RANDY & PATRICIA JOIN THE NRA

RANDY & PATRICIA JOIN THE NRA

By:  Randy Gillis

 

 

 

 

Because guns don't kill people.  Lesbians with guns kill people
(and if there's one thing scarier than a pack of rabid hillbillies armed to the teeth, it's Patricia...packing heat). 

 

 

There are few subjects that are off-limits in our respective homes.  Guns would be on that short list.  Patricia knows that no firearm of any kind shall enter my home (a place where 'short, controlled bursts' means something completely different).  And I know that 'no hippy, pinko, commie, anti-gun, pussified propaganda' (Patricia's words, not mine) shall enter hers. 

Until now everything was going smoothly because we knew the rules and we followed them.  I remain silent with each new mass shooting and she moves the higher caliber ammunition off her couch so I can sit.


But with the media, the church, and the politicians telling us that the world could just apocalypse at any moment, Patricia decided that I needed to re-think my position on owning a gun.

 To this point, my relationship with guns has been nonexistent.  I had no thoughts on the subject one way or another.  I do have a vague childhood memory of my father trying to teach me how to shoot.  I don't remember what kind of gun it was.  It was one of those long ones (rifle maybe?).  Anyway, all I remember was how heavy it was, how loud it was and how my shoulder hurt after I fired it.  I also remember how scared I was of it (my poor dad, the hell he must have gone through trying to man-me-up).  I was obviously not going to be the hunting partner he was hoping for.
 

After that, guns were never a part of my life.  My family was pretty well split down the middle between 'gun people' and 'not gun people' with the former being what I would consider...very enthusiastic.  To me, guns were like little league, high school PE, and heterosexuality.  I just had no interest at all.

So how I wound up back at the VFW, sitting next to Patricia as we listen to one hysterical NRA representative after another drone on and on about various constitutional violations and revolutionary-type scenarios, I'll  never know.  It was nice to see Slim and the rest of the folks I met at the militia meeting/revival I recently attended with Patricia.  In fact, the crowd was pretty much identical.

As the never ending barrage of vein-popping, flop-sweat producing, oddly sensual proselytizing continued, I decided to duck out for a while and astral projected myself to a happy place.  Anywhere where Harrison Ford is holding a whip.

The words 'arming our teachers' jolted me violently back to a sitting position.  I looked over at Patricia.  "Did I just hear what I think I heard?" I whispered.  She nodded in the affirmative.  "No offense," I continued, "but your peeps need better spokes models, someone less....slatheringly insane."  "These idiots are not my peeps," she said tersely. 

I can't deny that I was a bit relieved to hear her say that.  I had always considered Patricia to be one of those 'responsible gun-owners' you often hear about but are evidently invisible to the media.  All snark aside, she takes her weapons very seriously and, because of her military training, very responsibly.  I have to respect that.

As yet another old, fat, white man sporting mutton chops and wearing a leather vest hobbled to the podium I leaned over and informed Patricia that the only thing this meeting has inspired me to do is to go home and throw out all my leather vests.  I also decided to begin organizing the country's first 'Guns for Dildos' campaign. 

There was really only one reason I was still sitting there.  I was waiting for Ted, The Earl of Nugent to show up.  It's how Patricia conned me into going in the first place. 

I leaned over to her.  "You said he'd be here," I complained.  She silently pointed to the man behind the podium.  I stared at him until I finally saw through the crazy and sighed with relief.  As I started to unfasten my pants, Patricia grabbed my hand.  "What are you doing!" she screamed in a whisper.  "I'm going to throw my underwear at him," I calmly stated.  "You don't think I came here to listen to him talk, do you?"

 

 

 



WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH STACEY CAMPFIELD!

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH

STACEY CAMPFIELD?

By:  Randy Gillis

 

 

 

Dear Stacey,

 

I apologize for that outburst but those were the exact words I used when I read about your newest 'idea'.  But sometimes there's just no better word.  Any hoodle, here's the skinny.  You are getting a bit of heat from your latest shenanigans and, well, I want to play too.

 

From the Huff Post article: 

 

"Campfield's legislation, filed Thursday, would "require the reduction of Temporary Assistance to Needy Families (TANF) payments for parents or caretakers of TANF recipients whose children fail to maintain satisfactory progress in school."  TANF is more commonly referred to as welfare.  Under Campfield's bill, welfare recipients would face a loss of benefits if their children showed poor academic performance.  It's unclear how these factors would be tied to one another, or how the

children's performance would be assessed."



Oh Stacey, I've missed you since the infamous 'Don't say gay' bill misfortune.  But, I say let's let bygones be bygones and focus on this newest resume-worthy accomplishment. 

You have likened your bill to similar programs in Brazil and other countries.  The Brazil program is called Bolsa Familia (Family Grants) and, like similar programs, it stems from one basic idea; "Conditional Cash Transfers."  These programs have certain conditions that must be met in order to receive ADDITIONAL monies.  Some of these conditions include "keeping your children in school, taking them for regular medical check ups, and sending the mothers to workshops on subjects like nutrition or disease prevention," (all paid for).  And, "families in extreme poverty get a basic benefit of about $40.00/month....WITH NO CONDITIONS."  


I can see why you would want to be associated with these programs.  They seem reasonable, compassionate and successful at reducing poverty levels in these countries.  Oh, except that, I guess you figured those programs could be improved by flipping them from a 'reward' program to a 'punishment' program. 

I've included a link to a great article that I think you have completely misunderstood (starting with the title:  TO BEAT BACK POVERTY, PAY THE POOR).  I urge you to give it another read:

 

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/01/03/to-beat-back-poverty-pay-the-poor/

Oh, and Stacey, I'm including the little diddy below, not because I believe in Jesus.  I was hoping you could help me proofread it, because I can't seem to find the part: "Must maintain a C average in Algebra to qualify." 

 

Luke 14:12-14 He said also to the one who had invited him, "When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."

Your pal,
Randy

 

SNUGGLE BUNNIES TO THE RESCUE

 

 

SNUGGLE BUNNIES TO THE RESCUE

By:  Randy Gillis

As I was drying my tears following the 30th episode of I SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE, something kept nagging at me.  Homophobia (yes, I will continue to use the word until they come up with a better one) is a great plague upon mankind. 

When the survival situation progresses to include extreme cold (as they invariably do) some of the male survivors would, during their interview, describe the moment that apparently haunts every straight man alive.  The moment when snuggling becomes inescapable from (and only slightly preferable to), their current situation.

I listened as some of the men would feel the need to drive home the fact the it was basically snuggle or die.  There was no other way to survive (and by god they tried everything).

Really?

I watched a truck load of hunters trapped in the back of a truck, in the middle of a blizzard, shivering with at least 6 inches of space between them.  The last time I was in the back of a truck with a group of guys, in the middle of a blizzard, we had to roll the windows down it got so hot....but that's another story.


Has homo-paranoia really gotten to the point that the only way men can touch anymore is through an act of violence, a team sport, or clinging to life on a raft in the middle of the Arctic ocean?



Are men afraid that gay sex needs just half a reason to happen and that a cold desert night with no food and severe dehydration, surrounded by wolves, with no fire-making abilities....would be more than reason enough?  Do men think that if their lips penetrate that territorial bubble that french kissing is an inevitability?

Are men secretly terrified of having a 'Brokeback Moment'?

Well, fellas, let me put all those fears to rest.  I snuggle with Patricia all the time.  Snuggling is AWESOME, I don't care who you snuggle with.  In all our logged snuggle hours, we never once crossed that line.  Ever.  Period.  Because we sexually disgust each other, and because snuggling and sex are different animals (both pretty darn awesome and ideally can occur on the same encounter, but different).

 Maybe for straight guys snuggling in a survival situation is a bit awkward with someone you don't know very well, but consider this; since it's difficult to hate a stranger ( I know that's not really true, but for the sake of argument...), I would suggest less talk, and just dive right in.  Wow, I think I just unraveled the mystery of the 70's. 

So what's the worst that can happen?  In all the survival situations involving narrow, ice-covered cliff edges, unexpected gale-force winds, one sleeping bag, and no hope for rescue that I've been in (and there have been dozens), only a small percentage (82-83% tops) ended with maybe a quick handy.

And what's wrong with that?




Just remember the number one rule of survival.  When you find yourself  on the summit of Mt. Everest with hurricane winds, no oxygen and in the grips of cerebral edema and you turn and see me smiling....what happens in the 'death zone' stays in the 'death zone'. 

 

 



 

ROCK-CLIMBING LESBIANS DON'T CRY

 

 

ROCK-CLIMBING LESBIANS DON'T CRY

By:  Randy Gillis

 

 

I was sitting in my office, quietly minding my own business when I heard the back door open.  I listened as Patricia raided the fridge for a Dew before continuing on to my office.  I looked up from the computer and saw her standing in the doorway.  "We won't so much as go to Walmart without at least 4 gallons of water...each," I proclaimed.  "I have also ordered a cell-phone utility belt capable of holding 3 cell phones and 14 fully charged batteries.  I also took the liberty of scheduling us both for surgically implanted GPS devices.  Oh, and we will never climb...ANYTHING!"




She pulled up a stool and sat beside me.  "What are you yammering on about?" she asked as she looked at the screen.  "Oh, I get it," she said.  "So how long have you been watching I SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE?" 


This is my 14th episode and I'm convinced that this is the greatest show on earth!  I can't believe how much I've learned, starting with just exactly how totally for granted we take water...and chap stick.  And that's just the beginning.  I also learned that when the 'weather suddenly turns' and it ALWAYS turns, it never works to your advantage, and that being lost for a certain amount of time triggers an involuntary psychological mechanism that causes virtually 100% of people to start screaming when they hear a helicopter (which reminds me, I want the man who survived his plane crash AND the crash of the rescue helicopter that picked him up, to go with me to buy lottery tickets), and that some people (all of the ones on this show anyway) have a pathological need to leave their cell-phones in the gloove compartment.

"Which episode is this?" Patricia asked.  "Two women are going for a hike.  Oh, and we are never hiking again either," I added.  "I'm not sure," I continued, but I think one of these  girls is heterosexual."  "Don't be ridiculous," Patricia said.  "Heterosexual women don't hike.  And what have I told you about that word," she scolded.  "Look, " I protested, "when I say 'girl' it is a term of endearment.  Fags call each other girl all the time.  And I  still say she is putting off a straight vibe." 

As we watched, Patricia rattled off about a thousand things that the lead woman did wrong, like I couldn't figure out it's probably a bad idea to take someone with no rock-climbing experience up a vertical wall (I guess it's hard to put your foot down when you have a straight girl crush on your lesbian guide).


"I think you're right," Patricia conceded.  "That woman might be straight.  Hot, but straight."  "Well, I think we both know what's going on here," I concluded.  "She's obviously bi-curious and hopes to impress her older, wiser, butcher guide.  But isn't an impromptu rock climb a bit extreme just to score some experimental 'P'?" I asked.  "You don't know that's what she's doing!  And for the last time, it's experimental 'V'!" Patricia screamed.  "And just what the hell would you know about it anyway," she continued, "You're still stuck in the 'yawn with arm-stretch' phase." 



We watched, riveted, as the women continued their climb.  "I should take you rock climbing," Patricia said.  "Yeah," I said, "maybe we could do that right after the triathlon and just before my iron man qualifying thingy."  "Oh, you can do it," she said.  "These women are just making bad decisions that's all."   "First of all," I lectured, "climbers are born, not made."  I pointed to the computer screen.  "I give you examples A and B.  One is a climber (who makes bad decisions) the other is a straight girl who can't climb (and makes bad decisions).  But my point is, when both of these women wind up on this show, it is a clear indication that...RANDY WILL NEVER CLIMB!"


I told Patricia to be quiet, the end of the episode is coming, and with it, if the past 14 episode are an indication, a good cry.  She scoffed at me.  I watched as the women (screaming at the helicopter) are spotted.  They embrace and are crying with joy.  Cue inspiring music and......tears!  It works every time, now for 15th time.  Patricia usually laughs at me when I cry at movies.  I'm usually thrilled to be crying.  It means (as manipulated as it is) that I can still feel something.

Of course Patricia isn't laughing this time, she's too busy searching for a Kleenex.



 



DROOPY DRAWERS AND PRISON WHORES

DROOPY DRAWERS AND PRISON WHORES

By:  Randy Gillis

I try to stay out of the fashion fray (anyone who’s seen me knows why) but I’ve noticed something circulating around Facebook that put my panties in a bunch.  I’ve seen it in a few different variations but it goes something like this:

To all you guys who “sag” your pants and show your butt and underwear…did you know it originated in prison?  It was a signal to the other MEN that you are “available”.  So if you wanna keep going around looking like you’re “available” for another dude to “tap that” then keep thinking you’re cool while I think you look like a Fool!!!  BTW it’s called PBS (Prison Bitch Syndrome). LOL Pass this on to the droopy pants that you know.”

It irritated me but I decided to let it go…until…

I stopped at a convenience store to grab a Pepsi and as I approached the checkout counter what should I see, but a posted “warning” to guys coming in with sagging pants that was nearly word-for-word what I had seen on Facebook, complete with a picture of two young men with their backs to us, pants sagging and presenting like a couple of Hee Haw Honeys in heat.  That was the final straw.


I happen to be personally acquainted with several hardened felons and they tell me it actually goes more like this:

Prisoner 1:  Hey, do you want to have sex?
Prisoner 2:  No thanks, I’m good. (taps finger on chin)  But if my parole falls through, ask me again.

 

 

So I was suspicious about this claim from the start.  It just didn’t “feel” gay to me.  It doesn’t have the subtly of say, a system of color coded hankies or a complex series of toe-tapping in the men’s room.  A quick stop at Snopes.com confirmed my fears:

 

“While sagging did gain its start in the U.S. prison system, it was not a clothes-wearing style authored by imprisoned homosexuals intent upon advertising their interest in casual flings.  Sagging pants became the behind-the-bars thing thanks to ill-fitting prison-issue garb…coupled with the lack of belts in the big-house.” 

So why go to the trouble of trying to tie this fashion statement to gay sexual availability?  Even Snopes.com noticed it:

The most intriguing aspect of the “trolling for gay sex” rumor lies not in its veracity, but in its acceptance as gospel by those who encounter it and who are then moved to pass it along to others.  While the combination of two facts (homosexuality in prison and falling-down pants worn by inmates) accounts for the origin of the belief that links the one to the other, its spread is attributed to the prevailing dislike of the fashion.”

This is where Snopes.com gets it wrong.  It can be attributed to one much more important little detail and if Snopes won’t say it, I will.  One, two, three….H O M O P H O B I A!  It’s that same tired tactic of taking something most people don’t like already and slapping a little gay on it to try to make the people who hate it, hate it even more.  It’s so effective it’s the number one choice of politicians and preachers everywhere.

 

The biggest reason this tactic is so repulsive is the hypocrisy behind it.  The excuse ‘nobody wants to see that’ is a bit flimsy considering the multi-kagillion dollar industry based on people’s insatiable desire ‘to see that’ (and I’m not just talking about porn, tits and ass are used to sell everything).  I think it's blatant assophobia.

 

Now I ask you, have we (gay people) ever tried to make a link between halter tops and gang bangs?  No. 

 

 

Have we ever tried to make a link between carpenter’s pants and straight men bottoming for their strap-on accessorized girlfriends?  No. (okay, maybe I have, but that’s just a little fetish of mine).

 

 

Have we ever tried to make a link between women’s jeans that ride so low that pubic hair becomes a fashion accessory, to girl-on-girl fisting?  No. 

 

 

 

 

As for the fashion statement at the heart of all this controversy I will say this.  Upon seeing it for the first time I had two reactions.  Number one, I thought, why wear pants at all?  Number two, if my ass looked like that, I’d droop my drawers too.

 

 

 

 

WHAT DREAMS MAY COME....

 WHAT DREAMS MAY COME...

By:  Randy Gillis

I have a cadre of favorite on-line information depositories that I like to skim through on a regular basis; TIME, NEWSWEEK, JOE.MY.GOD, HarrisonFordnaked.com, THE DAILY BEAST, CNN, MSNBC, THE HUFFINGTON POST and CHARISMA MAGAZINE.  I like to keep my fingers on the pulse of current events in this world and the netherworld (and on Harrison Ford’s nether parts). 

For my spiritual nourishment, nothing fills me faster than CHARISMA MAGAZINE.  I was skimming the latest update when one title in particular leapt off the screen and practically bitch-slapped my slack-jawed face.  ‘CAN YOU BE RAPED BY THE DEVIL?’ 

 

As you can probably guess, I couldn’t read fast enough.  And the faster I read, the angrier I got.  For example, the author references a work by Contessa Adams, a former stripper who found Christ in 1979 (it was a slow night and he was lingering in the VIP lounge):

“These spiritual rapists, as Adams describes in her book, CONSEQUENCES, often prey on people by performing sexual acts through nightmares and erotic dreams.  Some people become so dependent upon these demonic experiences that they actually look forward to them.”

I don’t have much in this life, but I at least have my nightmares and erotic sex dreams.  Or so I thought.  Apparently not even my dreams are my own.  I continued reading and there it was, spelled out for me:

“The two most identifiable sexual demons are the incubus, which is a male sexual demon that traditionally assaults women, and the succubus, which is a female sexual demon that traditionally assaults men…..”

….and then there’s…..KYYYYYLE!  

I printed the article and stormed into the living room.  Kyle was curled up on the couch, licking himself and watching a HELL’S KITCHEN marathon.  I threw the article down in front of him.  “Is this true?” I screamed.  Kyle skimmed the article and calmly looked up at me.  “In all the years I’ve been having erotic dreams and sexual nightmares,” I lectured, “I’ve never once had a…a….nocturnal emission, and I want to know why!” I demanded.  “Were all those dream ‘situations’ really implants from you?  And if they were, why couldn’t you at least once…pull the train into the station as it were?”  Kyle just stared at me.  “Answer me!” I screamed.  “And another thing,” I continued, not giving him time to respond.  “Are you an incubus moonlighting as a succubus or a succubus trapped in an incubus’ body!?  And another thing,” I screeched. “Why don’t PHD-level physicists ever have to deal with this kind of bullshit?”  

Kyle slowly uncoiled himself and sat perfectly prim and proper.  I got a tad nervous as you should probably not scream at a gay demon while he’s ‘grooming’ himself.

“First of all,” Kyle began, with a slow patience that only superior intelligence can afford, “I will ignore the ‘tone’ of your question as I’m sure it’s something you regret already.  Secondly, though I have tried my hand at dream weaving with you, all my suggestions fell on deaf ears.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.  “I mean, when it comes to homoerotic imagery, you needed no help whatsoever,” he replied.  I sighed with relief.  “So my perversions really are my own,” I boasted.  “Not only are they your own, they’re some of the best I’ve seen.  My favorite is the one of you and Indiana Jones climbing up that rope ladder against the side of the cliff, you know, he’s climbing first holding his magic stones and you are following….and he’s wearing Daisy Dukes and no underwear.”  “That’s one of my favorites too,” I blushed.

“How about the one where I implant myself into the battle scene in 300 and slowly, one soldier at a time, turn it into a veritable love fest,” I asked.  “Oh my god,” Kyle said, “I still bring that one up in lectures.”

I plopped down on the couch next to Kyle, relieved that my mind is really my own and not some dandy devil's playground.  “And then there were the ‘Jean-Luc Picard’ years,” Kyle continued.  “Patrick Stewart single-handedly got me through the 90’s,” I pined.

“Of course there’s that one dream that I still to this day can’t explain,” I said.  “I mean, it came from so far out of left field.  That time that I dreamt I was having sex with Lilly Tomlin, or rather, that dream where Lilly Tomlin told me I was going to have sex with her,” I corrected.  I looked over and Kyle had a sheepish grin on his face.  “Hey!” I protested.  “I thought you said…” “I said I attempted,” Kyle interrupted.  “That was my attempt.”  “But, why Lilly Tomlin,” I asked.  “She was so bossy.  It was all ‘now you’re going to do this’ and ‘no, you’re doing it wrong’ and ‘no, more like this.’  It was very….clinical.”  “I don’t know,” Kyle said.  “I was watching that YouTube video of her and that director throwing things and cussing each other out.  I just thought it would be funny.”

“Well, I’m glad that we got that settled,” I said as I stood up and headed to the door.  “I can sleep peacefully tonight, knowing that my dreams are truly mine.”  I stopped at the door and turned to Kyle.  “Right?” I reaffirmed.  “Absolutely sweet cheeks,” Kyle said as I continued to my bedroom.  “It’s all you…and Turner Home Classics…and Cinemax After Dark…and.....
Netflix …and...here's to more unpleasant dreams.....

 

DEMONS ARE LIKE OPINIONS, EVERYBODY'S GOT ONE

DEMONS ARE LIKE OPINIONS, EVERYBODY'S GOT ONE
By:  Randy Gillis 
 

 

I can totally see it now.  Well, since my religious friend explained it to me.  He said that roughly 83% of humanity is now or has been possessed.  Now, I see them everywhere.  I see them in the angry people who walk down the street with their faces clenched, their heads down and their lips silently moving.  I see them at the diner, in people who look kinda gray as they scarf down deep fried...everything.  I see them at...uh...I mean my friends tell me they see them at the adult book stores...browsing. 

 

It was only a matter of time before it happened to me.  I was having trouble sleeping.  Every night for about a week I would wake up at exactly 3:14 a.m.  It was getting to the point that I started looking at the other side of the bed to see if I was sleeping next to Margot Kidder.  I'm joking, I was really hoping for James Brolin.


Then, last night I heard a soft whispering in my left ear.  The faintest of sounds, repeated over and over, getting steadily louder until I heard the words clearly.  "Kill Patricia."  I sat up in bed and looked at the clock.  3:14 a.m. on the dot.  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed that the wingback chair that sat against the far wall of my bedroom was now facing the corner. Okay, to wake me up is one thing, but to rearrange my furniture, that was another. I was tired and irritated that the chair actually looked better in its new position. “Kill Patricia…kill Patricia!"   

“No,” I said. The room went deathly silent. Suddenly, an explosion of a voice ripped through the air. “Kill Patricia!” “Well, do I have to kill her now?” I huffed.  “Can I at least wait until the weekend?” I asked. “What!” the voice replied, with the hint of a familiar lisp. “Well, she is kind of my best friend in the whole wide world, how about if I just cuss her out?” “Oh, come on,” the voice whined, “kill Patricia. Please, please, please.” “What is the urgency?” I interrupted. “I have to work in the morning.” 

The chair spun around and….oh…my…god. Sitting there was a demon that was, well, he was everything a demon is supposed to be.  From the top of his curly horned head to his manicured hooves, he was evil.  It didn't hurt that he also had  a distressingly hot body that included a totally Harrison Ford torso (don't judge me).  His hands were neatly clasped and resting on his lap and his legs were crossed 'in the girl way'.  He was Paul Lynde, Rip Taylor, Wayland Flowers AND Madame all rolled up into one.  

Suddenly, he didn't seem quite as terrifying as before.  I try not to make generalizations about people but, let's just say that my gaydar, which was sitting on the top shelf of my closet, turned itself on, burst through the closet door while hopping up and down and screaming like Rex Reed after seeing himself in MYRA BRECKINRIDGE.  It then burst into flames and fell over dead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So, what was all that 'kill Patricia stuff about?" I asked.  "Oh, I was just kidding," the demon said.  "All my friends are always bragging about what they're able to get their sacks to do or say, just by whispering into their ears."  "Sacks?" I asked.  "Yes, that's what we call you people behind your backs," he giggled, "because you're all so full of bad ideas and lots of gas."

 

"Did you actually think you could get me to kill Patricia?" I scoffed.  "If you think we can't influence humans, just remember 'Legitimate Rape," the demon boasted.  "You did that?" I gasped.  "No, but I've seen the guy who did at the office," the demon responded.  "Wow, was his demon a democrat?" I asked.  "That's cute," the demon said, "but no, and for future reference, all demons are Green Party members." 

As a rule, I try to accept whatever situation I find myself in as quickly as possible.  That's when I start asking questions.  "Are you the reason I was obsessed with Olga Korbut as a kid?"  The demon smiled.  "And what about the nightmares I suffered during Sex-Ed in high school?"  Another smile.  "And don't forget about your mother's high-heels," the demon added.

 

So, what do you want from me?" I asked nervously.  The demon stood up and clomped across the room toward my bedroom door.  “I’ll just keep an eye on you and do the occasional home visits to keep track of your progress and fill out the forms.”  The demon turned to leave.  “Wait!” I yelled.  He stopped and looked at me.  “I have so many questions,” I continued.   “Do I get a lanyard?  Is there a uniform?  Do I get peer reviews?  Are there productivity standards?  What if I don’t make it to Hell?  Will I get sent to someplace that’s just muggy?”  The demon cocked his head slightly to one side.  “A word of advice about snark,” he said.  “Snark can work for you or against you.  But that’s an advanced lesson and we’ll have plenty of time for that later.”  “Are you sure about that?” I asked, “I am 50 after all.”  “Spend a day in Hell's waiting room and your entire perception of time will be shot, well, to Hell,” the demon replied.  “At least tell me your name,” I pleaded.  The demon slowly smiled and opened his mouth.

I bolted up in the bed, sweat beading across my forehead.  Did that just happen?  What if it did?  Suddenly, I heard the voice of James Earl Jones.  “For every man born, a demon is made.  For some it is hate, for some it is jealousy, for some it is lust, for some it is envy, for some it is violence, for some it is pork rinds.  And as fate would have it, for you it is…Kyle.”