Hopped Up On Chocolate Covered Peanuts, Ma!

There are so many people in this world who are better than me. Me? I’m going straight to hell, otherwise this whole heaven/hell thing is a dubious affair. I can just see me in heaven blaspheming away and wondering what’s a brother gotta do to get a copy of Emmanuelle in Space on VHS. Twice in my life I’ve been burned by holy water. I imagine that says something. I mean, my thoughts are absolutely vile sometimes. If I was psychic I’d be Firestarter, Carrie, Cujo (granted, he was a big, rabid dog, but if he’d been psychic he’d have been a big, rabid, psychic dog), a pissed-off Professor X and maybe even a little pissed-off Second Coming Jesus on the side. If my thoughts create bubble universes I’ve got a trail of death and destruction a mile wide and six miles deep in my wake. And a bunch of naked women. Sacrifice your pizza to me; I am come the Beast. See, I did an online personality test recently. I’m an INTJ, which is code for introverted think tank of a sexual dynamo. I added that last bit. Actually it means Mastermind, so you can see why I get to add that last bit. Astrologically I’m a Scorpio, which means I’m practically a dark, vampiric, mysterious god of sex. (D’you see the trend here? Women are supposed to spontaneously give birth after hugging me. Says so in all the pertinent literature.) Religiously I’m basically a neo-pagan heathen, which means I worship goddesses and nature nymphs so I can see naked women dancing around fires; my heathen-ness stops short of human sacrifice unless we’re counting the scores of dumb people I’ve mentally consigned to the squish of Rabinandrath Dragoon’s hoary hoof. I’m doomed also because when it comes to family less is always so much more, and when it comes to marriage there are times I wish I’d kept the receipt. It’s all about temptation, isn’t it, that sliding door to heaven or hell? I’ll bet temptation makes God jealous. God enters the room from one doorway and walks toward me. He/She/It’s wearing its best universe, it’s smelling good—then Rosario Dawson enters the room from another doorway. She too walks toward me. Here’s paint and a brush; finish the picture. But here’s the kicker: despite the raging cauldron of barely restrained meat muppetry that is my boon and curse… I am a rather mild dude. I don’t seek titles, don’t feel the need to impose outside of telling someone “Kneel before Zod,” and could quite easily live an entire week without saying a word. Yet there are many driven the opposite way. The ones always at war with the clerks at Walmart. I have never warred with a clerk at Walmart. This begs the question: If I’m going straight to hell, what’s the level below?