Author Topic: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell  (Read 3065 times)

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #100 on: June 03, 2018, 08:13:02 AM »
Well, it is Eternal Damnation, I suppose they could always pull out the flensing knives, cut him up, and throw the chunks through.  He'd melt back together on the other side, eventually. 
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That here, obedient to their law, we lie.

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Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #101 on: June 03, 2018, 09:11:11 AM »
“How’s your Boss this morning?” I asked Skippy, the long-ago banned NYC_SKP primitive, now vice-president of public relations for Hell, when I sat down in his office.  “You know why I’m asking.”

“Well, as you might imagine, Satan’s pretty grouchy right now.  He’s sitting at his desk on top of one of those pillows with a hole in the center.”

“Man, that surprised me,” I said; “here I’d always thought ‘Satan’s asshole’ was merely the name of a geographic landmark, not the real thing.

“And then God, acting as the Divine Proctologist, had to excise the big guy from it, because it’s Satan, and God, no lesser being, is the only Entity Who dares mess with Satan’s ass.”

“But the Boss says God didn’t have to do it so roughly,” Skippy said.

“It’s Satan,” I replied; “if I were God, I’d be rough with Satan too.

“Anyway, what did your Boss say about my two most-recent proposals to modernize Hell?  I imagine He wasn’t too happy.”

“Actually, He hit the ceiling,” Skippy said.

“Well, even though this is Hell, we do need some air-conditioning, in this case for the luxury skyboxes of the new stadium that’s being built around the whipping-post so that more primitives can watch the daily flogging of the big guy from Bellevue for shirking work.

“And this most-recent, uh, blockage of the entry into Lower Hell reminded me it’d probably be a good idea to make Hell OSHA-compliant, and that’s going to cost money, lots and lots of money.

“It’s all too bad, but the money’s got to be spent, if your Boss wants Hell to last; the place is already like some electrical plant built in New Jersey circa 1880 which was never improved or updated.  With the stress and strain of modern usage, it’s rapidly crumbling apart, and even on good days can’t function as good as it needs to.

“You know, the way I keep pissing off your Boss, I’m really surprised He hasn’t zapped me into nonexistence, which of course He has the power to do so.”

“Oh, but you know why,” Skippy answered.  “You know you can annoy, irritate, distress, piss off, Satan as much as you want, and nothing’ll happen. 

“For whatever reasons, when God first created you, God told Satan, ‘Okay, this one’s Mine, and he’s going to cause You a lot of pain and trouble, but don’t mess with him.  You can of course if You want—he’s only a weak mortal after all—and there’s no way he could get back at you…..but if You mess with him, I can, and will.’

“Yeah, I don’t know why that is,” I said; “that God likes me so much.

“And trust me, I’m very appreciative of it.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #102 on: June 03, 2018, 11:15:46 AM »
“Why are you doing what you’re doing?” my occasional critic the buzzy one asked me, “making fun of people, human beings with feelings.  Where’s your social sensitivity, your conscience, your moral compass?”

Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute there, I said.  “Surely primitives don’t believe that everybody deserves pity and compassion no matter the source of their wretchedness, especially if self-imposed?

“God gave us judgement; and since it’s God-given, we’re supposed to use it.

“We’re supposed to learn how to discern between a worthy cause and a worthless one.

“Take, for example, the widely-disparate cases of Judy, the grasswire primitive, and the big guy from Bellevue, the Omaha Steve primitive.

“Yeah, sure, there used to be a time when decent and civilized people in the DUmpster made fun of Judy, ragged her, razzed her, for her ‘investigative’ skills, for her old-lady silliness, for her pie-making skills.

“I’ll be the first to admit that franksolich was rough with her.

“In fact, at times I shocked myself, by the comments I made ridiculing her.

“I must point out that those comments were not undeserved; in fact, based upon Judy’s own words and conduct, she deserved a lot worse than the guff the DUmpster gave her.

“But at the time, we were ignoring another aspect of Judy.  It didn’t excuse her senescent silliness, but it did show that unlike the cases of most primitives, the grasswire primitive was already paying for her sins; she was already in some sort of Hell.

“Judy had a reasonably large family, including, apparently, a child who was defective and needed care.  As none of the Judy-bred-and-raised siblings gave a damn, Judy herself took on the burden of caring for this child, and has done so for decades.

“Judy’s pretty ancient, and getting older and feebler every day, and she’s still taking care of the child, by now a middle-aged one.

“She’s not going to be around forever, and the future of this child preoccupies her; who’s going to take care of the child after she’s gone?  It convulses her stomach, keeps her awake at nights, erupts her temper, fretting and worrying about this.

“Constantly.

“Who’s going to take care of the child after she’s gone?

“I can’t imagine what it’s like, being old and helpless like that; for a widowed old woman, that’s got to be torment and Hell right there.

“Notice, please, that a few years ago when this was finally figured out on this side, any and all negative wordage about Judy evaporated.  Because she’s already suffering, no need for anyone else to give her any grief.

“If our silence doesn’t show understanding and compassion, I don’t know what does.

“And there’s the opposite case of the big guy from Bellevue who’s constantly soliciting for pity even though he doesn’t deserve it.

“Omaha Steve’s had an easy life, a life softer than many of the rest of us have had.  He had parents who coddled him, cleaned up his messes, and by some perverse quirk of really good luck, found a woman willing to carry him for more than forty years.

“She worked her fingers to the bone bringing home the bacon, while he once in a while contributed a 99-cent package of pork rinds, half of which he’d already eaten before putting the bag on the table.

“Poor dear Marta cooked breakfast-lunch-supper, cleaned the dirty dishes, did the laundry, vacuumed the floors, made the beds, took out the garbage, managed and disciplined the kids, while all Omaha Steve did was lay on the couch, television remote-control in hand, passing gas.

“And then in May 2015, the big guy from Bellevue pulled his most classless, most tasteless, stunt ever, announcing that due to some cerebral cripplement, he had only about two years to live.

“My God, not even cousin nadin ever had that much gall, that much chutzpah.

“By alleging he was terminal, the big guy was mocking the situation and feelings of his fellow primitives honestly terminal, doomed.  He was equating his made-up terminality with their real anguish and pain.

“There’s a special place in Hell for those who only think and advertise that they’re suffering, mocking the harsh reality that some of his fellow primitives, even though terminal usually because of their own debauchery and decadent life-styles, are truly suffering and deserve pity, or at least decent and civilized people avoiding deriding them in the DUmpster.

“Nobody honestly terminal gallivants around meeting obscure has-been television celebrities or playing in poker tournaments.

“Believe me, I know. 

“The big guy in Bellevue deserves a lot more grief than what he’s getting.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #103 on: June 04, 2018, 12:14:48 AM »
“Well, it was harder than trying to pry open a clam with a wet paper towel,” I announced to flyarm, the buzzy one, and Skippy, the vice-president for public relations for Hell, the next morning, “but I got the okay from Satan to start some construction for a new and improved Hell.

“He told me He won’t be showing up at the grand opening, that I’m to make the dedicatory speech, because being infallible, He knows in advance I’ll probably steal the show anyway, so He might as well just give it to me.

"Being modest, I don't like the idea, but He won't change his mind.  Maybe I can get my fellow alum Skins to deliver it.

“I’m excited, really excited.

“The plan’s for separate entrances, for Upper Hell, for Middle Hell, and for Lower Hell.

“The one for Upper Hell, where the regular Democrats and liberals are assigned, resembles a Soviet socialist subway station, a sort of architecture that overwhelms, that makes the individual man feel small.  I chose that style so as to make those Democrats and liberals feel better about boarding the escalator down to Upper Hell.

“The one for Middle Hell, where the primitives from Skins’s island are sent, is even more bleak and utilitarian, so as to soothe those primitives about socialism as they walk down a well-lit wide staircase.  It’s a long walk, but it’s all downhill, and there’s several landings with built-in benches and water-fountains against the wall, so that one may pause and rest.

“The entry for Lower Hell is the same as it is now, commonly and vulgarly called ‘Satan’s asshole.’  To make it OSHA-compliant, I’ll have to make a second entry, sort of a reverse fire-escape, but I haven’t decided where it should go and what it should be like.

“However, given how slow and desultory Satan is on approving plans, I have plenty of time to figure that out.

“As you know, primitives condemned to Lower Hell are simply shoved through Satan’s asshole; no need to change that.  Of course, it goes down, way down, and it’s a long drop, and one might get some bruises and break some bones upon reaching the bottom, but tough shit—by their sheer ingratitude, they made their own destinies without the help of anybody else.”

to be continued

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #104 on: June 04, 2018, 07:17:08 AM »
Perhaps the  entrance to Lower Hell should have a gauging station installed, to prevent a recurrence of the Steve Incident. 
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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 #105 on: June 04, 2018, 09:33:25 AM »
There was another thick, jostling crowd of primitives in the marketplace, surrounding some spectacle that one couldn’t see until one got right up to it.  As flyarm, the buzzy one, and I squeezed ourselves in between the tightly-packed primitives, I noticed that Brother Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitive, must’ve gotten done in his role-playing in some sort of historical battle re-enactment, such as one finds at Renaissance faires.

But he hadn’t had time to change, and was still attired the faux grey uniform of a colonel in the long-ago army of the Confederate States of America, carrying a basket loudly marked “AID FOR THE NEGROES,” for collecting contributions towards reparations.

When we got closer inside the center of the crowd, I saw they were looking at the big guy from Bellevue, the Omaha Steve primitive, who like the subway cat, the undergroundpanther primitive, was locked up in an iron cage, although unlike the case with his fellow primitive, the cage wasn’t suspended way up in mid-air, and the big guy still had clothes on.

The primitives were yelling and hooting and jeering; they disliked the big guy because he was always shirking work, and if his work didn’t get done, the other primitives besides doing their own work had to do his too.

The cage was surrounded by a thick transparent plexiglass wall, and I inquired why.

“You see, the reason Omaha Steve’s locked up in this cage is because God and Satan decided it’s too easy for him to cheat on his diet—he’s supposed to lose weight, lots and lots of it—dining only on celery for eternity, and that he needed to be pent up and easily seen in public, so he wouldn’t be sneaking any Hostess Ho-Hos and Little Debbie cakes on the sly.

“There was a problem however, despite the prohibition of feeding Omaha Steve, as if he were a beast in a cage or something.  The other primitives kept tossing rotten tomatoes and rotten eggs at him, and he’d lick them off himself, taking in calories he shouldn’t be taking in.

“They can still throw edible food at him, but with the screen, it’s not going to hit him.”

Out of thin air—or rather, out of the thick crowd, the pintobean primitive, the primitive light in the loafers, the quick primitive on DU Jr., grabbed my elbow.

“Why are you doing this?” he angrily asked.  “Why don’t you just leave primitives alone, instead of making fun of them all the time?  What do you think you’re accomplishing, by making them the laughingstock of the internet, of the universe?”

“Oh now, we’ve had this argu—er, discussion before,” I protested. 

“Because of both their retardity and their seditions, the DUmpster publicizes the antics and treasons of the primitives so that decent and civilized people are kept aware of this gangrenous viper in our midst, illuminated about the dangers they pose to our rights and liberties, the Constitution, and the Republic.

“If the primitives win, we lose; the DUmpster’s a public service for the Good of Humanity.

“If the primitives don’t like it, they wouldn’t have to deal with it if they stopped being so intellectually-challenged and so subversive.  That’s all it’d take, the primitives developing some cerebrality and a respect for the land and people who support them, maintain them, take care of them, coddle them.

"I can guarantee you that if the primitives stopped being so stupid, the DUmpster would evaporate within seconds."

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #106 on: June 06, 2018, 08:06:06 PM »
The carriage, the late red round one driving the horses, and the buzzy one, flyarm, and myself seated inside, came to a standstill due to the congestion of the primitive crowd; in many cases, they were packed so tightly one’d have trouble slipping a sheet of onion-skin typing paper in between any two of them.

I stood up inside the carriage so as to look over the heads of the crowds, and was surprised at what I saw, in the distance.  “Hey, guys, get up and get a gander at this,” I told my companions.

This was apparently the cause of the traffic jam; the hippywife primitive, Mrs. Alfred Packer, and the hippyhubby primitive, Wild Bill, had shown up with their clan, and their motor vehicle had broken down.

It was converted 1952 Snap-On Tool van, now a funeral hearse, on the sides written in a circle, WILD BILL & BROS., WHOLESALE UNDERTAKERS, DISCOUNT FOR CASH.  One of Wild Bill’s brothers, the one with both eyes on the same side of his nose, was trying to start the engine again, but all it did was sputter, causing more and more primitives to get upset and impatient because they couldn’t get through.

I directed the late red round one, the gros garcon narcoleptique as flyarm called him, the long-ago Andy Stephenson primitive, to go some other direction, any direction, so as to get us out of the rapidly-growing-hostile mob of primitives.

But in the other direction, there was another big crowd of primitives, these waving pieces of paper in the air and demanding of a man working behind a barred window that he take their piece of paper.

“What’s going on there?” flyarm asked.

“They’re primitives hoping to be elevated out of Lower Hell up into Middle Hell, which is still Hell but considerably more tolerable by showing they were never Bernie-ites, or if they were, they now recanted,” the buzzy one explained.

“It’s sort of like the de-Nazification camps in Germany after the second world war, where people were locked up and given the chance to prove they’d never been Nazis, or if they had been, they’d been forced to join the party.

“One had to be cleared, to be accepted back into general society,” the buzzy one concluded.  “These primitives want to be cleared not only so as to get out of Lower Hell, but also to be once again accepted on Skins’s island as bona fide Democrats.

“The NanceGreggs primitive is the arbiter, and she’s a tough one.”

“But she’s also in a magnanimous, forgiving mood,” I pointed out, “ready to let bygones be bygones, to forgive and forget, to bind up the wounds, to re-unite the primitives.

“And I happen to know why she’s so mellow about it,” I continued.  “All petitions for de-Bernification are rejected, automatically and without exception.

“It’s part of the eternal torment of Hell; the carrot’s in front of them, but the primitives’ll never get it; they’ll just always get the stick.  They hope and hope and hope eternally that they’ll be redeemed, get out of Lower Hell, and every day they hope anew, and present a petition.

“But it’ll never happen, they’ll never get out.

“God wasn’t joking when God cautioned them to abandon hope.

“Forever. 

But it’s their own fault.  Take the big guy from Bellevue, the Omaha Steve primitive, for example.  He’s had nearly sixty-five years of a life to contemplate upon, and repent of, his sloth and greed and laziness and gross squalidity—six and a half decades, which isn’t a few days—but he never did; he didn’t care.

“Well, look where that got him.  And it’s forever.  Too bad.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #107 on: June 06, 2018, 08:23:08 PM »
I suddenly got concerned when I saw a double-decker bus coming our way.

I was fearful, as the passengers happened to be Servonaut, crockspot, LC EFA, JohnnyReb, marv, vesta111, Thor, njpines, CG6468, and Samspade, all of them of blessed memory and sorely missed.

“Why are all you guys here in Hell?” I asked, with no little anxiety.  “You’re all the sorts I thought for sure would be up in Heaven, not condemned here in Hell.”

“Oh, we’re in Heaven all right,” JohnnyReb assured me; “we’re just passing through.”

“Just passing through taking in the sights of Hell,” vesta111 elaborated.

“This is a Cook’s Tour,” LC EFA said; “we’re just looking around, slumming.”

to be continued
« Last Edit: June 06, 2018, 08:25:41 PM by franksolich »

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #108 on: June 10, 2018, 02:59:03 AM »
Having parted company with the saints, flyarm, the buzzy one, and I sat at a table at a sidewalk café while the late red round one, the one-time “Andy Stephenson” primitive, tended to the horses while dining on an egg-salad sandwich.

We hadn’t parted with the saints for any reason other than that they’re now in another time and place away from us, and eternally the ways they’re supposed to be, rather than how they’d been during their lives on earth.

And the three of us, we’re still just mere mortals, and so we’re like clay bricks trying to communicate with sentient, living, thinking beings.  Cursory greetings and light-hearted short comments is about all that gets through.

While we were dining on Turkish cappucchino and Viennese tortes, the other two watched as I, engrossed, read papers from a pile of them I’d placed on the table.

“What are those?” the buzzy one asked, picking up a sheet to examine it.

“Back there, that man behind the barred window, where the primitives are submitting petitions for de-Bernification, much like Germans had to do after the second world war, for de-Nazification, I asked the guy if I could have a few.

“’As you and I both know, none of those petitions are going to be approved anyway.  It’s part of the genius of Hell, where the primitives are led to hope it’s possible to better their condition—in this case, going from Lower Hell up into Middle Hell, a substantially easier existence.

“’And since they’re not going to be approved anyway, and they’re trash you’ll have to spend the time and trouble throwing away, you might as well let me have a few, to read.’

“He agreed, and well, here’s a whole stack of them for our amusement.

“Most of the primitives in deepest Hell are alleging they supported the hoary old white-haired sourassed sourpuss crank from Vermont and his thieving wife because of manipulation or coercion by the jackpiners; that they would’ve supported, and voted for, Messalina Agrippina instead of him, if they’d been told the truth.

“Because of the experiences of the bravenak primitive, whose life was threatened by an unknown personage, but probably a jackpiner, some voted for him out of fear they too’d be marked for elimination.

“And there’s some tales that rip out the guts, such as threats to drive them into bankruptcy or to expose some long-ago indiscretion so as to humiliate them or to steal their identity so as to go on a shopping-spree, unless they voted ‘correctly.’

“But the most appalling are those such as the primitive whose 92-year-old grandmother had been threatened with gang-rape by jackpiners, unless he relented and fell into line, supporting their candidate. 

“No wonder these primitives voted as they did, out of sheer terror.

“However, alas, even if legitimate claims of coercion and force, it won’t save any of them; when God said ‘abandon hope,’ God meant it. 

“After all, they all had their entire lifetimes, years, decades, to change their attitudes and their conduct, and didn’t.  And I suppose it might or might not be the case that even God gets tired of forgiving.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #109 on: June 14, 2018, 01:56:29 AM »
“This is horrible, horrible, ghastly, simply horrible,” I said to the buzzy one and flyarm as the three of us sat around the table of a teahouse in uppermost Vermont; finding the cuisine of Hell pretty bland, we’d temporarily skipped out to dine. 

The late red round one, the one-time “Andy Stephenson” primitive, now rechristened the gros garcon narcoleptique by flyarm, sat in the driver’s seat of our open carriage watching the horses and daintily dining on egg salad sandwiches, using his fingers as napkins and his tongue to clean them.

The bitter old Vermontese cali primitive was both our waitress and the cook.

I was still reading from a pile of petitions submitted to God and Satan by various primitives condemned to Lower Hell, the place of eternal damnation specially reserved for primitives who, ungrateful to the woman who’d resurrected their moribund political party back in 1992, instead supported the hoary old white-haired sourassed sourpuss crank from Vermont and his thieving wife.

Word had gotten around that, like Germany immediately following the second world war, one could erase one’s past if one could explain it—de-Nazification back in 1945-1946, de-Berniefication in 2017-2018, after which many inhabitants of Lower Hell scrambled to write petitions begging for forgiveness and clemency, getting them boosted up into Middle Hell, for regular primitives, where life was easier.

“This guy here,” I pointed out, “was hopping around in the sack with his wife one night when he was abruptly home-invaded by a bunch from the gimme crowd, telling him that unless he changed his allegiance from the worthier candidate for the Democrat nomination, to their candidate, they’d do really terrible things to him.

“The guy held his ground, and was finally kicked into the kitchen downstairs, where he was hung by his outstretched arms from the ceiling light, lit firecrackers inserted under his fingernails and toenails, his eyes blindfolded, a bowling pin jammed into his mouth as the gimme crowd laughed and jeered and tossed popsicles and thawed-out chicken pot pies at him.

“It didn’t help that he’d been brought down when he was, hopping around in the sack naked.

“After all eleven of the intruders threatened to do unspeakable things to his wife too, he relented, and promised to vote for the hoary old white-haired crank from Vermont, instead of his first and best choice, Messalina Agrippina.

“Worthy of de-Berniefication, I think, but alas for the primitive, he failed to convince God and Satan, and still resides down there in Lower Hell.

“That’s the beauty of Hell, where hope springs eternal in the primitives, and then inevitably gets dashed against the rocks of futility.”

The bitter old Vermontese cali primitive brought our orders to the table.

The buzzy one and flyarm were dining upon French cuisine, capon, escargot, pheasant under glass, and somesuch.   I dined on a large bowl of vanilla ice cream with skim milk topping it off.

“You’re not feeling well,” flyarm commented, “if you’re back to dining on that again.”

Right, I admitted; I have good days and bad days, and I was going through a long string of bad days, during which time my stomach could absorb only vanilla ice cream, milk, and peach yogurt without pain.

Of course, the diet’s a little more varied than that; Thursdays and Sundays for breakfast for example, I have one large whole-wheat pancake, butter but no syrup, topped with vanilla ice cream and fresh strawberries.  The pancake provides some badly-needed fiber.

And every Monday and Wednesday, for lunch, I have a bag of potato chips using vanilla ice cream as the “dip.”  It seems peculiar, but it fulfills another important dietary need; I’ve always subsisted on a diet void of fat and grease, but in my present condition, I need at least a little bit of grease, which the chips provide. 

And of course the chips are made of potatoes, a healthy vegetable upon which to dine.

The hospice people, along with friends of mine, and even the buzzy one and flyarm, have argued with me, failing to convince me, to consume from the cases of Ensure energy drink, insisting I must have those nutrients. 

However, as I’ve constantly pointed out, the energy drinks have a whooping 350 calories in each one, and it’s suggested that one have two for breakfast, if that’s all he’s going to bother eating.  Peach yogurt on the other hand has only 150 calories per container, and so I prefer to have two of those every morning instead.

Even if surplus weight isn’t a problem, no point in consuming more calories than what one needs; not being a primitive, I see nothing laudatory about being a glutton.

“You’ve really got to have a more varied diet,” flyarm insisted.

I pointed out two things; that I dine upon that which my stomach can, well, stomach, and while the hospice people don’t care much for what I eat, they don’t stop me from eating what I eat—it’s probably not the greatest diet, but at least it’s harmless.  I’m no primitive who chomps down on pounds and pounds of chocolates for breakfast, lunch, and supper.

There is a precedent for all this, I illuminated flyarm and the buzzy one; one of my sisters one time years ago, in writing about growing up with a defective younger brother (yeah, it got published, in one of those touchy-feely women’s magazines), commented that for days on end, there were times I drank only milk and ate only oranges.  Nothing else.

And I wasn’t eating anything on the sly, as I was too young and too ignorant to understand food could be kept, and consumed, from places other than the dining room table; I think I was eight years old, the very first time I looked inside a refrigerator.

Not that I was forbidden to; it just wasn’t anything whose mysteries (what was behind the door) interested me.  My parents, medical professionals, knew that my diet wasn’t great, but I was a handful, and they were grateful I ate anything at all, so I got away with it, milk and oranges every meal, every day, nearly all the time.

“You know,” I reminded my two companions, “I put down what I can, all that I can.

“And remember that November, December, and January, vanilla ice cream and milk and peach yogurt were the only things holding me in this time and place.

“I’m pretty sure it’ll get better again, but for right now it'll have to do.”

to be continued
« Last Edit: June 14, 2018, 02:07:56 AM by franksolich »

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #110 on: June 14, 2018, 03:15:16 AM »
“Is there any other medical advice you don’t take?” the buzzy one asked me.

Now, wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute, I protested.

“I’m no medical professional, and I will be the first to admit I don’t know shit about medicine.

“However, I know myself, and because I don’t use mind-altering pharmaceuticals that distort perception and judgement, I have a pretty good sense of how my body is, what my body needs.

“And when it comes to drugs, what my body can handle—that is the one talent for which I’ve always been complimented by medical professionals; I seem to know the maximum my body can take, and refuse to go further than that.

“I dunno how I know, just that I know.

“This was best illustrated a couple of months ago, when I was prescribed those ‘gabby’ pills—I disremember the real name, only that it sounds stupid and starts with ‘gab.’

“It was for neuropathic pain; neuropathy generally afflicts diabetics, and because of a sensibly moderate lifelong diet, I’m not diabetic—checked three times a year since I was in college (checked because it afflicted most members of my family), but for whatever other reasons, it afflicts me too.

“The physician prescribed 300 mg three times a day.  ’No,’ I said, ‘too much,’ even though I had nothing on which to back up my intuition.

“So then he lowered it to 200 mg two times a day.

“’Still too much,’ I insisted; ‘you’re going to overdose me—but I will try this, to see how it goes.

“It went, and it didn’t go well.

“So…..then he lowered it to 100 mg one time a day.

“’This might, or might not, work,’ I said, again with only my intuition and no knowledge of medicine to back me up.

“That was sufficient; it worked, but I ended up taking those pills only a month, until the woman who does my laundry found some compression stockings in the top drawer of my dresser.

“I’d gotten them last autumn, because of the major cardiac surgery I’d had.

“But it was autumn, and I was already wearing two layers of clothes, and these made getting dressed all the more cumbersome, so I used them a couple of times, and then put them away, forgetting all about them.

“Well, when they were rediscovered, it was nearing summer and they’d be easier to use, so I began wearing them.  Much to my amazement—something discovered by trial-and-error—those compression stockings alone were all I needed to control the pain; I didn’t need any more chemicals inside of me.

“And even more remarkable, even though they’re worn on the legs only, they also cleared up the jagged lightning-like spasms of sharp pain the hands and arms too.  A physician later confirmed for me that, yeah, that can happen.

“The current disagreement involves the blood pressure.  My heart recovered nicely from the surgery to replace a mitral valve, and installation a few months later of a pacemaker, because I wasn’t taking chemotherapy very well.  The heart’s probably in better shape than it’s been since Ronald Reagan was president.

“At first, I was using three different pharmaceuticals for blood pressure, because of course the surgery had messed things up, at least temporarily.  And then chemotherapy ****ed with it, too.

“The past six months, I’ve exited chemotherapy and the pacemaker’s had time to adjust, and in late winter, one of the three blood pressure medications was ceased.

“And then in late spring, because the blood pressure and heart-beat rate were so boringly—but nicely—consistent, one of the two remaining medications was also stopped, leaving me taking only 75 mg (one and a half tablets) of Metoprolol a day; some weeks ago I took it upon myself to reduce the dosage to 50 mg, and right now I’m taking only 25 mg, or half a tablet.

“I keep reducing the dosage because the blood pressure keeps gradually downhilling, keeping me tired all the time.  I have to submit readings twice a day to hospice, and they’re always something like 114/62, 120/64, 118/68, 106/58; along those lines, as you can see from this tape, this print-out, of readings.

The pulse rate’s been 59-60-61 consistently every day for months now.

“Now, medical professionals, who know more about this than I do, tell me those blood pressure readings are good, excellent, great, readings…..but I beg to differ.

“If those are such great readings, how come I’m tired all the time?  How come there’s days when I can barely move around?  When I was growing up—I guess it’s changed now—the ‘standard’ was 140/80 or 140/70 (I forget which).

“Now, I’ve never in my life changed a medication without first advising medical professionals, and I recently declared I’m going to quit this Metoprolol altogether, to see what happens; to see if I get more energy.

“I ‘monitor’ my condition three times a day, and accurately so.  If it appears to be a mistake, I can immediately go back to the pills, and in enough time so that no permanent harm’s been done.

“Medical opinion doesn’t think too highly of the decision, but at the same time it isn’t trying to stop me from at least trying it, to see what happens.  I’m pretty sure if I was doing something possibly fatal or insanely stupid, they’d tell me, and while they don’t like it, they at the same time haven’t said ‘no, don’t do it.’

“I suspect many medical issues people have is because they themselves don’t get involved in their own medical care; like so many primitives, they just sit back and expect the doctor to do it all.”

to be continued

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #111 on: June 20, 2018, 11:43:56 PM »
“Welcome back to Hell,” the buzzy one and flyarm said in unison as I sat down at their table across the street from the marching field.  “You were missed.”

Well, yeah, sorry about that, I said, “but as you know, things happen.”

“Did you manage to do anything interesting while you were down?” flyarm asked.

Uh-huh, another surprising discovery.

“As you know, I don’t do television—don’t even have one—and if I have a compelling need to watch something, it has to be on DVD in the computer.  While I was laid up, someone brought over a DVD of the first season of the BBC series Poldark.

“I’d heard of Poldark before, usually as a movie title in a newspaper story or magazine article, but just the title, and as it sounded as if a science fiction sort of movie, I paid it no attention.

“I was awed; couldn’t get enough of it, even after watching the same shows over and over again.  It was, well, awesome.

“Of course you know it’s nothing new to me, to watch the same thing over and over again, because I’m deaf and it takes me time and repetition to ‘get’ something.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched any of the several versions of War and Peace, and even with close-captioning and nuclear-powered headsets, I still see something I hadn’t noticed before every time I watch it.

“Anyway, Poldark, just as the 1989 French film La Revolution francaise is the best movie in the history of cinema, has to be the best series since television was first invented; I can’t think of anything on television possibly being better than Poldark.

“And it’s probably a minority opinion, but Jack Farthing, or Jack Sixpence, or whatever his name is, the villain of the series as the apprentice banker George Treleggen, is jaw-dropping awesome, probably the best actor ever, in the history of television.  I'm straight, but man, if I were gay, well--

“But anyway, what’s Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitive, doing over there on the marching field?”

The other two looked with me across the street at the authenticator of blackness on Skins’s island, seeing him attired in a cowboy outfit, or at least an easterner’s notion of what a “cowboy outfit” looks like, doing a shiffle-shuffle tap-dance to the music emanating from a box organ with a crank being turned by a miniature monkey.

I recognized the tune as being The Bear Went Over The Mountain, so ancient Richard the Lion-Hearted and his knights had marched to during a Crusade in the late twelfth century.

“You know,” I said, this is analogous to the situation in which Lamond finds himself; he’s dancing to the tune of the corrupt Democrat bosses.  He supposes himself the boss, the leader, but actually he’s only the marionette of a miniature monkey.”

“Don’t forget,” the buzzy one pointed out, “he thinks he’s in Hell already, but Hell hasn’t even started yet for him.  He hates white people so much, and because primitives in Hell are forced to endure those things they hated the most in life, he’s destined to be immersed in white civilization, white culture, white people, nothing but white people, for all of eternity.

“And woe if he shows the least little dislike of it.

“It’s just like with the sparkling old dude’s, the Stinky the Clown primitive’s much-younger trophy wife, the Sparkly primitive, who gets squeamish and uncomfortable when around black people.  She’s destined to be immersed into Lamond’s neighborhood in Detroit, seeing only black people and hearing only black people doing their hip-hop and rap and shiffle-shuffle.  Forever and ever.”

At that same time, hordes of primitives mobbed onto the field, chasing MrsCorpio off.  Most of them had socialist brooms, which short handles that compelled one to bend while sweeping, while others picked up trash using poles with a nail stuck at one end.

“What do you suppose they’re getting the field ready for?” I asked.

“Tomorrow’s the Festivus Lyndonus, a celebration during which all primitives who hated the 36th president of the United States, even though he gave them everything they wanted, all they wanted.

“Now that they’re here in Hell, they have to worship him, showering him with flowers and kisses and love and joy and gratitude for all he gave them.”

to be continued

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #112 on: June 22, 2018, 06:26:32 AM »
“What in the world are you doing?” the once-cbayer primitive asked when we bumped into each other while indulging in a Cook’s Tour of Hell.

“I mean, given your situation, shouldn’t you be more concerned about, uh, other things than mocking and ridiculing and laughing at the primitives?”

The cbayer primitive years ago had been prominent on Skins’s island, widely admired and respected as a fair and impartial moderator, but famous most of all for her participation in the once-flourishing cooking and baking forum, and that she and her eccentric English husband lived in a boat.

However, she’d met the same fate as Mrs. Alfred Packer, the hippywife primitive, whose husband Wild Bill, the hippyhubby primitive, had gotten jealous about all the attention his wife was giving the primitives; attention he thought better spent on him, and so had forced the Mrs. to leave Skins’s island.

Likewise, the cbayer primitive’s husband.

“It’s cool,” I assured her; “I’m not ignoring or neglecting any other duties and responsibilities so as to make merry of the primitives in whatever time I have remaining.

“As I’ve said before, upon getting the news back in April 2017, I immediately put all of my affairs into order, purchased a funeral annuity, distributed all the family heirlooms among the six nephews and their wives (since I’m the last of my generation in the family left), and got straight with God.

“All that being done, I sat back and asked, ‘Well, what next?’

“To which God answered,  ‘Well, since you got nothing else to do, no unresolved concerns in life,  you might as well do something that amuses, entertains, you.’

“’Well,’ I answered God, ‘I really really really like mocking and ridiculing the primitives.

“’Imagine how much different history had been, if people had laughed at Hitler and his socialist pals rather than revered him. 

“’The same thing with the primitives; they’re a gangrene on society, a parasite that consumes a healthy productive host, nasty, vicious, mean, narrow-minded, intolerant, resentful, hate-filled little people. 

“’They deserve to be wiped off the face of the earth.

“’However, it’s not nice to be genocidal, especially if one’s pro-life, and so better to laugh at them, mock them, ridicule them, denigrate them, make merry of them, so as to shame them into becoming better people.

“’One’s doing a public service for the Greater Good of Humanity, by exposing and publicizing the venalities and cupidities of the primitives, making decent and civilized people aware of their existence, and their vile deleterious attitudes and conduct upon both individuals in specific and society in general.’

“’Bravo,’ God said; ‘you’ve got nothing else going on, nothing else to worry about, so fire away, and burn the primitives good.’”

to be continued
 

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #113 on: June 28, 2018, 12:19:41 AM »
While the buzzy one and flyarm went off to buy some cotton candy from a vender on the marching grounds who’d opened a day early for the Festivus Lyndonus holiday, the biggest holiday of the year in Hell, and the late red round one, once the Andy Stephenson primitive, snoringly slumbered in the driver’s seat of the carriage, the cbayer primitive and I went to sit at a picnic table across the street from the large marching ground.

At first, we watched as the various venders for the Festivus came to set up their stands, from which they hoped to sell their wares to the large crowds that were expected, and I noticed Mrs. Alfred Packer, the long-ago hippywife primitive, and Wild Bill, the long-ago hippyhubby primitive, setting up a table.

Actually, they weren’t that hard to see, given that they’d come in a 1962 Snap-On Tool van that had been painted black and converted into a funeral hearse capable of carrying six caskets at a time.  On its sides, the text ran in a circle, WILD BILL & BROS. WHOLESALE UNDERTAKERS DISCOUNT FOR QUANTITY.

Wild Bill’s brother, the one with both eyes on the same side of his nose, was in the cab of the van, sleeping off homemade hooch from the mountains and forests of northeastern Oklahoma, near Arkansas.

Mrs. Alfred Packer was apparently selling hand-made earrings, which she also sold on the esty web-site, although the revenues went into hippyhubby’s own Paypal account, not hers.  She had them all, no matter their composition or design, priced at an even ten bucks.

“My God, these people are not stupid,” I said in admiration to the cbayer primitive.  “As you know, Wild Bill makes counterfeit ten-dollar bills, which he usually gives his wife to spend. 

“Now, probably most of their customers are going to offer a twenty-dollar bill for a pair of earrings, expecting ten dollars change.  Which they’ll get, but in a fake bill.  Ten bucks for hippywife (which she’ll have to turn over to hippyhubby anyway), and ten bucks for hippyhubby Wild Bill from a good twenty-dollar bill.”

Changing the subject, the cbayer primitive inquired how I was getting along; she was curious how I’d reacted, felt, when told I had a limited time left in this time and place.

“Actually, after about two seconds of stunned surprise—I was lying in bed at the hospital, recovering from a heart-valve replacement—I jolted myself right back into reality.  Our days are numbered as it is, and whether or not medical professionals get some sort of vague idea, make some sort of wild guess or speculation, doesn’t change anything, even if we don’t know, remain in the dark.

“My younger brother, about a month before he died, wrote me a letter in which he commented that statisticians had determined he had about fifty more years to live—but then about three weeks after that, he was dead, at the age of seventeen from an automobile accident.

“So much for ‘expected longevity.’

“I’m doing fine, and even though in hospice, there’s no outward signs that the inside of my torso is a cancerous mess.  I suppose in superficial appearances, I look utterly normal, utterly average.  It’s only an illusion, but whatever.”

She, the daughter of a Presbyterian minister or somesuch, asked me how I felt about dying. 

“Nothing,” I said; “given that I came from a very large family and outlived everyone else in it, including the in-laws and a couple of nieces, and that they started dying when I was in my late teens, Death isn’t any phenomenon new to me.

“My attitude’s based upon  two things, one of them Scriptural and the other secular; there’s Matthew 18:3, where we’re advised to not worry about it and to trust God to take care of the matter.  I’ve trusted God all my life—had to—and the trust has been well-placed.  God’s never let me down.

“And there’s that something from England during the 1920s, a snippet whose author I don’t know, ‘I asked the man at the gate so I may see my way through the night that lies ahead…..but then God said, ‘Take only My Hand, and I will lead you through the darkness better than any seen way.’

“Having been born deaf and with some, uh, perceptual problems, I’ve rarely been fully aware of things and conditions around me; many times I’ve trod heavily on thin ice and walked softly on solid ground.  I’ve walked into situations that looked innocuous but which were actually dangerous, and other situations that looked perilous but posed no hazards at all.

“But every time I said—every time, no exception ever, in my life—‘Okay, God I can’t figure this out; You take me through it,’ God bore me safely through it.

“The biggest example of this—although there’s been much more—was when I arrived into the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants and no one met me at the airport, as had been priorly arranged.  I knew nothing of the language, I knew no one there, I had no means of communication, and the secret police were hectoring me for money, of which I didn’t have a great deal.

“The telephone number given me had been erroneous, but the person—whom I did not know, and who did not know me--at the other end agreed to take me in anyway until the American embassy reopened…..in six days.

“When I got into the taxicab, I had absolutely no idea—but rather than trying to figure things out, trying to control things, trying to manipulate things, I just sat back and let God take care of all of it.

“I survived whole and intact, in a near-fifth-world country where I had absolutely no idea who people were, what they were saying and doing, and how I was to get out of this (surviving until the American embassy re-opened).

“Thus, one’s death; I'm eminently comfortable letting God handle it.  it’s just better to let God worry about it, myself just going along for the ride.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #114 on: June 29, 2018, 04:51:32 AM »
The buzzy one and flyarm came back to our table, bearing a ball of blue cotton candy about the size of a bushel basket, which they presented to the late red round one, the one-time Andy Stephenson primitive, who was driving our carriage, and who in his haste smeared his face and got his fingers all blue and sticky.

Something happened, and I wanted to go home, so the five of us came back here, although the gros garcon narcoleptique, as flyarm had dubbed the late red round one, had to sit on the bench on the front porch instead of coming inside with the rest of us.

We discussed attending the Festivus Lyndonus the following day, the biggest annual holiday in Hell, wondering if it would be good manners or not to take a camera, so as to catch pictures of primitives making asses of themselves.

flyarm, coming out of the bathroom, had obviously peeked inside the medicine cabinet, as she commented upon its inventory.

“Yeah, but remember,” I said, “I didn’t ask for them; they’re what hospice decides I need to have, and so whether or not I want them, I get them.  Having them however is not the same thing as using them.

“Normally people have some sort of insurance that covers drug prescriptions, but in the case of hospice, at least here, I get all the drugs free—actually, not free, as someone has to be paying for them, in this case taxpayers supporting Medicare—not Medicaid, but Medicare—and other insurance policyholders.

“A nurse comes here five times a week, and one of those times she checks the inventory, to be sure all’s fresh and there’s enough, in addition to bringing replenishments ordered the previous week.

“Despite this rather large inventory, I’ve been assured that I’m a cheap patient; apparently there’s some who cost more than a hundred, two hundred, bucks a month, and I’m not costing that much.

“I’m rather proud of this distinction, being a low-maintenance, low-cost patient, my parents having been in the hospital business and so my growing up sensitive to how much I was costing other people.  I’m costing them, but nothing like what primitives cost them.

“At times I’ve pointed out the dangers of having all these drugs here, given what they are.  Of course, controlled substances are controlled, but still, the rules demand that minimum amounts of this thing or that thing be around here, and convenient to get at in case they’re needed…..including the morphine.

“If the long-ago Taverner primitive, for example, knew of this stash, because of my weakened condition, my life wouldn’t be worth a wooden nickel if he wanted any of it.

“I’m not quite as concerned about the controlled substances as I am about the morphine, none of which I’ve ever used.  I’m not sure why I even have it, as it has to be injected by needle, and there’s no way in Hell I can inject myself.

“They point out that two of the people who see me every day—the neighbor and the business partner—are paramedics, and competent to inject—and that four others who are also out here every day—the neighbor’s wife, the property manager, and the non-English-speaking Texans Joe and Jose, know at least some things about the matter, and can do something in a pinch.

“Well, okay, but there’s that danger of getting addicted to it.

“God admires fortitude, so it’s better to simply endure pain rather than cover it up.

“And a lot of the non-dangerous drugs—for diarrhea, for constipation, for upset stomach, for throat clearance, some sort of injections for stabilizing the blood, whatnot—date from when I was undergoing chemotherapy and so haven’t been used since Christmas Eve last year, but I’m instructed to keep them handy ‘just in case.’

“As someone who used to boast—and for decades too—about how I was drug-free, only ever using plain cheap aspirin as needed, God, I’ve surely fallen low.”

to be continued

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #115 on: June 30, 2018, 09:25:07 PM »
When I was recovered, the five of us—the buzzy one, flyarm, cbayer, the late red round one, and I—went back to Hell, but found that our picnic table across the street from the large marching ground had been taken by someone else in our absence.

So we sat in the carriage for a while, the two women in their hoop skirts and with their parasols, and the two men in beaverskin top hats and with the canes. 

Not that the buzzy one needed a cane, but rather from watching me with mine, he’d seen it was a handy way of communicating with the driver of our carriage, dubbed the gros garcon narcoleptique by flyarm, by sharply rapping him on the head or the shoulder so as to get his attention.

“You know, this is really odd,” flyarm said, “there’s going to be thousands and thousands of primitives gathered here tomorrow for the Festivus Lyndonus—in fact, just about every primitive born between 1945 and 1960—and it’s reasonable to assume they all have bladders and bowels.

“So where are the port-a-potties?”

It’s not necessary, I illuminated her, because there’s already permanent restroom facilities right next to the marching ground.  “See that plain concrete building over there, the one the size of Grand Central Terminal, the one with just a door and no windows, only narrow slits near the top, and the concrete walls going up for about three feet are damp and starting to rot?

“It’s not a pretty sight, and even uglier inside, but you know, this is Hell, and the primitives can’t expect better, for all the sins they’ve committed, the crimes against humanity they’ve done, and the evils they’ve perpetuated.

“In fact, they’re damned lucky that at least it’s porcelain plumbing in there, with water.”

We walked inside where, in a room about as large and spacious as the waiting room of the now-gone Pennsylvania Station hundreds and hundreds of white commodes with black “u”-shaped seats and no lids lined all four walls, about two feet apart from each other, no partitions of any sort in between.

It had those easy-to-mop octagonal while tiles on the floor occasionally interrupted with a black one.  And wide open, making all in there easily visible to all eyes.

“This is Hell,” I again reminded flyarm; “where the designs and layouts of things are intended to humiliate, to degrade, by watching everybody else taking a shit.  It ends up making people think of themselves and others as mere soulless animals and other beasts.

“And as we all know, Democrats, liberals, and primitives don’t want us thinking about the dignity and aesthetics of man, because it makes us more independent, less amenable to control and manipulation.

“And also makes us forget God, Who created us.  They don’t want us thinking about God.”

There was a strong foul feticular odor that overhung the place, despite its vast size and high ceilings and that, as far as one could see, there was nobody inside using the facilities.  But the place was pretty big, and one had walk around for some distances to see it all.

Then we saw it; walrus-face, the “DainBramaged” primitive, the sparkling old dude, the “Stinky the Clown” primitive, and Omaha Steve sitting in a row on three commodes, their pants down to their ankles, visibly pumping themselves empty.

None of them paid us any heed, or to each other.  Walrus-face was sitting reading a dirty magazine on his lap, the sparkling old dude had fallen asleep, his head tilted back and his mouth wide open, and Omaha Steve as he sat there dined upon mini-tacos from a bag.

“Hmmmm,” I said, taking out a notebook.  They’re probably all shirking work, but I’ll give the first two a break, because as far as I know, it’s not a problem with them.  But the big guy from Bellevue is obviously shirking work, and so I’ll report him.”

For most of the primitives, excepting for emptying the bladder, there’s a restriction of one trip to the restroom every eleven-hour working day. 

But an exception had to be made for Omaha Steve, who’d gained, not lost, weight, since arriving into Hell.  In an effort to get him to eat less, he’d been given only one sitting-down trip to the restroom every ten days, it being hoped he would be discouraged from putting down too much food that ultimately needs ejected.

The less that comes in, the less that has to go out.

“Yeah, I’ll report him,” I repeated, “and when he starts dropping some lardage, he’ll thank me.”

to be continued

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #116 on: July 01, 2018, 07:38:59 PM »
Night was falling, it was getting dark, and the only illumination in Hell was from the small fires built by the primitives who were hoping to hawk their goods during the upcoming Festivus Lyndonus, and camping on the parade ground overnight.

Since we had nothing better to do, the buzzy one, flyarm, cbayer, and I sat back and relaxed in the parked carriage and talked.  We were tingling with so much anticipation none of us would be able to sleep anyway.

The late red round one, the narcoleptic fat boy who drove the horses pulling the carriage dined on some egg-salad sandwiches, after which he licked his fingers clean and fell asleep in a sitting position.

“What’s the purpose of this holiday, this Festivus Lyndonus?” asked cbayer.  The buzzy one and flyarm were ready to explain to her when I elbowed in, saying that as I was so passionate about it, it was my thing to tell.

“Here in Hell, the primitives have to deal with things they hated the most while in life—if they hated to work, they’re doomed to work through eternity; if they hated God, they’re doomed to attending church services two times a day, three on Sundays; if they hated Rush Limbaugh, they’re doomed to listening to him 24/7/365, again through eternity.

“If they’re women’s-libbers who hated men, they’re doomed to spending eternity with men, and men only, none of their sisters allowed.  If they hated Fox News, they’re doomed to having it broadcast within hearing-and-seeing distance wherever they’re at in Hell.  If they hated competitive sports, they’re doomed to play all eternity long. 

“For example, he doesn’t know it yet, but Lamond, the MrsCorpio primitive, who hates white people more than he hates anything else in the world, is fated to spend the eternity immersed in the white world, the white culture, white people.

“There was some concern though, given his lip-smacking lust for white blonde women, and he’s not in Hell for pleasure.  The problem’s been taken care of by lacing his food with saltpeter, so as to keep him from getting hot and excited.

“And…..there’s primitives who hated Lyndon Johnson; in fact, just about every primitive born between 1945 and 1960 hated the hapless president with an intense passion.

“I could never figure out this hate.  I was a kid, but I recall how all the older brothers and sisters, having evolved into sour dour negative hippies, cursed him and went to work in the presidential campaigns of Eugene McCarthy and Bobby.

“This astounded me; it seemed strange, how all the people Lyndon Johnson had given things, instead of being grateful and kissing his ass, hated him.  He did more for the poor, the young, the old, the crippled, the students, the women, the blacks, the browns, the blue collars, the “artists,” the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, than all of the presidents before him.  Of course, he did it with other people’s money, not his, but anyway…..

“And he had to compete with that primitive cult of Jack the Father, Bobby the Christ, and Teddy the Holy Ghost, much adulated and beloved by the same people whose lives, he, Johnson, had bettered.  Never mind that these three guys never did anyone but themselves a damned bit of good; the poor, the young, the old, the crippled, the students, the women, the blacks, the browns, &c., &c., &c. adored them anyway.

“While hating the man who actually gave them things.

“It’s true there was Vietnam, but what was Vietnam, when compared with all these good things?

“From about the time I was ten years old, I got it, I understood that no good deeds go unpunished.  The hippies, the students, the minorities, the poor, &c., &c., &c. should’ve been kissing his ass, but the more he gave them, the more they kicked his ass instead.

“Well, Lyndon Johnson went, one reasonably assumes, to a high position with God decades ago.  But he was still owed something, by all those to whom he’d given much.

“And so once a year here in Hell, because they hated him so much in life, the age-appropriate primitives are obligated to come here to thank and worship Lyndon Johnson, to sing his praises, to make a joyful noise for his having been.

“The ‘age appropriate’ primitives, for whom attendance and a certain dress is mandatory, are those born between 1945 and 1960, which is about 99% of the primitives on Skins’s island, so it makes for a pretty big crowd.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #117 on: July 08, 2018, 08:57:53 PM »
It was getting darker now, but the buzzy one, flyarm, cbayer, and I stayed in our seats in the open carriage to await the early morning events of the Festivus Lyndonus, the biggest annual holiday in Hell, because it would’ve been too much trouble finding a place to sleep.

Over time, more and more primitives congregated on, or near, the marching ground, bearing flaming torches, making it look very much like a socialist party rally in Nuremberg circa 1935.

“That’s odd,” I said; “I thought the torchlight parade wasn’t until the evening of the festival, and this is only the evening before—“

“They’re practicing,” Skippy abruptly interrupted me in the darkness.  Skippy, once the NYC_SKP primitive on Skins’s island, is now Satan’s right-hand man, and the vice-president of public relations for Hell.

“By the way, the Boss wants to see you the day after tomorrow,” Skippy continued; “your project for expanding, remodeling, and improving Hell is going way over budget, and you need to slow it down.

“Satan had a real fit when he saw you’re planning on putting air-conditioning in the skyboxes of the stadium you’re building.  ‘Damn it,’ the Boss said, ‘tell that no-earred idiot that the purpose of Hell precludes any use of air-conditioning, so he needs to take that out.’”

“You know,” I said, “I’m really surprised.  I know the power of Satan, and that if Satan wished, I could be zapped into nothingness in a millionth of a second.  I’m truly, awesomely, surprised it didn’t happen a long time ago, given how much irritation and aggravation I cause the Boss.”

“But don’t forget,” Skippy reminded me, “when you were created, came into being, God pulled Satan aside and said, ‘He’s Mine; harm him, and You’ll feel My Wrath like You’ve never felt the Wrath of God before.

“’No matter how much he pisses you off, just leave him alone.’

“Well, the Boss has felt the Wrath of God before, and decided it best to tolerate, to abide, to endure you.”

Yeah, I said.  “God’s always taken good care of me.”

“By the way,” I reminded Skippy, “that was a stroke of genius on your part three years ago, when you steered the primitives on Skins’s island away from the worthier candidate for the Democrat nomination for president, to the old grouch from Vermont.

“It was so cool, the way you did it.  No one, but no one had ever given the old grouch a single thought—especially not for the presidency—until you pulled his name out of a hat and announced him to the primitives as an alternative to Messalina Agrippina.

“Being a leader on Skins’s island before you were kicked off, you had quite a following, and they fell into line in hordes, in crowds, in mobs.

“Of course you didn’t like the worthier candidate because she’s a strong, assertive, self-confident woman, and for subconscious reasons, strong, assertive, self-confident women scare you.

“But it’s not wholly your fault; the whole Democrat party has been waging war on women since they first got the right to vote nearly a hundred years ago; you’re just another one of them—“

“I had to do it,” Skippy interjected; “we were running out of room in Upper Hell, where regular Democrats and liberals are sent, and in Middle Hell, where primitives from Skins’s island are sent.

“And we had this vast real-estate deeper down, Lower Hell, but no one to people it.

“That is, until the Bernie-ites came along, and now it’s filling up faster than Grand Central Terminal at rush-hour.”

to be continued
   
« Last Edit: July 08, 2018, 09:00:45 PM by franksolich »

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #118 on: July 08, 2018, 10:05:51 PM »
After Skippy left us, with my cane I prodded le gros garcon narcoleptique, as flyarm had christened our driver upon first meeting him, the always-sleeping fat boy, or the late red round one, once the Andy Stephenson primitive on Skins’s island, to see if he were still alive.

The way he was, sometimes there was some doubt about that.

He jerked awake, and then went back to sleep again.

flyarm asked me about visitors I’d had when all of us were at my place because of considerable discomfort I was enduring, two people from hospice in the big city.

“I’m not sure their exact titles, but I’d call them ‘auditors,’ because they come every other month to check things out, to be sure I’m being treated as I’m supposed to be treated.

“They nose around a lot, as if they hope to find things wrong, so they can go back and yell-and-scream at the nurses.  But nurses get yelled-and-screamed at a lot, and I won’t have it.  They never find anything wrong—that is, until today, when they found two things.

“The first was they finally noticed the smoke alarm didn’t work—and in fact hadn’t worked since Ronald Reagan was president.  They said I had to have an operable smoke alarm, and if I wanted, the hard-pressed taxpayers would pay for one for me.

“I asked what for, and they said, ‘Well, in case there’s a fire—‘

“To which I responded, ‘I’m deaf; I wouldn’t hear it anyway.

“Then they said, ‘Well, you could have one with a blinking red light—‘

“No good, I said; ‘Just like the telephone with its bright flashing lights—in three colors, red, white, and blue—I wouldn’t know it was going off unless I was sitting there looking at it.

“’And besides, I wouldn’t know it was going off if I were asleep, which I am eight hours a day.

“’I’m deaf; I know what works, and what doesn’t work, and I can tell you that anything contrived by hearing people for deaf people is a piece of junk, worthless, useless.’

“They insisted that the county code, even in this generally regulation-free county, requires a smoke alarm.

“I said okay, fine; that I’ll go to the county board of supervisors and request an exemption from this rule, because as a deaf person, a smoke alarm would imperil my safety and well-being.

“The real point of it is that I’ve endured my whole life putting up with hearing people insistent upon telling me what I need, rather than allowing me, a competent person, to describe what I need.

“Hearing people don’t know shit what our world’s like; they don’t know shit what we need, what we want.  They never ask us, they just tell us, and I’m tired of it.

“And because I’m not doing anything else in particular, I got plenty of time to fight something on a matter of principle, in this case it being that I myself am the best judge of what works for a deaf person, than are hearing people, who have no idea, no ****ing idea.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #119 on: July 09, 2018, 07:31:19 PM »
“What was the other thing?” flyarm asked me.  “You said there were two things they found wrong.”

Yeah, I said; besides the nonworking smoke alarm, when checking the supply of pharmaceuticals, it was discovered that I had no nitroglycerin pills, which apparently is mandatory for all patients in hospice who’ve dealt with cardiac issues in the past.

“No one could remember why, but I wasn’t too upset about the omission; after all, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to die of a heart attack.  Unlike primitives in the lorgnette-and-pearl crowd who think they’re smarter than anyone else, I’m not absolutely sure, only pretty sure.

“Now, a year or so ago, that looked a real possibility.  I’d had the mitral valve in the heart replaced in April, during which operation it was found I had stage three cancer all over my insides.  Despite that the condition was deemed terminal, as they were already doing it, they replaced the mitral valve anyway.

“The next six months, as I was recovering from the heart surgery, at the same time I was going downhill because I couldn’t handle chemotherapy.  This tug-of-war between healing the heart, and succumbing to the cancer, put me into the hospital several times that spring, summer, and autumn.

“The heart was healing, but it was highly unstable.  The cardiologists wanted to install a pacemaker, but the oncologists said no, leave it alone so I’d ultimately have a fatal heart attack.”

flyarm looked at me in alarm.

It was okay, I said; “I was already aware that if given a choice between dying of a heart attack and dying of cancer-of-everything, it’s best to die of a heart attack.  Quicker, cleaner, less painful.  So I said okay, fine.

“But in mid-November, the oncologists came around to the same opinion as the cardiologists; the instability of the heart was interfering with my absorbing the consequences of chemotherapy, and so perhaps it was best I have a pacemaker, to keep the heart strong and healthy—which it by then was—so as to handle the chemotherapy better.

“A pacemaker was installed, no problems, the day before Thanksgiving, and immediately stabilized the heart, keeping it in steady rhythm.  But on Christmas Eve, because of other problems with chemotherapy, I tossed in the towel and gave up, entering hospice, end-of-life care.

“Like the Energizer bunny, the heart kept pumping away.  It’s early July now, and tapes of the vital signs taken twice a day since late December show the heart-beat rate consistently—consistently—59-60-61 beats per minute.  No variations at all, not even a blip up into 62 or down in 58.  Just those three numbers, no others.

“The blood pressure constantly in the 120-110/65-55 range, only rarely higher or lower, and if so, never more than by ten points.  Here’s a mile of paper tape that shows that.

“And whatever measures the oxygen absorption rate, where anything above 90 is considered good—it goes up only to 100—generally always 96 or 97.  Ever since late December.  All the time.

“Now, I’m no medical professional, but to this layman it seems I’m not in any imminent danger of a heart attack, much less of dying from one.  The heart’s just working too well, too smoothly.

“I could be wrong, but that makes sense to me.  I don’t have to worry about a heart attack.”

“Which means you’ll die of cancer,” flyarm said, “and it’s likely to be rough, unless you go to Lourdes, or get some of Omaha Steve’s magic curative for terminal ailments.”

“I have no idea what dying from cancer—especially if it’s already taken over most of the body—is like,” I replied.  “Cancer’s not anything that runs in my family, at least going back four generations.  Nobody’s had it.

“I imagine it’s pretty terrible, but I think I have a good chance of dying of any one of four other things before cancer takes me down.”

to be continued

Offline franksolich

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Re: Paradise Lost: the primitives in Hell
« Reply #120 on: July 13, 2018, 11:12:29 PM »
“You pop in, you pop out, and then you pop back in,” flyarm commented as I rejoined her, the buzzy one, and cbayer back in the carriage.

“Yeah, I know,” I replied, "but I got no control over how my body feels, and as there’s no rhyme or reason, no rhythm, no pattern, to it, it’s all very random.”

I rapped the late red round one, the long ago Andy Stephenson primitive, or as flyarm calls him, le gros garcon narcoleptique on the head with my cane, so as to wake him up, after which I directed him to simply drive around aimlessly, so we could see all the primitives coming for the Festivus Lyndonus.

“You said you don’t anticipate dying of a heart attack,” cbayer commented, “but that there’s probably four others things that’ll get you, one hopes before the cancer does.”

Uh huh, I replied; “I don’t see how a heart as healthy as mine currently is could go bad, but of course I’m no medical professional.  And I’m a little bothered with this nitroglycerin stuff, which I received only this past week.

“My father, and then my second oldest brother, were the only people I ever saw using them for extreme cardiac pain, and while they seemed to know what they were doing, I’m not at all confident I could react the same way.

“I pop a pill into my mouth, and my reaction is to swallow it, to get it down.

“Apparently you can’t do that with nitroglycerin, though.  You’re supposed to put it underneath your tongue, and wait five or ten or sixty seconds or something—I dunno how long--before swallowing it.

“If I were having a heart attack, I don’t think I’d remember to do that.  I think I’d just pop it into my mouth and immediately swallow it.

“But whatever; unless God wills otherwise, I don’t believe a heart attack’s in my future.  I think, based upon family history, that there’s probably a 60% chance I’ll die—if I die before the cancer gets me—from a blood clot in the leg that’s gotten loose and swam up into the heart or a lung.

“And based upon my personal history, there’s probably a 30% chance I’ll die of a cerebral aneurysm, and probably when I’m straining too hard to hear someone, to understand someone.  I’ll push myself too hard to ‘get it,’ and pop! A blood vessel in the brain breaks open.

“And the usual 5% chance I’ll perish in an accident, and 5% of a chance I’ll be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and succumb to some act of crime or violence.

“I’m the last one in my large family, and all the rest of them tended to die at an earlier age than I am now, from the afflictions and ailments of affluence, the too-easy, too-secure, too-comfortable, sort of life. 

“I suspect we were genetically made for a hardscrabble life,  as when looking at my family tree going back six generations in some branches, I’ve noticed the ones who were dirt-poor lived long and interesting lives, while the ones who attained affluence died in their 40s and 50, including of course my own parents.

“Struggle keeps one going, I guess.

“It’s been a hard life with little or no financial and career stability, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.  It’s been a good life, but a tumultuous, convulsive one too, and I’m worn out, drained.”

to be continued