The Rapture Research Project
It was a sad day in Hell.
Everyone was miserable.
Scott Walker was in the devil’s office to lodge a complaint. He was assigned to stoke one of the hottest ovens, in one of the deepest parts of Hell, with his partner, Rick Scott.
“I don’t get paid enough,” complained Walker.
“Well I’ll be dipped in shit.”
“No, really,” Walker whined. And that partner, Rick, you-all got me assigned to? Makes me want to shower and check for my wallet. I wanna talk to my union representative.”
“Bitch, you in Hell,” crooned the devil. “How you think you got any collective bargaining rights when you in Hell?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do, since I’m feelin’ uh, generous today.”
In the background, Rick Scott screamed, “I AM NOT INSANE!!! I am not INSANE! Let me out! Oh, PLEASE let me OUT OF HERE!!!”
“Think about it Rick. You are not making sense!” shouted Glenn Beck.
“Haltz mau, dummkaupf,” screamed Hitler.
“I’ll pump you full of buckshot and rope you to the hood of my car if you don’t shut up, Rick,” screamed Dick Cheney. When we get outta here I swear I am going to kill you.”
“We’re never getting out, Dick, if ya think about it,” said Glenn Beck. “We have been here for ten thousand years already. You are not making sense. This does not make any sense.”
“Did you know,” mused Charlie Manson, “That some motherfucker out there owes me money. And when I get out of here I’m gonna…”
“Hey, Glenn,” whispered Rush Limbaugh. “Knock knock.”
“That’s your momma.”
“That’s your momma who?
“That’s your momma knock-knock-knockin’ her head against the headboard when I…”
“You are not making sense. This does not make sense. NONE of this makes any sense.” Glenn was miserable. He began to cry.
“America. Fuck yeah,” said [delete this post, or select payment type].
In the foreground, in the devil’s office, the conference continued.
“I’m gonna transfer you to telemarketing, Scott. Piece of cake. All you do is answer phones. All day long. Every day. For ever.”
“Oh but I, well no… that’s worse! Plus, I, I’m sick. I got this, like, tapeworm or something, from the water down here. Why can’t I have any bottled water?”
“Plastic fucking bottles,” said the devil. “Who do you think I am, anyway, fart-knocker? Even I recycle.”
Rush Limbaugh overheard this and said, “I can vouch for that. I’ve been assigned to dive dumpsters, for all of eternity. The dude does recycle.”
“And while I am at it, I’m gonna reassign Rick. To the same room as you. He’ll be writing on the chalkboard: ‘I am not a criminal scumbag. I am a Republican.’ “You think five hundred times was a lot? Think again. This is Hell, not Sunday school.”
“But, but…” stammered Scott Walker. But suddenly he felt the poke of a pitchfork to his backside.
While Scott Walker was being escorted through the halls of Hell to his new work site, they overheard:
“Nope. No Dubya-em-dees in here,” said George Bush. “I looked already.”
“Look again, frat boy. This place IS a WMD.
disclaimer: This is a…roast. Pure fun. First attempt at ‘political’ writing.