruptions, of course—it was noticed I was still dropping weight, and I had to admit that yeah, much of the time I just didn’t feel like eating.

“The obvious was pointed out to me—that for chemotherapy to do me any good (it wasn’t going to cure me, but it could retard advancement of cancer), I had to remain in reasonably good health, which included maintaining a healthy—and full--diet.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but I really didn’t care.

“Then I learned that apparently—it seems that way anyway—it’s a state law in Nebraska that anyone undergoing treatment for cancer is supposed to be given, gratis, a case of a particular energy drink every week so as to ensure the individual was keeping up his strength.

“I say it must be the law, because everybody and anybody else in a cancer program of whom I was aware, got a case of the stuff every week.  If one didn’t want it, it was shoved on one anyway.

“While the drink was okay, the ‘pudding’ was lousy; I had it one single time, and that was it.  The drink was okay, but this other stuff, gah…..

“The drink came in three flavors—the chocolate was okay, the vanilla was better, but I preferred most the strawberry.

“Well, okay.

“Then I learned that apparently lots and lots of this particular energy drink is donated to food pantries, where a customer gets at least a case of it.

“But the general public, not in weakening health, doesn’t care for it.

“Now, this is Nebraska, one of the premier food-producing areas of the world; there’s plenty of food around here and in the grocery stores it’s generally cheaper than it is in corrupt blue states and blue cities.

“However, there’s free food pantries all over, and because there’s no income standards for using one, just about everybody and his uncle goes to one of them at least once in a while.

“If there were primitives here, they’d think they’d died and gone to Heaven.

“I’d been to one one time, after the heart attack and when my income stopped.  I anticipated this lack of income was going to be a long-term problem, eroding what I’d saved in the past, but actually it was only a couple of months before income unexpectedly resumed.

“But I’d never gone back to that food pantry after that one time, because the merchandise was all sugar-coated and processed food or chemical food, junk food, convenience food, candy, soda, and the like, stuff that contributes to poor people getting unhealthily obese.

“I decided that even with evaporating income (which didn’t happen), it was just better and easier to go to the grocery store and pay for food that I wanted, or needed.

“However, because so many others patronized food pantries and got these cases of this energy drink which they didn’t want, and because it was well-known locally I was withering away, wasting away, people who knew me and people who didn’t know me came to my place to drop off their cases of the energy drink.

“Right now, there’s eleven full cases of the stuff in the kitchen; after I went into hospice on Christmas Eve, they insisted on delivering some to me too.  It took a couple of weeks and a couple of deliveries, but I finally convinced them, no I didn’t need any more.

“I’m just one person, and I don’t have a bottomless stomach; I can reasonably consume only so much.

“Actually, this had always been a problem, since I first moved out there a few months after the scam that rocked the internet died down, the autumn of 2005. 

“And holidays are the worst, when people bring by homemade things as gifts; since I’m a single male living alone, they suppose I don’t get enough ‘good’ stuff to eat.

“All of the neighbors are of course farmers, and nearly everyone in town gardens.

“There’s a garden here, a rather large one, although totally neglected by me.  I don’t care to garden, and it’s easier, cheaper, and cleaner just buying things at the grocery store.

“I’m appreciative of the food, but damn, I’ve got only one stomach.

“The garden however is lush with foliage and produce because I’m constantly fertilizing it, by dumping stuff on the ground there to rot and decay under the hot summer sun and the frigid cold winter air of the Sandhills.  It doesn’t take long for stuff to break down into nutrients for the soil.

 “A few years ago, when there was a ‘shortage’ of eggs for one reason or another—I forget why, but the primitives on Skins’s island bitched long and hard about it--I had eggs here coming out of my ears, if I had ears.

“That was the summer a friend and I stood on the back porch, myself without any clothes on, tossing eggs out to the south garden to decay and fertilize, as I wanted to demonstrate that one can throw better, further, and more accurately when naked.

“This is out in the country, without regular garbage pick-up service, so what else is one to do with food that’s going to go bad?”

to be continued